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'  OF  THE 

•-'iNIVLi^SITYJ 

OF 


^..'^ 


"  /-onSl^hi 


r 


THE 


•W   O  R  K   8 


OF 


LORD     BYRON 


<  * 


COliPLBTE 


IN   ONE   VOLUME. 


THE  THIRD   EDITION,   CONSIDERABLY   ArOMBNTED. 


PRANCPORT  O.  M. 

PRINTED    BY    AND    FOR    H.    L.    BRCENNER. 


18  37. 


(X 


H 


THE  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON, 

BY  J.  W.  LAKE. 


O'er  the  harp,  flrom  earlictt  years  beloved, 
He  threw  bis  fingers  harriedly,  and  tones 
Of  melancboly  beauty  died  away 
Upon  its  strtuj(s  of  sweetness. 


It  was  reserved  for  the  present  age  to  prodace  one 
distiug^iiishcd  example  of  the  Muse  liaving  descended 
Qpon  a  bard  of  a  wounded  spirit,  and  lent  her  lyre  to  tell 
affiictioos  of  no  ordinary  description;  afllictions  origi- 
nating probably  in  that  singular  combination  of  feeling 
with  ima^nation  which  has  been  called  the  poetical 
temperament,  and  which  has  so  often  saddened  the  days 
of  those  on  whom  it  has  been  conferred.  If  ever  a  man 
was  entitled  to  lay  claim  to  that  character  in  all  its 
strength  and  ail  its  wf*akni*Sff|  wjlhjts  unbounded  range 
nf  f.njnymot^l^  MJ  Jtfl  f YTTi'i^fTafp^iliiHTy  oTpTeaSlirb 
and  of  pain,  tliat  man  jgasLord  Byron.  ^Not  does  it 
reqoirc  mncb  time  or  a  deep  acquaintance  with  human 
nature  to  discover  why  these  extraordinary  powers  should 
in  so  many  cases  have  contributed  more  to  the  wretched- 
ness than  to  the  happiness  of  their  possessor. 

The  *< imagination  all  compact"  which  the  greatest 
poet  who  ever  lived  has  assigned  as  the  distinguishing 
badge  of  his  brethren,  is  in  every  case  a  dangerous  gift. 
It  exaggerates,  indeed,  our  expectations,  and  can  often 
bid  its  possessor  hope,  where  hope  is  lost  to  reason ;  but 
the  delusive  pleasure  arising  from  these  visions  of  ima- 
gination, resembles  that  of  a  child  whose  notice  is  at- 
tracted by  a  fragment  of  glass,  to  which  a  sun-beam  has 
Sben  momentary  splendour.  He  hastens  to  the  spot  with 
breathless  impatience,  and  finds  the  object  of  his  curiosity 
and  expectation  is  equally  vulgar  and  worthless.  Such 
is  the  man  of  quick  and  exalted  powers  of  imagination: 
bis  fanqy  over-estims^te^  the  object  of  his  wishes;  and 
pleasure,  flo&e,  distinction,  are  alternatefy  piirSued^-at- 
tained^  and  despised  when  in  his  power.  Like  the  en- 
chanted fruit  in  the  palace  of  a  sorcerer,  the  objects  of  his 
admiration  lose  tlieir  attraction  and  value  as  soon  as 
tbey  are  grasped  by  the  adventurer's  hand,  and  all  that 
remains  is  regret  for  the  time  lost  in  the  chase,  and  wonder 
at  the  halludnation  under  the  influence  of  which  it  was 
undertaken.  The  disproportion  between  hope  and  pos- 
Kssion,  which  is  felt  by  all  men,  is  thus  doubled  to  those 
whom  nature  has  endowed  with  the  power  of  gilding  a 
distant  prospect  by  the  rays  of  imagination. 
vWe  think  that  many  points  of  resemblance  may  be 
lytfaced  between  Byron  and  Rousseau.  Botli  are  distin- 
^  pished  by  the  most  ardent  and  vivid  delineation  of 
intense  conception,  and  by  a  deep  sensibility  of  passion 
rather  than  of  affection.  Both,  too,  by  this  double  power, 
bvdield  a  dominion  over  the  sympathy  of  their  rea4ers, 


far  beyond  the  range  of  those  ordinary  feelings  which 
are  usually  excited  by  the  mere  efforts  of  genius.  The 
impression  of  this  interest  still  accompanies  the  perusal 
of  their  writings;  but  there  is  another  interest,  of  niore 
lasting  and  far  stronger  power,  which  each  of  them  pos- 
sessed, —  which  lies  in  the  continual  embodying  of  the 
individual  character,  it  might  almost  be  said  of  the  very 
person  of  the  writer.  When  we  speak  or  think  of  lious- 
seau  —  or  Byron,  we  are  not  conscious  of  speaking  or 
thinking  of^h  author.  We  have  a  vague  but  impassioned 
remembrance  of  men  of  surpassing  genius  «^l0qaence, 
afld^OJwer,  —  of  prodigious  capacity  both^of  misery  and 
happiness.  We  feel  as  if  we  had-<#liiiisi|Q%  met  snch 
beings  in  real  life,  or  bad  known  them  in  tnie  dim  and 
dark  communion  of  a  dream.  Each  of  their  works  pre- 
sents, in  succession,  a  fresh  idea  of  themselves;  and, 
while  the  productions  of  other  great  men  stand  out 
from  them,  like  something  they  have  created,  theirs,  on 
the  contrary,  are  images,  pictures,  busts  of  their  living 
selves, — clothed,  no  doubt,  at  difi'erent  times,  in  different 
drapery,  and  prominent  from  a  different  back-ground, — 
but  uniformly  impressed  with  the  same  form,  and  mien, 
and  lineaments,  and  not  to  be  mistaken  for  the  represent- 
tations  of  any  other  of  the  children  of  men. 

But  this  view  of  the  subject,  though  universally  felt  to 
be  a  true  one,  requires  perhaps  a  little  explanation.  The 
personal  character  of  which  we  have  spoken,  it  should  be 
understood,  is  not  altogether  that  on  which  the  seal  of 
life  has  been  set,  —  and  to  which,  therefore,  moral  ap- 
proval or  condemnation  is  necessarily  annexed,  as  to 
the  language  or  conduct  of  actual  existence.  It  is  the 
character,  so  to  speak,  which  is  prior  to  conduct,  and 
yet  open  to  good  and  to  ill,  —  the  constitution  of  the 
being  in  body  and  in  soul.  Each  of  these  illustrious  writ- 
ers has,  in  tliis  light,  filled  his  works  with  expressions  of 
bis  own  character, — has  unveiled  to  the  world  the  secrets 
of  his  own  being,  the  mysteries  of  the  framing  of  man. 
They  have  gone  down  into  those  depths  which  every 
man  may  sound  for  himself,  though  not  for  another;  and 
they  have  made  disclosures  to  the  world  of  what  they 
beheld  and  knew  there  —  disclosures  that  have  com- 
manded and  forced  a  profound  and  universal«sympathy, 
by  proving  tliat  all  mankind,  the  troubled  and  the  un- 
troubled, the  lofty  and  the  low,  the  strongest  and  the 
frailest,  are  linked  together  by  the  bonds  of  a  common 
but  inscrutable  nature. 


.i^ms^ii 


.11. 


LAKE'S  LIFB  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


Thus,  each  of  these  wayward  and  richly-gifted  spirits 
made  himself  the  object  of  profound  interest  to  the  world, 
and  that  too  during  periods  of  society  when  ample  food 
was  every  where  spread  abroad  for  the  meditations  and 
passions  of  men. 

Although  of  widely  dissimilar  fortunes  and  birth,  a 
close  resemblance  in  tlieir  passions  and  their  genius  may 

Ufe  traced  too  between  Byron  and  Robert  Burns.  Their 
areers  were  short  and  glorious,  and  they  botii  perished 
m  the  "rich  summer  of  tbeir  life  and  song,*'  and  in  all 
the  splendour  of  a  reputation  more  likely  to  increase  than 
diminish.  One  was  a  peasant,  and  tbe  other  was  a  peer; 
but  nature  is  a  great  leveller,  and  makes  amends  for  the 
iiyuries  of  fortune  by  tbc  richness  of  her  benefactions  i\ 
the  genius  of  Burns  raised  him  to  a  level  with  the  nobles 
of  the  land ;  by  nature,  if  not  by  birth,  he  was  the  peer 
of  Byron.  They  both  rose  by  the  force  of  their  genius, 
and  both  fell  by  the  strength  of  their  passions;  one  wrote 
from  a  love,  aodthe  other  fropd  a  scorn  of  mankind ;  and 
they  t>oth  sungoTthe  emotions  of  their  own  hearts  with 
a  vehemence  and  an  originality  which  few  have  equalled, 
and  none  surely  have  surpassed. 

The  versatility  of  autliors  who  have  been  able  to  draw 
and  support  characters,  as  difl'erent  from  each  other  as 
from  their  own,  has  given  to  their  productions  the  inex- 
pressible charm  of  variety,  and  has  often  secured  them 
from  that  neglect  which  in  general  attends  what  is  technic- 
ally called  mannerism.  But  it  was  reserved  for  Lore 
Byron  (previous  to  his  Don  Juan)  to  present  the  same 
character  on  the  public  stage  again  and  again,  varied 
only  by  the  exertions  of  that  powerful  genius,  which, 
searching  the  springs  of  passion  and  of  feeling  in  their 
innermost  recesses,knew  how  to  combine  their  operations, 
so  that  the  interest  was  eternally  varying,  and  never  aba- 
ted, although  the  most  important  person  of  the  drama 
retained  the  same  lineaments. 

But  that  noble  tree  will  never  more  bear  fruit  or  blos- 
som! It  has  been  cut  down  in  its  strength,  and  the  past 
is  all  that  remains  to  us  of  Byron.  That  voice  is  silent 
for  ever,  which,  bursting  so  frequently  on  our  ear,  was 
often  heard  with  rapturous  admiration,  sometimes  with 
regret,  but  always  with  the  deepest  interest —  Yet  the 
impression  of  his  works  still  remains  vivid  and  strong. 
The  charm  which  cannot  pass  away  is  there, —life breath- 
ing in  dead  words  >-  the  stem  grandeur  —  the  intense 
power  and  energy  —  tlie  fresh  beauty ,  the  undimmed 
lustre — the  immortal  bloom,  and  verdure,  and  fragrance 
of'life,  all  those  still  are  there.  But  it  was  not  in  these 
I  /ilone,  it  was  in  that  continual  impersonation  of  himacif . 
]/  in  his  writings,  by  which  he  was  for  ever  kept  briglitly 
before  the  eyes  of  men. 

It  might,  at  first,  seem  that  his  undisguised  revelation 
of  feelings  and  passions,  whidi  the  becom'ing  pride  of 
human  nature,  jealous  of  its  own  dignity ,  would  in  ge- 
neral desire  to  hold  in  un violated  silence,  could  have 
produced  in  the  public  mind,  only  pity,  sorrow,  or  repugn- 
ance. But  in  the  case  of  men  of  real  genius,  like  Byron, 
it  is  otherwise:  they  are  not  felt,  while  we  read,  as  decla- 
rations published  to  the  world,  but  almost  as  secrets 
whispered  to  chosen  ears.  Who  is' there  that  feels  for  a 
moment,  that  the  voice  which  reaches  the  inmost  reeeS^es 
of  his  heart,  is  speaking  to  the  careless  multitudes  around 
him?  Or  if  we  ao  so  remember,  the  words  seem  to  pass 
by  others  like  air,  and  to  find  their  way  to  the  hearts  for 
whom  they  were  intended;  kindred  and  sympathetic 
spirits,  who  discern  and  own  that  secret  language,  of 
which  the  privacy  is  not  violated,  though  spoken  in 
hearing  of  the  uninitiated,  because  it  is  not  understood. 
A  great  poet  may  address  the  whole  world  in  the  language 
of  intensest  passion,  concerning  objects  of  whidi  rather 
than  speak  foce  to  face  with  any  one  human  being  on 
earth,  he  would  perish  in  his  misery.  For  it  is  in  solitude 
that  he  utters  what  is  to  t>e  wafted  by  all  the  winds  of 
heaven :  there  are,  during  his  inspiration,  present  with 
him  only  the  shadows  of  men.  He  is  not  danated,  or 


LordV,  ^produced 


perplexed,  or  disturbed,  or  repelled  by  real,  living,  breath- 
ing features.  He  can  updraw  just  as  much  of  the  curtain 
as  he  chuses  that  hangs  between  his  own  solitude  and  the 
world  of  life.  He  there  pours  his  soul  out  partly  to  him- 
self alone,  partly  to  the  ideal  abstractions  and  imperson- 
ated images  that  float  around  him  at  his  own  conju- 
ration ;  and  partly  to  human  beings  like  himself,  moving 
in  the  dark  distance  of  tbe  every-day  world.  He  con- 
fesses himself,  not  before  men,  but  before  the  spirit  of 
humanity;  and  he  thus  fearlessly  lays  open  his  heatt, 
assured  that  nature  never  prompted  unto  genius,  that, 
whipn  will  not  triumphantly  force  its  wide  way  into  the 
human  heart 

Wc  have  adjniUMt-iiiat  Byron  has  depicted  much  of 
himself  in  aILhiaJi££0£S ;  but  wTitn  we  sedttT  to  See  the 
poeT  shadowed  out  in  all  those  states  of  disordered  being 
which  his  Childe  Harolds,  Giaours,  Conrads,  Laras, 
and  Alps  exhibit ,  we  are  far  from  believing  that  his  own 
mind  has  gone  through  those  states  of  disorder,  in  its 
own  experience  of  life.  We  merely  conceive  of  it  as  bar- 
ing felt  witiiin  itself  the  capacity  of  such  disorders,  and 
therefore  exhibiting  itself  before  us  in  possibility.  This 
is  not  general,  —  it  is  rare  with  great  poets.  Neither 
Homer,  nor  Shakspeare,  nor  Milton  ever  so  show  them- 
selves in  the  characters  which  they  pourtray.  Their 
poetical  personages  have  no  references  to  themselves, 
but  are  distinct,  independent  creatures  of  their  minds, 
*  ifi^lhe  i\iTI  freedom  Of  intellectual  power.  In 
Byron  there  docs  not  seem  this  freedom  of  power  — 
there  is  little  appropriation  of  character  to  events.  Cha- 
racter is  first,  and  all  in  all;  it  is  dictated,  compelled  by 
some  force  in  his  own  mind  —  necessitating  him,  —  and 
the  events  obey.  His  poems ,  therefore,  excepting  Don 
Juan,  are  not  full  and  complete  narrations  of  some  one 
definite  story,  containing  within  itself  a  picture  of  human 
life.-  They  are  merely  haid^„coofused ,  and  turbulent 
exemplifications  ofecrtain^i^eeping  energies  and  irreaist- 
ibla  passions;  they  are  fragments  of  a  poet's  dark  dream 
of  life.  The  very  personages,  vividly  as  they  are  pictured, 
are  yet  felt  to  be  fictitious,  and  derive  their  chief  power 
over  us  from  their  supposed  mysterious  connexion  with 
the  poet  himself,  and,  it  may  be  added,  with  each  other. 
The  law  of  bis  mind  was  to  embody  his  peculiar  feel- 
ings in  the  forms  of  other  men.  In  all  his  heroes  we 
recognise,  though  with  infinite  modifications,  tiie  same 
great  characteristics:  a  high  and  audacious  conception 
of  the  power  of  the  mind,  —  an  intense  sensibility  of  pas- 
sion, ~  an  almost  boundlessca^acitx  of  tumultuous 
emotion ,  —  ti  boasShg'.  admiration  of  the  grandeur  of 
disordered.power,  ami,  above  ati,  a  soul-felt,  blood-felt 
ddJght  in  beauty  —  a  beauty,  which,  in  his  wild  creation, 
is  often  scared  away  from  the  agitated  surface  of  life  by 
stormier  passions,  but  which,  like  a  bird  of  calm,  is  for 
ever  returning,  on  its  soft,  silvery  wings,  ere  the  black 
swell  subsided  into  sunshine  and  peace. 

These  reflections  naturally  precede  the  sketch  we  arc 
about  to  attempt  of  Lord  Byron's  literary  and  private 
life:  indeed  they  are  in  a  manner  forced  upon  us  by 
his  poetur^  by  thesentiiQeiit8.Qf.  weariness  of  existence 
suid.ciuiuJ^  With  tile  world,  whicli  It  ao  freqocntty  ex- 
presses, and  hy-the  singular  analogy  which  such  senti- 
ments hold  wiUi  the  real  incidents  of  his  life. 

Lord  Byron  was  descended  from  an  illustrious  Tine  of 
ancestry.  From  the  period  of  the  conquest  his  family 
were  distinguished,  not  merely  for  their  extensive 
manors  in  LEmcashire  and  other  parts  of  the  kingdom « 
but  for  their  prowess  in  arms.  John  de  Byron,  attended 
Edward  the  first,  in  several  warlike  expeditions.  Two 
of  the  Byrons  fell  at  the  battle  ofCressy.  Another  member 
of  the  family,  Sir  John  de  Byron,  rendered  good  service 
in  Bosworth  field,  to  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  and  contri- 
buted by  his  valour,  to  transfer  the  crown  from  the  head 
of  Richard  the  third,  tothatofHenry  the  seventh.  This 
Sir  John  was  a  man  of  honour, as  well  as  a  brave  warrior. 
Ho  was  very  intimate  with  his  neighbour  Sir  Gej^vase 


LAKE'S  L1F£  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


Ill 


Clifton;  and,  althougii  Byron  fought  under  Henrj,and 
CliAoa  under  Richard ,  it  did  not  diminish  their  frieud- 
aliip,  but,  on  the  contrary,  put  it  to  a  severe  test  Previous 
to  the  battle,  the  price  of  which  was  a  kingdom,  they 
lad  mutually  promised  that  whichever  of  them  was 
nnquished,  the  other  should  endeavour  to  prevent  the 
forfeiture  of  his  friend's  estate.  While  Clifton  was  bravely 
lifting  at  the  head  of  his  troop,  he  was  struck  off  his 
horsey  wbioh  Byron  perceiving,  he  quitted  the  ranks  and 
rto  to  the  relief  of  his  friend,  whom  he  shielded,  but  who 
died  in  his  arms.  Sir  John  de  Byron  kept  liis  word;  he 
isteroeded  with  the  king :  the  estate  was  preserved  to  the 
C6&oa  fiunily,  and  is  now  in  the  possession  of  a  descend- 
ntofSirGcrvase. 

In  the  wars  between  Charles  the  first  and  the  parlia- 
ment, the  Byrons  adhered  to  the  royal  cause.    Sir 
'     Nicholas  Byron ,  the  eldest  brother  and  representative  of 
tbefiunily,  was  an  eminent  loyalist,  who,  having  distin- 
piished  himself  in  the  wars  of  the  Low  Countries,  was 
appointed  governor  of  Chelsea,  in  1642.  He  had  two 
loos,  who  both  died  without  issue;  and  his  younger 
brother,  Sir  John,  became  their  heir.  This  person  was 
made  a  knight  of  the  Bath  at  the  coronation  of  James 
the  first  He  had  eleven  sons,  most  of  whom  distinguish- 
ed themselves  for  their  loyalty  and  gallantry  on  the 
side  of  Charles  the  first  Seven  of  these  brothers  ^ere 
ciqiaged  at  the  battle  of  Marston-moor,  of  whom  four 
fell  in  defence  of  the  royal  cause.  Sir  John  Byron,  one  of 
the  survivors,  was  appointed  to  many  important  com- 
mands, and  on  the  26th  of  October,  1643,  was  created 
Lord  Byron,  with  a  collateral  remainder  to  his  brothers. 
On  the  dectiiie  of  the  king's  a&irs,  he  was  appointed 
governor  to  the  Duke  of  York,  and,  in  this  office,  died 
without  issue,  in  France,  in  1652;  —  upon  which  his 
brother  Richard,  a  celebrated  cavalier,  became  the  se- 
cond Lord  Byron.  He  was  governor  of  Appleby  Castle, 
and  distinguished  himself  at  Newark.  He  died  in  1697, 
9ged  seventy-four,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  eldest  son 
William,  who  married  Elizabeth,  tiic  daughter  of  John 
Viscount  Cha  worth,  of  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  by  whom 
be  had  five  sons,  all  of  whom  died  young  except  William, 
whose  eldest  son,  William,  was  born  in  1722,  and  came 
to  the  title  inl736. 

William,  Lord  Byron,  passed  the  early  part  of  his  life 
u  the  navy.  In  1763  he  was  made  master  of  the  stag- 
hounds;  and  in  1765  was  sent  to  the  Tower,  and  tried 
befiore  the  House  of  Peers  foi;  killing  his  relation  and 
neighbour,  Mr.  Chaworth,  in  a  duel.  —  The  following 
de£ils  of  this  fatal  event  are  peculiarly  interesting  from 
subsequent  drcumstances  connected  with  the  subject 
of  our  sketch. 

The  old  Lord  Byron  belonged  to  a  club  of  which  Mr. 
Gbaworth  was  also  a  member.   It  met  at  the  Star  and 
Garter  tavern.  Pall  Mall,  once  a  month,  and  was  called 
the  Nottinghamshire  Club.  On  the  29th  January,  1765, 
they  met  at  four  o'clock  to  dinner  as  usual,  and  every 
thi^g  went  agreeably  on,  until  about  seven  o'clock,  when 
a  dispute  arose  betwixt  Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Chaworth 
oonoeming  the  quantity  of  game  on  their  estates.   The 
dispute  rose  to  a  high  pitch,  and  Mr.  Chaworth,  having 
paid  ins  share  of  the  bill,  retired.  Lord  Byron  followed 
him  out  of  the  room  in  which  they  had  dined,  and,  stop- 
ping him  on  the  landing  of  the  stairs,  called  to  the 
waiter  to  show  them  into  an  empty  room.  They  were 
shown  into  one,  and  a  single  candle  being  plaeed  on 
the  table,  —  in  a  few  minutes  the  bell  was  rung,  and 
Mr.  Chaworth  found  mortally  wounded.   He  said  tiiat 
Lord  Byron  and  he  entered  the  room  together.  Lord 
Byron  leading  the  way;  that  his  lordship,  in  walking 
fiMward,  said  something  relative  to  the  former  dispute, 
OB  which  he  proposed  &stening  the  door ;  that  on  turning 
Umaelf  round  from  this  act,  he  perceived  his  lordship 
vith  his  sword  half  drawn,  or  nearly  so:  on  which,  know- 
ing his  man,  he  instantly  drew  his  own,  and  made  a  thrust 
at  him,  which  he  thought  had  wounded  or  killed  him; 


that  then,  perceiving  his  lordship  shorten  his  sword  to 
return  the  thrust,  he  thought  to  have  parried  it  with  his 
left  band;  that  he  felt  the  sword  enter  his  body  and  go 
deep  through  his  back;  that  he  struggled,  and  being  the 
stronger  man,  disarmed  his  lordship,  and  expressed  a 
concern,  as  under  the  apprehension  of  having  mortally 
wounded  him;  that  Lord  Byron  replied  by  saying  some- 
thing to  the  like  effect,  adding  at  the  same  time,  that  he 
hoped  ''he  would  now  allow  him  to  be  as  brave  a  man  as 
any  in  the  kingdom." 

For  this  offence  he  was  unanimously  convicted  of 
manslaughter,  but,  on  being  brought  up  for  judgment, 
pleaded  his  privilege  as  a  peer,  and  was,  in  conse- 
quence, discharged.  After  this  affair  he  was  abandoned 
by  his  relations,  and  retired  to  Newstead  Abbey;  where, 
though  he  lived  in  a  state  of  perfect  exile  from  persons 
of  his  own  rank,  his  unhappy  temper  found  abundant 
exercise  in  continual  war  with  his  neighbours  and 
tenants,  and  sufiicient  punishment  in  their  hatred.  One 
of  his  amusements  was  feeding  crickets,  which  were  his 
only  companions.  He  had  made  them  so  tame  as  to  crawl 
over  him;  and  used  to  whip  them  with  a  wisp  of  straw, 
if  too  familiar.  In  this  forlorn  condition  he  lingered  out 
a  long  life,  doing  all  in  his  power  to  ruin  the  paternal 
mansion  for  that  other  branch  of  the  family  to  which  he 
was  aware  it  must  pass  at  his  death,  all  his  own  children 
having  descended  before  him  to  the  grave. 

John,  the  next  brother  to  William,  and  born  in  the 
year  after  him,  that  is  in  1723,  was  of  a  very  different 
disposition,  although  his  career  in  life  was  almost  an 
unbroken  scene  of  misfortunes.  The  hardships  he  endu- 
red while  accompanying  Commodore  Anson  in  his  ex- 
pedition to  the  South  Seas  are  well  known,  from  liis  own 
highly  popular  and  afi'ccting  narrative.  His  only  son, 
born  in  1751,  who  received  an  excellent  education,  and 
whose  father  procured  for  him  a  commission  in  the 
guards,  was  so  dissipated  that  be  was  known  by  the 
name  of  ''mad  Jack  Byron/'  He  was  one  of  the  hand- 
somest men  of  his  time;  but  his  character  was  so  no- 
torious that  his  father  was  obliged  to  desert  him,  and 
his  company  was  shunned  by  the  better  part  of  society. 
In  his  twenty-seventh  year  he  seduced  the  Marchioness 
of  Carmarthen,  who  had  been  but  a  few  years  married 
to  a  husband  with  whom  she  had  lived  in  the  most  happy 
state,  until  she  formed  this  unfortunate  connexion. 
After  one  fruitless  attempt  at  reclaiming  his  lady,  the 
marquis  obtained  a  divorce ;  and  a  marriage  was  brought 
about  between  her  and  her  seducer;  which,  after  the  most 
brutal  conduct  on  his  part,  and  the  greatest  misery  and 
keenest  remorse  on  hers,  was  dissolved  in  two  years  by 
her  sinking  to  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart 
About  three  years  subsequently.  Captain  Byron  sought 
to  recruit  his  fortunes  by  matrimony,  and  having  made 
a  conquest  of  Miss  Catherine  Gordon,  an  Aberdeenshire 
heiress  (lineally  descended  from  the  Barl  of  Huntley  and 
the  Princess  Jane,  daughter  of  James  II.  of  Scotland]), 
he  united  himself  to  her,  ran  through  her  property  m 
a  few  years,  and,  leaving  her  and  her  only  child,  the 
subject  of  this  memoir,  in  a  destitute  and  defenceless 
state,  fled  to  France  to  avoid  his  creditors,  and  died  at 
Valenciennes,  in  1791. 

In  Captain  Med  win's  "Conversations  of  Lord  Byron," 
the  following  expressions  are  said  to  have  fallen  from  his 
lordship  on  the  subject  of  his  unworthy  father :  — 

"I  losjt  my  &ther  when  I  was  only  six  years  of  age. 
My  mother,  when  she  was  in  a  rage  with  me  (and  I  gave 
her  causa  enough),  used  to  say,  "Ah !  you  little  dog,  you 
are  a  Byron  all  over;  you  are  as  bad  as  your  father! " 
It  was  very  difi'erent  from  Mrs.MaIaprop's  saying :  "Ah ! 
good  dear  Mr.  Malaprop!  I  never  loved  him  till  he 
was  dead."  But,  in  fact»  my  father  was,  in  his  youth, 
any  thing  but  a  "Cselcbs  in  search  of  a  wife."  He  would 
have  made  a  bad  hero  for  Hannah  More.  He  ran  out 
three  fortunes,  and  married  or  ran  away  with  three  wo- 
men; and  once  wanted  a  guinea,  tliat  he  wrote  for :  I  have 


rv 


LAKE'S  LIFB  OF  LORD  BTRON. 


the  note.  He  seemed  born  for  his  own  rain,  and  that  of 
the  other  sex.  He  beg:an  by  seducing  Lady  Carmarthen, 
and  spent  for  her  four  thousand  pounds  a-year ;  and,  not 
content  with  one  adventure  of  this  kind,  afterwards 
eloped  with  Miss  Gordon.  This  marriage  was  not  des- 
tined to  be  a  very  fortunate  one  either,  and  I  don't 
wonder  at  her  differing  from  Sheridan's  widow  in  the 
play ;  they  certainly  could  not  have  claimed  *the  flitch/ '' 
Geoige  Byron  Gordon  (for  so  he  was  called  on  ac- 
count of  the  neglect  his  father's  family  had  shown  to  his 
mother)  was  born  at  Dover,  on  the  22d  of  January, 
1788.  On  the  unnatural  desertion  of  his  father,  the  entire 
care  of  his  infant  years  devolved  upon  his  mother,  who 
retired  to  Aberdeen,  where  she  lived  in  almost  perfect 
seclusion,  on  the  ruins  of  her  fortune.  Herauidivid.ed 
affection  was  naturally  concentred  in  her  son,  who  was 
her  darling;  and  when  he  only  went  out  for  an  ordinary 
walk,  she  would  entreat  him,  with  the  tear  glistening  in 
her  eye,  to  take  care  of  himself,  as  *'slie  had  nothing  on 
earth  but  him  to  live  for ; "  a  conduct  not  at  all  pleasing 
to  his  adventurous  spirit ;  the  more  especially,  as  some 
of  his  companions,  who  witnessed  the  affectionate  scene, 
would  laugh  and  ridicule  him  about  it  This  excessive 
maternal  indulgence,  and  the  absence  of  that  salutary 
discigiiue  and  control  so  necessary  to  childhood,  doubt- 
less contributed  to  the  formation  of  the  less  pleasing 
features  of  Lord  Byron's  character.  It  must,  however, 
be  remembered,  in  Mrs.  Byron's  extenuation,  not  only 
that  tlie  circumstances  in  which  she  had  been  left  with 
her  son  were  of  a  very  peculiar  nature,  but  also  tliat  a 
slight  malformation  of  one  of  his  feet,  and  great  weakness 
of  constitution,  naturally  solicited  for  him  in  the  heart  of 
a  mother  a  more  than  ordinary  portion  of  tenderness. 
For  these  latter  reasons  he  was  juoi  sent  ver.|r  early  to 
school,  but  was  allowed  to  expand' his  lungs;  and  brace 
his  limbs,  upon  the  mountains  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Tliis  was  evidently  the  most  judicious  method  for  impart- 
ing strength  to  his  bodily  frame;  and  the  sequel  showed 
tliat  it  was  far  from  the  worst  for  giving  tone  and  vigour 
to  his  mind.  The  savage  grandeur  of  nature  around  him; 
the  feeling  that  be  was  upon  hills  where 

**Foreign  tyrant  never  trod, 
But  Freedom  with  her  faulchion  bright, 
Swept  the  stranger  from  her  sight;" 

his  intercourse  with  a  people  whose  chief  amusements 
consisted  in  the  recital  of  heroic  talcs  of  other  times, 
feats  of  strength,  and  a  display  of  independence,  blended 
with  the  wild  supernatural  stories  peculiar  to  remote  and 
thinly-peopled  districts; — all  these  were  calculated  to 
foster  that  poetical  feeling  innate  in  his  character. 

When  George  was  seven  years  of  age,  his  mother  sent 
him  to  the  grammar-school  at  Aberdeen,  where  he  remain- 
ed till  his  removal  to  Harrow,  with  the  exception  of 
some  intervals  of  absence,  which  were  deemed  requisite 
for  the  establishment  of  his  health.  His  progress  beyond 
that  of  the  general  run  of  his  class-fellows  was  never  so 
remarkable  as  after  those  occasional  intervals,  when,  in 
a  ibw  days,  he  would  master  exercises  which ,  in  the 
school-routine,  it  had  required  weeks  to  accomplish. 
But  when  he  had  overtaken  the  rest  of  the  class ,  he 
always  relaxed  his  exertions,  and,  contenting  himself 
with  being  considered  a  tolerable  scholar,  never  made 
any  extraordinary  effort  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  highest  form.  It  was  out  of  school  that  he  aspired 
to  be  the  leader  of  every  thing;  in  ail  boyish  games  and 
amusements  he  would  be  first  if  possible.  For  this  he 
was  cminenUy  calculated;  quick,  enterprising,  and 
daring,  the  energy  of  his  mind  enabled  him  to  overcome 
the  impediments  which  nature  had  tlirown  in  his  way. 
Even  at  that  early  period  (iVom  eight  to  ten  years  of  age), 
all  his  sports  were  of  a  manly  character;  fishing,  shoot- 
ing, swimming,  and  managing  a  horse,  or  steering  and 
trimming  the  sails  of  a  boat,  constituted  his  chief  delights, 


and,  to  the  soperficial  observer,  seemed  his  sole  oocn* 
pations. 

He  was  exceedingly  brave,  and  in  the  juvenUe  wars  of 
the  school,  be  generally  gained  the  victory ;  upon  one 
occasion,  a  boy  pursued  by  another  took  refuge  in  Mrs. 
Byron's  house:  the  latter,  who  had  been  much  abused  by 
the  former,  proceeded  to  take  vengeance  on  him  even  on 
the  landing-place  of  the  drawing-room  stairs,  when 
Geoi^e  interposed  in  his  defence,  declaring  that  nobody 
sliould  be  ill-used  whiJe  under  his  roof  and  protection. 
Upon  this  the  aggressor  dared  him  to  fight,  and,  although 
the  former  was  by  much  the  stronger  of  the  two,  the 
spirit  of  young  Byron  was  so  determined,  that  after  the 
combat  had  lasted  for  nearly  two  hours,  it  iiras  suspend- 
ed because  both  the  boys  were  entirely  exhausted. 

A  school-fellow  of  Byron's  had  a  very  small  Shetland 
pony  which  his  father  had  bought  him,  and  one  day  they 
went  to  the  banks  of  the  Don  to  bathe,  but  having  only 
one  pony,  they  were  obliged  to  follow  the  good  old 
practice  called  in  Scotland  *'ride  and  tie.''  When  they 
came  to  the  bridge  over  that  dark  romantic  stream, 
Byron  bethought  him  of  the  prophecy  which  he  lias 
quoted  in  Don  Juan: 

"Brig  of  Balgoonie,  hlack's  your  wa'  ; 
W  i'  a  wife's  ae  ion  and  a  mear's  aefaal, 
Dounyeshallfa'." 

He  immediately  stopped  his  companion,  who  was  then 
riding,  and  asked  him  if  he  remembered  the  prophecy, 
saying,  that  as  they  were  both  only  sons,  and  as  the  pony 
might  be  ''a  mare'«  ae  foal,"  he  would  rather  ride  over 
first;  because  he  hsri^i^a  mother  to  lament  him,  should 
the  protih^y  be  ftilfiAed  by  the  folting  of  the  bridge, 
whereas  the  other  had  both  a  father  and  a  mother  to 
grieve  for  him. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  grammar-school  at  Aberdeen, 
that  the  boys  of  all  the  five  classes  of  which  it  is  composed 
should  be  assembled  for  prayers  in  the  public  school  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning;  after  prayers  a  censor  calls 
over  the  names  of  all,  and  those  who  are  absent  are  pu- 
nished. The  first  time  that  Lord  Byron  had  come  to  school 
after  his  accession  to  his  title,  the  rector  had  caused  his 
name  to  be  inserted  in  tlie  censor's  book ,  Georgius  Do- 
minus  de  Byron,  instead  of  Georgius  Byron  Gordon,  as 
formerly.  The  boys,  unaccustomed  to  this  aristocratic 
sound,  set  up  a  loud  and  involuntary  shout,  which  had 
such  an  effect  on  his  sensitive  mind  that  he  burst  into 
tears ,  and  would  have  fled  from  the  school  had  he  not 
been  restrained  by  the  master. 

An  answer  which  Lord  Byron  made  to  a  fellow  scholar, 
who  questioned  him  as  to  the  cause  of  the  honorary  ad- 
dition of  **Dominns  de  Byron"  to  his  name,  served  at 
that  time  when  he  was  only  ten  years  of  age,  to  point  out 
that  he  would  be  a  man  who  would  tliink ,  speak,  and  act 
for  himself —  who,  whatever  might  be  his  sayings  or  liis 
doings,  his  vices  or  his  virtues,  would  not  condescend  to 
take  them  at  second  hand.  This  happened  on  the  very 
day  after  he  had  been  menaced  with  being  flogged  round 
the  school  for  a  fault  which  he  had  not  committed;  and 
when  the  question  was  put  to  him  he  replied,  **it  is  not 
my  doing;  Fortune  was  to  whip  me  yesterday  for  what 
another  did,  and  she  has  this  day  made  me  a  lord  for  what 
another  has  ceased  to  do.  I  need  not  thank  her  in  either 
case,  fbr  I  have  asked  nothing  at  her  liands." 

On  the  17th  of  May,  1798,  William,  the  fifth  Lord 
Byron,  departed  this  life  at  Newstcad.  As  the  son  of  this 
eccentric  nobleman  had  died  when  GeoVge  was  five  years 
old,  and  as  the  descent  both  of  the  titles  and  estates  was 
to  heirs  male,  the  latter,  of  course,  succeeded  his  great* 
uncle.  Upon  this  change  of  fortune  Lord  Byron,  now  ten 
years  of  age,  was  removed  from  the  immediate  care  of 
his  mother,  and  placed  as  a  ward  under  the  guardiansiiip 
of  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  father  had  married  Isabella, 
the  sister  of  the  preceding  Lord  Byron.  In  one  or  two 


LAKB'S  LIFE  OF  LOIU>  BTROK. 


points  of  chanflier  this  great oaont  resembled  the  bard: 
she  also  wrote  beaatiful  poetry  ^  and  after  adorning  the 
p^  and  fashionable  world  for  many  years,  she  left  it 
mthoat  any  apparent  cause  and  with  perfect  iodill'erenoe, 
ttd  in  a  great  measure  secluded  herself  from  society. 

Theyonng  nobleman's  guardian  decided  that  he  should 
reeetre  the  nsnal  education  given  to  England's  titled 
sons,  and  that  he  should  in  the  first  instance  be  sent  to 
(he  public  school  at  Harrow.  He  was  accordingly  placed 
there  under  the  Mtion  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Brury  to  whom 
he  has  testified  his  gratitude  in  a  note  to  the  fourth  canto 
of  ChiMe  Harold,  in  a  manner  which  does  equal  honour 
to  the  tutor  and  the  pupil.  A  change  of  scene  and  of 
dieanMtaneea^o  unforeseen  and  so  rapid,  would  have 
been  haaardoos  to  any  boy,  but  it  was  doubly  so  to  one 
oC  Byron's  ardent  mind  and  previous  habits.  Taken  at 
QBcefrom  the  society  of  boys  in  humble  life,  and  placed 
unoi^  youths  of  hb  own  newly -acquired  rank,  with 
neaas  of  gratification  which  to  him  must  have  appeared 
ooasidcrabic,  it  is  by  no  means  surprising  that  he  should 
have  been  betrayed  into  every  sort  of  extravagance : 
Booe  of  them  appear,  however,  to  have  been  of  a  very 
culpable  nature. 

^'Though  he  was  lame,''  says  one  of  his  schoolfellows, 
^he  was  a  great  lover  of  sports,  and  preferred  hockey  to 
Horace,  relinqiushed  even  Helicon  for  ''duck-puddle," 
and  gave  up  the  best  poet  that  ever  wrote  bard  Latin  for 
agameof  Giicketon  the  common.  He  was  not  remark- 
able (nor  was  he  ever)  for  his  learning,  but  he  was 
always  a  clev«r,  plain-spoken,  and  undaunted  boy.  I 
have  seen  him  fight  by  the  hour  like  a  Trojan,  and  stand 
vp  against  the  disadvantage  of  his  lameness  with  all  the 
ipirit  of  an  andent  combatant  '^  Don't  you  remember 
jour  battle  with  Pitt?"  (a  brewer's  son)  said  I  to  him 
in  a  letter  (for  1  had  witnessed  it),  but  it  seems  that  he 
bad  forgotten  it  *<You  are  mistaken,  I  think,"  said  he  in 
reply;  '4t  moat  have  been  with  Rice-Pudding  Morgan, 
or  Lord  Jocelyn,  or  one  of  the  Douglases,  or  G^eorge 
Raynsford,  or  Pryoe  (with  whom  I  had  two  conflicts), 
or  with  Moses  Moore  (the  elod)f  or  with  somebody  else, 
aad  not  withl^tt;  for  with  all  the  above  named  and  other 
worthies  of  the  fist  had  I  an  interchange  of  black  eyes  and 
bloody  noscSy  at  various  and  sundry  periods ;  however  it 
may  have  happened  for  all  that."  " 

The  annexed  anecdotes  are  characteristic: 

The  boys  at  Harrow  had  mutinied,  and  in  their  wis- 
don  had  resolved  to  set  fire  to  the  scene  of  all  their  ills 
and  troubles  —  the  school-room:  Byron,  however,  was 
agUDSt  the  motion,  and  by  pointing  out  to  the  young 
rebels  the  names  of  their  fethers  on  the  walls,  he  pre- 
vented the  intended  conflagration.  This  early  specimen 
of  his  power  over  the  passions  of  his  school-fellows,  his 
lordship  piqued  himself  not  a  little  upon. 

Byron  long  retained  a  friendship  for  several  of  his 
Harrow  sdiool-fellows;  Lord  Clare  was  one  of  his  con- 
stant correspondents;  Scroope  Davics  was  also  one  of 
his  chief  companions  before  his  lordship  went  to  the 
continent  This  gentleman  and  Byron  once  lost  all  their 
Buiney  at  ''chicken  hazard,"  in  one  of  the  hells  of  St. 
James's,  and  the  next  morning  Davies  sent  for  Byron's 
pistob  to  shoot  himself  with;  Byron  sent  a  note  refusing 
to  give  diem,  on  the  ground  that  they  would  be  forfeited 
as  a  deodand.  This  comic  excuse  had  the  desired  effect 

ByroBy  whilst  living  at  Newstead  during  the  Harrow 
neation,  saw  and  became  enamoured  of  Miss  Chaworth : 
she  is  the  Mary  of  his  poetry,  and  his  beautiful  "Dream" 
relates  to  their  loves.  Miss  Chaworth  was  older  than  his 
Lordship  by  a  few  years,  was  light  and  volatile,  and 
tbiNgh,  no  doubt,  highly  flattered  by  his  attachment,  yet 
Ae  treated  our  pioet  less  as  an  ardent  lover  than  as  a 
yooager  brother.  She  waa  punctual  to  the  assignations 
vlkh  took  place  at  a  gate  dividing  the  grounds  of  the 
l^RNisfrom  theC|Miarorths,andaeoepted  his  letters  from 
flieonfidaota;  but  her  answers,  it  is  said,  were  written 
with  more  of  the  cantioa  of  coquetry  than  the  romance 


of  'lovers  young  dream;"  she  gave  him,  hoivcver,  her 
picture,  but  her  hand  was  reserved  for  another. 

It  was  somewhat  remarkable  that  Lord  Byron  and 
Miss  Chaworth  should  both  have  been  under  the  guar- 
dianship of  Mr.  White.  This  gentleman  particularly 
wished  that  his  wards  should  bemairried  togetlier;  but 
Miss  C^,  as  young  ladies  generally  do  in  such  circum* 
stances,  difterM  from  him,  and  was  resolved  to  please 
herself  in  the  choice  of  a  husband.  The  celebrated  Mr. 
M.,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Jack  M.,  was  at  this 
time  quite  the  rage,and  Miss  C.  was  not  subtle  enough  to 
ooncciU  the  penchant  ahe  had  for  this  j^ck-tL-dand^  i  and 
though  Mr.  W.  took  her  from  one  watering-place  to 
another,  still  tiie  lover,  like  an  evil  spirit,  followed,  and 
at  hist,  being  somehow  more  persuasive  than  the  "child 
of  song,"  he  carried  off  the  lady,  to  tlic  great  grief  of 
Lord  Byron.  The  marriage,  however,  was  not  a  happy 
one;  the  parties  soon  separated,  and  Mrs.  M.  after- 
wards proposed  an  interview  with  -her  former  lover, 
which,  by  the  advice  of  his  sister,  he  declined. 

From  Harrow  Lord  Byron  was  removed,  and  entered 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge;  there,  however,  he  did 
not  mend  his  manners,  nor  hold  the  sages  of  antiquity 
in  higher  esteem  than  when  under  the  command  of  his 
reverend  tutor  at  Harrow.  He  was  above  studying  the 
poetics,  and  held  the  rules  of  the  Stagyrite  in  as  little 
esteem  as  in  after-life  he  did  the  "invariable  principles" 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bowles.  Reading  after  the  fashion  of 
the  studious  men  of  Cam  was  to  him  a  bore,  and  he 
held  a  senior  wrangler  in  the  greatest  contempt  Persons 
of  real  genius  are  seldom  candidates  for  college-prizes, 
and  Byron  left  "the  silver  cup"  for  those  plodding  cha- 
racters who,  perhaps,  deserve  them,  as  the  guerdon  of 
the  unceasing  labour  necessary  to  overcome  the  all  but 
invincible  natural  dulness  of  their  intellects.  Byron, 
instead  of  reading  what  pleased  tutors,  read  what  pleased 
himself,  and  wrote  what  could  not  fail  to  displease  those 
political  weathercoeks.  He  did  not  admire  their  system 
of  education,  and  they,  as  is  the  case  with  most  scholars, 
could  admire  no  otiier.  He  took  to  quizzing  them,  ana 
no  one  likes  to  be  laughed  at;  doctors  frowned,  and 
fellows  fumed,  and  Byron  at  the  age  of  nineteen  left  the 
university  without  a  degree. 

Among  other  means  which  he  adopted  to  show  his 
contempt  for  academical  honours,  he  kept  a  young  bear 
in  his  room  for  some  time,  which  he  told  all  his  friends 
he  was  training  up  for  a  fellowship ;  but  however  much 
the  fellows  of  Trinity  may  claim  acquaintance  with  the 
"ursa  major,"  they  were  by  no  means  desirous  of  as- 
sociating with  his  lordship's  SUve, 

IfVhen  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  Lord  Byron  bade 
adieu  to  the  university,  and  took  up  his  residence  at 
Newstead  Abbey.  Here  his  pursuits  were  principally 
those  of  amusement  Among  others  he  was  extremely 
fond  of  the  water.  In  his  aquatic  exercises  be  had  seldom 
any  other  companion  than  a  large  Newfoundland  dog,  to 
try  whoso  sagacity  and  fidelity  be  would  sometimes  fall 
out  of  the  boat,  as  if  by  accident,  when  the  dog  would 
seize  him,  and  drag  him  ashore.  On  losing  tliis  dog,  in 
the  autumn  of  1808,  he  caused  a  monument  to  be  erected, 
with  an  inscription  commemorative  of  its  attachment. 

The  following  descriptions  of  Newstead's  hallowed 
pile  will  be  found  interesting : 

This  abbey  was  founded  in  the  year  1 170,  by  Henry  II., 
as  a  priory  of  Black  Canons,  and  dedicated  to  the  Virgin 
Mary.  It  continued  in  the  family  of  the  Byrons  until  the 
time  of  the  late  lord,  who  sold  it  first  to  Mr.  Claughton 
for  the  sum  of  140,000/.,  and  on  that  gentleman's  not 
being  able  to  fulfil  the  agreement,  and  thus  paying 
20,000/.  of  a  forfeit,  it  was  afterwards  sold  to  another 
person^  and  most  of  the  money  vested  in  trustees  for  the 
jointure  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Byron.  The  greater  part  of 
tlie  edifice  still  remains.  The  present  possessor.  Major  , 
Wildman,  is,  witli  genuine  Gothic  taste,  repairing  thia 
beautiful  specimen  of  architecture.  The  late  Lord  Byron 


VI 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


y 


repaired  a  coosiderable  part  of  it;  bat,  forg:etting  the 
rooF,  he  had  turned  his  atteotion  to  tlie  inside,  and  the 
consequence  was,  that  in  a  few  years,  the  rain  paying:  a 
visit  to  the  apartments ,  soon  destroyed  all  those  elegant 
devices  which  his  lordship  had  contrived.  His  lordship's 
own  study  was  a  neat  little  apartment,  decorated  with 
some  good  classic  busts,  a  select  oolleotion  of  books,  an 
antique  cross,  a  sword  in  a  g:ilt  case,  and,  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  two  finely  polished  skulls  on  a  pair  of  light 
fency  stands.  In  the  garden,  likewise,  was  a  great  number 
of  these  skulls,  taken  from  the  burial-ground  of  the  abbey, 
and  piled  up  together;  but  afterwards  they  were  recom- 
mitted to  the  earth.  A  writer,  who  visited  it  soon  after 
Lord  Byron  had  sold  it,  says :  ''In  one  corner  of  the  ser- 
vants' hall  lay  a  stone coflin,  in  which  were  fencing  gloves 
and  foils,  and  on  the  walls  of  the  ample  but  cheerless 
kitchen  was  painted  in  large  letters,  ^Waste  not  -^  want 
not"    During  the  minority  of  Lord  Byron,  the  abbey 

was  in  the  possession  of  Lord  6 ,  his  hounds,  and 

divers  colonies  of  jackdaws,  swallows,  and  starlings.  The 
internal  traces  of  this  Goth  were  swept  away;  but 
without,  all  appeared  as  rude  and  unreclaimed  as  he 
could  have  left  it.  With  the  exception  of  the  dog's  tomb, 
a  conspicuous  and  elegant  object,  I  do  not  recollect  the 
slightest  trace  of  culture  or  improvement  The  late  lord, 
a  stern  and  desperate  character,  who  is  never  mentioned 
by  the  neighbouring  peasants  without  a  significant 
shake  of  the  head,  might  have  returned  and  recognized 
every  thing  about  him,  except, perhaps,  an  additional 
crop  of  weeds.  There  still  slept  that  old  pond,  into 
which  he  is  said  to  have  burled  his  lady  in  one  of  his  fits 
of  fury,  whence  she  was  rescued  by  the  gardener,  a 
courageous  blade,  who  was  the  lord's  master  and  chas- 
tised him  for  his  barbarity.  There  still,  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  in  a  grove  of  oak,  two  towering  satyrs,  he  with 
is  goat  and  club,  and  Mrs.  Satyr  with  her  chubby 
cloven -footed  brat,  placed  on  pedestals  at  the  inter- 
sections of  the  narrow  and  gloomy  pathways,  struck  for 
a  moment  with  their  grim  visages,  and  silent  shaggy 
forms,  the  fear  into  your  bosoms  which  is  felt  by  the 
neighbouring  peasantry  at  "th'ond  laird's  devils."  1 
,  have  frequently  asked  the  country-people  near  Newstead, 
what  sort  of  a  man  his  lordship  (our  Lord  Byron)  was. 
The  impression  of  his  eccentric  but  energetic  character 
was  evident  in  the  reply:  "He  's  the  devil  of  a  fellow 
for  comical  fancies.  He  flogs  th'  oud  laird  to  nothing; 
but  be 's  a  hearty  good  fellow  for  all  that "  " 

Walpole,  who  had  visited  Newstead,  gives,  in  his  usual 
bitter,  sarcastic  manner,  the  following  account  of  it: 

'*As  I  returned  I  saw  Newstead  and  Althorpe;  Hike 
both.  The  former  is  the  very  abbey.  The  great  east 
window  of  the  church  remains,  and  connects  with  the 
house;  the  hall  entire,  the  refectory  entire,  the  cloister 
untouched,  with  the  ancient  cistern  of  the  convent,  and 
their  arms  on  it:  it  has  a  private  chapel  quite  perfect 
The  park,  which  is  still  charming,  has  not  been  so  much 
unprofaned.  The  present  lord  has  lost  large  sums,  and 
paid  part  in  old  oaks ,  five  thousand  pounds  worth  of 
which  have  been  cut  near  the  house.  En,  revanche,  he  has 
built  two  baby  forts ,  to  pay  his  country  in  castles  for 
damage  done  to  the  navy,  and  planted  a  handful  of  Scotch 
firs,  that  look  like  ploughboys  dressed  in  old  fhmily 
liveries  for  a  public  day.  In  the  hall  is  a  very  good  col 
lection  of  pictures ,  all  animals.  The  refectory ,  now 
the  great  drawing-room,  is  full  of  Byrons :  the  vaulted 
roof  remaining,  but  the  windows  have  new  dresses 
making  for  them  by  a  Venetian  tailor." 

This  is  a  careless  but  happy  description  of  one  of  the 
noblest  mansions  in  England,  and  it  will  now  be  read 
with  a  far  deeper  interest  than  when  it  was  written. 
Walpole  saw  the  seat  of  the  Byrons,  old,  majestic,  and 
venerable  ;  but  he  saw  nothing  of  that  magic  beauty 
which  fame  sheds  over  the  habitations  of  genius,  and 
which  now  mantles  every  turret  of  Newstead  Abbey. 
He  saw  it  when  decay  was  doing  its  work  on  the  cloister, 


the  refectory,  and  the  chapel,  and  all  its  honors  seemed 
mouldering  into  oblivion.  He  oonld  not  know  that  a 
voice  was  sor<n  to  go  forth  from  those  antique  cloisters, 
that  should  be  heard  through  all  future  ages,  and  cry, 
"Sleep  no  more  to  all  the  house."  Whatever  may  be  its 
future  fiite,  Newstead  Abbey  must  henceforth  be  a 
memorable  abode.  Time  may  shed  its  wild  flowers  on 
the  walls,  and  let  the  fox  in  upon  the  court-yard  and  the 
chambers;  it  may  even  pass  into  the  hands  of  unlet- 
tered pride,  or  plebeian  opulence;  bvt  it  has  been  the 
mansion  of  a  mighty  poet  Its  name  is  associated  with 
glories  thaticannot  perish,  and  will  go  down  to  posterity 
in  one  of  the  proudest  pages  of  our  annals. 

Lord  Byron  showed,  even  in  his  earliest  years ,  tliat 
nature  had  added  to  the  advantages  of  high  descent  the 
richest  gifts  of  genius  and  of  fancy.  His  own  talc  is  partly 
told  in  two  lines  of  Lara: 

\  /      Left  by  his  sire»  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
^       Lord  of  himself,  that  heritage  of  woe. 

His  first  literary  adventure  and  its  fiite  are  well  reniem« 
bered.  The  poems  which  he  published  in  his  minority 
had,  indeed,  those  fiiults  of  conception  and  diction  which 
are  inscparsible  from  juvenile  attempts,  and  in  particular 
may  rather  be  considered  as  imitative  of  what  bad 
caught  the  ear  and  fancy  of  the  youthful  author,  than 
as  exhibiting  originality  of  conception  and  expression. 
It  was  like  the  first  essay  of  the  singing-bird,  catching  at 
and  imitating  the  notes  of  its  parent,  ere  habit  and  time 
have  given  the  fulness  of  tone,  confidence,  and  self- 
possession  which  render  assistance  unnecessary.  Yet 
though  there  were  many,  and  those  not  the  worst  judges, 
who  discerned  in  his  ** Hours  of  Idleness"  a  depth  of 
thought  and  felicity  of  expression  which  promised  mnch 
at  a  more  mature  age,  the  work  did  not  escape  the  critical 
lash  of  the  ''Scotch  Reviewers,"  who  could  not  resist  the 
opportunity  of  pouncing  upon  a  titled  poet,  of  showing 
oft  their  own  wit,  and  of  seeking  to  entertain  their  readers 
with  a  flippant  article,  without  much  respect  to  the  feel- 
ings of  the  author,  or  even  to  the  indications  of  merit 
which  the  work  displayed.  The  review  was  read,  and  ex- 
cited mirth ;  the  poems  were  neglected,  tlie  author,  was 
irritated,  and  took  his  revenge  in  keen  iambics,  wiiidi, 
at  the  same  time,  proved  the  injustice  of  the  ofiending 
critic  and  the  ripening  talents  of  the  bard.  Having  thus 
vented  his  indignation  against  the  reviewers  and  tlieir 
readers,  and  put  ail  the  laughter  on  bis  side,  Lord  Byron 
went  abroad,  and  the  controversy  was  for  some  yeais 
forgotten. 

It  was  at  Newstead,  just  before  bis  coming  of  age,  he 
had  planned  his  future  travels,  and  his  original  intention 
included  a  much  larger  portion  of  the  world,  than  tlia^ 
which  he  afterwards  visited.  He  first  thought  of  Persia, 
to  which  idea  indeed  he  for  a  long  time  adhered.  He 
afterwards  meant  to  sail  for  India,  and  had  so  far  coft* 
tem plated  this  project  as  to  write  for  information  from 
the  Arabic  professor  at  Cambridge,  and  to  ask  his  mother 
to  inquire  of  a  friend  who  had  lived  in  India,  what  things 
would  be  necessary  for  his  voyage*  He  formed  his  plan 
of  travelling  upon  very  different  grounds  (torn  those 
Khich  he  afterwards  advanced.  All  men  should  travel 
/atone  time  or  another,  he  thought,  and  he  had  then  so 
connexions  to  prevent  him;  when  he  returned  he  nug:ht 
enter  Into  political  life,  for  which  travelling  would  not 
incapacitate  him,  and  he  wished  U>  judge  of  men  by 
experience. 

At  length,  in  July,  1809,  in  company  with  John  Cam 
Hobhouse,  Esq.  (with  whom  his  acquaintance  conn 
menced  at  Cambridge) ,  Lord  Byron  embarked  at  FaK 
mouth  for  Lisbon,  and  thence  proceeded,  by  the  soutb» 
ern  provinces  of  Spain,  to  the  Mediterranean.  Tha- 
objects  that  he  met  with  as  far  as  Gibraltar  seem  to  have 
occupied  his  mind,  to  the  temporary  exclusion  of  hin^ 
gloomy  and  misanthropic  thoughts;  for  a  letter  wluch  1m^ 


LAKE'S  LIVE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


VII 


to  Ilk  mother  from  thcnoe  contains  no  incfication 

of  tllen*  but,  on  the  contrary,  much  playful  description 
of  the  scenes  through  which  he  had  passed.  At  Seville, 
Loid  Byron  loosed  in  the  house  of  two  single  ladies, 
OM  of  whom,  however,  was  about  to  be  married.  Though 
he  remained  there  only  three  days,  she  paid  liim  the  most 
pardcnlar  attentions,  and,  at  tlieir  parting,  embraced  him 
wiih  great  tenderness,  cutting  off  a  loclc  of  his  hair,  and 
presenting  him  with  one  of  her  own.  With  this  specimen 
of  Spanish  female  Manners,  he  proceeded  to  Cadiz,  where 
various  incidents  occurred  to  confirm  the  opinion  lie  had 
formed  at  Seville  of  the  Andalusian  belles,  and  which 
made  him  leave  Cadiz  with  regret ,  and  determine  to 
retora  to  it  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  his  mother  from 
Ualta, announcing  his  safety ,  and  again  from  Prevesa, 
in  November.  Upon  arriving  at  Yaniua,  Lord  Byron 
(bond  tliat  Ali  I^icha  was  with  his  troops  in  Illyrium, 
heaegiag  Ibrahim  Pacha  in  Berat;  but  the  vizier,  having 
heard  that  an  Bnglish  nobleman  was  in  his  country,  had 
given  orders  at  Yanina  to  supply  him  witli  every  kind 
(^accommodation,  free  of  expense.  From  Yanina,  Lord 
Byron  went  to  Tepaleen.  Here  he  was  lodged  in  the 
pahee,  and  the  next  day  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha,  who 
declared  that  he  knew  him  to  be  a  man  of  rank  from  the 
smaUness  of  his  ears,  his  curling  hair,  and  his  white 
hands,  and  who  sent  him  a  variety  of  sweetmeats,  fruits, 
and  other  luxuries.  In  going  in  a  Turkish  ship  of  war, 
provided  for  him  by  Ali  Pacha,  from  Prevesa,  intending 
to  siil  for  Patras,  Lord  Byron  was  very  near  lost  in  but  a 
moderate^Kak  of  wind,  from  the  ignorance  of  the  Turkish 
ofioersand  sailors,  and  was  driven  on  the  coast  of  Suli. 
An  instance  of  disinterested  hospitality  in  the  chief  of 
a  Soliote  village  occurred  to  Lord  Byron,  in  consequence 
of  his  disasters  in  the  Turkish  galliot.  The  honest 
AJbsnian,  after  assisting  him  in  his  distress,  supplying 
Us  wants,  and  lodging  him  and  his  suite,  refused  to 
reeeive  any  remnneration.  When  Lord  Byron  pressed 
him  to  take  money,  he  said:  ^l  wish  you  to  love  me,  not 
to  pay  me."  At  Yanina,  on  his  return,  he  was  introduced 
to  linssein  Bey  and  Mahmout  ^oha,  two  young 
children  of  Ali  Pacha.  Subsequently,  he  visited  Smyrna, 
whence  he  went  in  the  Salsettc  frigate  to  Constantinople. 
On  the  dd  of  May ,  1 810,  while  this  frigate  was  lying  at 
anchor  in  the  Dardanelles,  Lord  Byron,  accompanied  by 
Licvtenant  Ekenhead,  swam  the  Hellespont  from  the 
Earopcan  shore  to  the  Asiatic  —  about  two  miles  wide. 
The  tide  of  the  Dardanelles  runs  so  strong,  that  it  is  im- 
WMrihle  cither  to  swim  or  to  sail  to  any  given  point  Lord 
Byron  went  from  the  castle  to  Abydos,  and  landed  on 
Ilie  opposite  shore,  full  three  miles  below  his  meditated 
plMe  of  approach.  He  had  a  boat  in  attendance  all  the 
way;  so  tliat  no  danger  could  be  apprehended  even  if 
his  strength  had  failed.  His  lordship  records,  in  one  of 
hit  minor  poems,  that  he  got  the  i^s;ue  by  the  voyage; 
bil  it  was  well  known,  that  when  he  landed,  he  was  so 
Msh  exhausted ,  that  he  gladly  accepted  the  offer  of  a 
Ttekish  fisherman,  and  reposed  in  his  hut  for  several 
hens;  he  was  then  very  ill,  and  as  Lieutenant  Bkenhead 
was  compelled  to  go  on  board  his  frigate,  he  was  kft 
The  Turk  had  no  idea  of  the  nuUr  or  conso- 
of  his  inmate,bat  paid  him  most  marked  attention, 
wife  was  his  nurse,  and,  at  the  end  of  five  days,  he 
M  the  shore,  ooihpletcly  recovered.  When  he  was 
iteot  to  embark,  the  Turk  gave  him  a  large  loaf,  a 
ahccae,  and  a  skin  filled  4vith  wine,  and  then  presented 
with  a  few  paras  (about  a  penny  each),  prayed 
to  Mess  htm,  and  wished  him  safe  home.  His  lord- 
him  no  return  to  this,  more  than  saying  he  felt 
obliged.  Bwt  when  he  arrived  at  Abydos,  he  sent 
Mrhis  man  SteAmo,  to  the  Turk,  with  an  assortment  of 
ilMwHieCs,  a  fiowfing  piece,  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  twelve 
|Mi  of  silk  to  oHike  gowns  for  his  wife.  The  poor  Turk 
Mitstonisbed,  nod  said:  <*  What  a  nobte  return  for  an 
jltaChnmanhy  V*  Be  tfaenfbrmed  the  resolution  of  cross** 
mt  4k  HeUespont,  asd,  In  prggNrim  perttm^,  thanking 


his  lordship.  His  wife  approved  of  the  plan;  and  he  had 

sailed  about  half  way  across,  when  a  sudden  squall  upset 
his  boat  and  the  poor  Turkish  fisherman  found  a  watery 
grave.  Lord  Byron  was  much  distressed  when  he  heard 
of  the  catastrophe,  and,  with  all  tliat  kindness  of  heart 
which  was  natural  to  him,  he  sent  to  the  widow  fifty  dol- 
lars, and  told  her  he  would  ever  be  her  friend.  This 
anecdote,  so  highly  honorable  to  his  lordship's  memory, 
is  very  little  known.  Lieutenant  Hare,  who  was  on  the 
spot  at  the  time,  furnished  the  particulars,  and  added 
that,  in  the  year  1817,  Lord  Byron,  then  proceeding  to 
Constantinople,  landed  at  the  same  spot,  and  made  a 
handsome  present  to  the  widow  and  her  son,  who  recol- 
lected the  circumstance,  but  knew  not  Lord  Byron,  his 
dress  and  appearance  having  so  altered  him. 

It  was  not  until  after  Lord  Byron  arrived  at  Constan- 
tinople that  he  decided  not  to  go  on  to  Persia,  but  to  pass 
the  following  summer  in  the  Morea.  At  Constantinople, 
Mr.  Hobheuse  left  him  to  return  to  England.  Ou  losing 
his  companion.  Lord  Byron  went  again,  and  alone,  over 
much  of  the  old  track  which  he  had  already  visited,  and 
studied  the  scenery  and  manners,  of  Greece  especially, 
with  the  searching  eye  of  a  poet  and  a  painter.  HLb  mind 
appeared  occasionally  to  have  some  tendency  towards  •, 
a  recovery  from  the  morbid  state  of  moral  apathy  which  \y^ 
he  had  previously  evinced,  and  the  gratification  which 
he  manifested  on  observing  the  superiority,  in  every 
respect,  of  Engtand  to  other  countries,  proved  that  pa- 
triotism was  far  from  being  extinct  in  his  bosom.  The 
embarrassed  state  of  his  afl'airs  at  length  induced  him  to 
return  home,  to  endeavour  to  arrange  them;  and  he 
arrived  in  the  Volage  frigate  on  the  2d  of  July,  1811, 
having  been  absent  exactly  two  years.  His  health  had 
not  suffered  by  his  travels,  although  it  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  two  sharp  fevers;  but  he  had  put  himself 
entirely  on  a  vegetable  diet,  and  drank  no  wiae. 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  he  was  summoned  toNewstead, 
inconsequence  of  the  serious  illness  of  his  mother;  but 
on  reachmg  the  abbey,  found  that  she  had  breathed  her 
last  He  suffered  much  from  this  loss,  and  from  Uie  dis- 
appointment of  not  seeing  her  before  her  death;  and 
while  bis  feelings  on  the  subject  were  still  very  acute,  he 
received  the  intelligence  that  a  friend,  whom  he  highly 
esteemed,  had  been  drowned  in  the  Cam.  He  had  not 
long  before  heard  of  the  death,  at  Coimbra,  of  a  school-   « 
fellow,  to  whom  he  was  much  attacjied.  These  three  ; 
melancholy  events,   occurring  within  the  space  of  a  ^ 
month,  had,  no  doubt,  a  powerful  effect  on  Lord  Byron's 
feelings. 

Towards  the  termination  of  his  ''English  Bards  and 
Scoteh  Reviewers,"  the  noble  author  had  declared,  that 
it  was  his  intention  to  break  off,  from  that  period,  his 
newly -formed  connexion  with  the  Muses,  and  that, 
should  he  return  in  safety  from  the  *'Minarets"  of  Con- 
stantinople, the  ''Maidens''  of  Greorgia,  and  the  ''Sublime 
Snows''  of  Mount  Caucasus,  nothing  on  earth  should 
tempt  him  to  resume  the  pen.  Such  resolutions  are  sel- 
dom maintained.  In  February,  1812,  the  first  two  cantos 
of '^Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage"  (with  the  manuscript 
of  which  he  had  presented  his  friend  Mr.  Dallas)  made 
their  appearance,  produciug  an  effect  upon  the  public 
equal  to  that  of  any  work  which  had  been  published 
within  this  or  the  last  century. 

This  poem  is,  perhaps,  tJie  most  original  in  the  English 
language,  both  in  conception  and  execution.  It  is  no 
more  IUlo  Beattie's  Minstrel  than  Paradise  Lost— though 
the  former  production  was  in  the  noble  author's  mind 
when  first  thinking  of  Childe  Harold.  A  great  poet,  who 

Eives  himself  up  free  and  unconfined  to  Uie  impulses  of 
is  genius,  as  Byron  did  ui  the  better  part  of  this  sii^:ular  ^ 
creation,  shows  to  as  a  spurit  as  if  sent  out  from  the 
hands  of  nature,  to  range  over  the  earth  and  the  societies 
of  men.  Even  Shakspeare  himself  submits  to  the  shackles 
of  history  nnd  society.  But  here  Byron  has  traversed  the 
whole  eartli,  borne  atong  by  the  whirlwind  of  his  own 


vm 


LAK£*S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


J 


spirit  Wherever  a  forest  frowned,  or  a  temple  flittered 
—  tliere  he  was  privileged  to  bend  his  flight  He  sud- 
denly starts  up  from  his  solitary  dream ,  by  the  secret 
fountain  of  the  desert,  and  descends  at  once  into  the 
tnmult  of  peopled  or  the  silence  of  deserted  cities.  Wliat- 
cver  actually  lived  —  bad  perished  heretofore  —  or  that 
had  within  it  a  po%ver  to  kindle  passion,  became  the 
in«tort«/of  his  all-embracing  song.  There  are  no  nnitks 
of  time  or  place  to  fetter  him  —  and  we  fly  witli  him  fram 
hill-top  to  hill-top,  and  from  tower  to  tower,  over  all  pe 
solitude  of  nature,  and  all  the  maguilioenoe  of  art  Wl^en 
tlie  past  pageants  of  history  seemed  too  dim  and  faded, 
he  would  turn  to  the  splendid  spectacles  that  have  d^- 
nified  our  own  days,  and  the  images  of  kings  and  coiL- 
querors  of  old,  gave  place  to  those  that  were  yet  living  ii^ 
sovereignty  and  exile.  Indeed  much  of  the  powe^  wbicli\ 
Byron  possessed  was  derived  from  tfiis  source.  He  lived 
in  a  sort  of  sympathy  with  the  public  mind  —  sometimes 
wholly  distinct  from  it  —  sometimes  acting  in  opposition 
to  it  —  sometimes  blending  with  it,  ^  but,  at  all  times, 
in  all  his  thoughts  and  actions,  bearing  a  reference  to  thc^- 
public  mind.  His  spirit  needed  not  to  go  back  into  thf 
past,  —  tliough  it  often  did  so,  —  to  bring  tlie  objects  c€.^ 
its  love  back  to  eardi  in  more  beautiful  life.  The  existence 
he  painted  was  —  the  present  The  objects  he  presented 
were  marked  oat  to  him  by  men's  actual  regards.  It  was 
his  to  speak  of  all  those  great  political  events  which  were 
objects  of  such  passionate  and  universal  sympathy.  But 
chiefly  he  spoke  our  own  feelings,  exalted  in  thought, 
language,  and  passion.  His  travels  were  not,  at  first,  the 
self-impelled  act  of  a  mind,  severing  itself  in  lonely 
roaming  from  all  participation  in  the  society  to  which  it 
belonged,  but  rather  obeying  the  general  notion  of  the 
mind  of  that  society. 

The  indications  of  a  bold,  powerful,  and  original  mind 
which  glanced  through  every  line  of  Childe  Harold, 
electrified  the  mass  of  readers,  and  placed  at  once  upon 
Lord  Byron's  head,  the  garland  for  which  other  men  of 
genius  have  toiled  long,  and  which  they  have  gained  late. 
He  was  placed  pre-eminent  among  the  literary  men  of 
his  country  by  general  acclamation.  Those  who  had  so 
rigorously  censured  bis  juvenile  essays,  and  perhaps 
'Mreaded  such  another  field,"  were  the  first  to  pay  warm 
homage  to  his  matured  efi'orts;  while  others,  who  saw  in 
the  sentiments  of  Childe  Harold  much  to  regret  and  to 
censure,  did  not  withhold  their  tribute  of  applause  to  tlic 
depth  of  thought,  the  power  and  force  of  expression,  and 
the  energy  of  sentiment  which  animated  the  "Pilgrimage." 
Thus,  as  all  admired  the  poem,  all  were  prepared  to  greet 
the  author,  with  that  fame  which  is  the  poef  s  best  reward. 
It  was  amidst  such  feelings  of  admiration  that  Lord 
Byron  fully  entered  on  tliat  public  stage  where,  to  the 
close  of  his  life,  he  made  so  distinguished  a  figure. 

Bvery  thing  in  his  manner,  person,  and  conversation 
tended  to  maintain  the  charm  which  his  genius  had  flung 
around  him;  and  those  admitted  to  his  conversation,  far 
from  finding  that  the  inspired  poet  sunk  into  ordinary 
mortality ,  felt  themselves  attached  to  him  not  only  by 
many  noble  qualities,  but  by  the  interest  of  a  mysterious, 
undefined,  and  almost  painful  curiosity.  \ 

It  is  well  known  how  wide  the  doors  of  society  are^ 
opened  in  London  to  literary  merit,  even  to  a  degree  for 
inferior  to  Lord  Byron's,  and  that  it  is  only  necessary  to 
be  honorably  distinguished  by  the  public  voice  to  move 
as  a  denizen  in  the  first  circles.  This  passport  was  not 
necessary  to  Lord  Byron,  who  possessed  the  hereditary 
claims  of  birth  and  rank.  But  the  interest  which  his 
genius  attached  to  his  presence,  and  to  his  conversation, 
was  of  a  nature  far  beyond  what  these  hereditary  claims 
could  of  themselves  have  conferred,  and  his  reception 
was  enthusiastic  beyond  any  thing  imaginable.  Lord 
Byron  was  not  one  of  those  literary  men  of  whom  it  may 
be  truly  said,  minuii  prasentiafamam»  A  countenance, 
exquisitely  modelled  to  the  expression  of  feeling  and 
passion,  and  exhibiting  the  remarkable  contrast  of  very 


I  dark  hair  and  eye-brows,  with  light  and  expressire  eyM, 
presented  to  the  physiognomist  the  most  intn-estiag  sub- 
ject for  the  exercise  of  his  art  The  predominating  es* 
pression  was  that  of  deep  and  habitual  thought,  which 
gave  way  to  the  most  rapid  play  of  Stares  when  hi 
engaged  in  interesting  discussion ;  so  that  a  brotlier  poel 
compared  them  to  the  sculpture  of  a  beautitUI  alabaster 
vase,  only  seen  to  perfection  when  lighted  up  from  within. 
The  flashes  of  mirth,  gaiety,  indignation,  or  satirical  dis- 
like which  frequently  animated  Lord  Byron's  counter 
nance,  might,  cluring  an  evening's  conversation,  be  mis- 
taken by  a  stranger  for  its  habitual  expression,  so  easily 
and  so  happily  was  it  formed  for  tliem  all;  but  those  u  ho 
had  an  opportunity  of  studying  his  features  for  a  leiigdi 
of  time,  and  upon  various  occasions,  both  of  rest  and 
emotion,  knew  that  their  proper  language  was  that  of 
melancholy.  Sometimes  shades  of  this  gloom  interrupted 
even  his  gayest  and  most  happy  moments ;  and  the  follow- 
ing verses  are  said  to  have  dropped  from  his  pen  to 
excuse  a  transient  expression  of  mehincholy  which  over- 
clouded the  general  gaiety. 

When  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits. 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high. 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits. 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye  — 
Heed  not  the  gloom  that  soon  shall  sink, 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  captives  shrink^ 

And  bleed  within  their  silent  cell. 

It  was  impossible  to  notic^e  a  dejection  belonging  neither 
to  the  rank,  the  age,  nor  the  success  of  this  young  noble- 
man, without  feeling  an  indefinable  curiosity  to  ascertain 
whether  it  had  a  deeper  cause  than  habit  or  constitutional 
temperament  It  was  obviously  of  a  degree  incalculably 
more  serious  than  that  alluded  to  by  Prince  Arthur  *-* 

1  remember  when  I  was  in  France, 

Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 
Only  for  wantonness 

But,  howsoever  derived,  this,  joined  to  Lord  Byron's  air 
of  mingling  in  amusements  and  sports  as  if  he  contemned 
them,  and  felt  that  his  sphere  was  far  above  the  fashion- 
able and  frivolous  crowd  which  surrounded  him,  gave  a 
strong  efl'cct  of  colouring  to  a  character  whose  tints  were 
otherwise  decidedly  romantic.  Noble  and  far  descende<^ 
the  pilgrim  of  distant  and  savage  countries,  eminent  as  a 
poet  among  the  first  whom  Britain  has  produced,  and 
having  besides  cast  around  him  a  mysterious  charm 
arising  from  the  sombre  tone  of  his  poetry,  and  the  oo 
casiona]  melancholy  of  his  deportment,  Lord  Byroa  oo- 
copied  the  eyes  and  interested  the  feelings  of  all.  The 
enthusiastic  looked  on  him  to  admire,  the  serious  with  a 
wish  to  admonish,  and  the  soft  with  a  desire  to  console. 
Even  literary  envy,  a  base  sensation ,  from  which,  per- 
haps, this  age  is  more  free  than  any  other,  forgave  the 
man  whose  splendor  dimmed  the  fame  of  his  competitors. 
\  the  generosity  of  Lord  Byron's  disposition,  his  readiuess 
e\  no  assist  merit  in  distress,  and  to  bring  it  forward  where 
unknown,  deserved  and  obtained  general  regard;  while 
his  poetical  effusions,  poured  forth  with  equal  force  and 
fertility,  showed  at  once  a  daring  confidence  in  his  own 
powers,  and  a  determination  to  maintain,  by  continued 
efl'ort,  the  high  place  he  had  attained  in  British  literature; 
At  one  of  the  fashionable  parties  where  the  noble  bard 
was  present,  His  Majesty,  then  Prince  Regent,  entered 
the  room:  Lord  Byron  was  at  some  distance  at  the  timep 
but,  on  learning  who  he  was,  His  Royal  Highness  seat  a 
gentleman  to  him  to  desire  that  he  would  be  presented. 
Of  course  the  presentation  too^  place ;  tlie  Regent  ex*  '^ 
pressed  his  admiration  of  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,**  . 
and  entered  into  a  conversation  which  so  fascinated  th^, 
poet,  that  had  it  not  been  for  an  accident  which  defcrrcdf!,; 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OP  LORD  BYRON. 


IX 


a  lerce  inteoded  to  have  been  held  the  next  day,  he  woafd 
have  gone  to  court  Soon  after,  however,  an  unfortunate 
kflimoeooonteracted  the  effect  of  royal  praise,  and  Lord 
Byron  permitted  himself  to  write  and  speak  disrespect- 
fally  of  the  prince. 

The  whole  of  Byron's  political  career  may  be  summed 
up  in  the  following  anecdotes: 

The  Earl  of  Carlisle  having  declined  to  introduce  Lord 
ByroB  to  tlie  House  of  Peers,  he  resolved  to  introduce 
himself,  and  accordingly  went  there  a  little  before 
the  usual  hour,  when  he  knew  few  of  the  lords  would  be 
present  On  entering  he  appeared  rather  abashed  and 
looked  very  pale ,  but ,  passing  the  woolsack,  where  the 
Cbaneellor  (Lord  Eldon)  was  engaged  in  some  of  the 
ordinary  routine  of  the  house,  he  went  directly  to  the 
table,  where  the  oaths  were  administered  to  him  in  tlie 
osnal  manner.  The  Lord  Chancellor  then  approached, 
and  offered  his  hand  in  the  most  open  familiar  manner, 
congratulating  him  on  his  taking  possession  of  his  seat. 
Lord  Byron  only  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  in  the 
Chancellor's  hand;  the  latter  returned  to  his  seat,  and 
Byron,  after  lounging  a  few  minutes  on  one  of  the  op- 
position benches,  retired.  To  his  friend,  Mr.  Dallas,  who 
followed  him  out,  he  gave  as  a  reason  for  not  entering 
into  the  spirit  of  the  Chancellor,  ''that  it  might  have  been 
supposed  he  would  Join  the  court-party,  whereas  he 
intended  to  have  notiung  at  all  to  do  with  politics." 

He  only  addressed  tlie  house  three  times :  the  first  of 
his  speeches  was  on  the  Frame-work  Bill ;  the  second  in 
&vour  of  the  Catholic  claims,  which  gave  good  hopes  of 
his  becoming  an  orator;  and  tiie  other  related  to  a 
petition  from  Major  Cartwright.  Byron  himself  says,  the 
Lords  told  him  **bis  manner  was  not  dignified  enough 
for  them,  and  would  better  suit  the  lower  house;"  others 
say,  they  gathered  round  him  while  speaking,  listening 
with  the  greatest  attention— a  sign  at  any  rate  that  he  was 
interesting.  He  always  voted  with  the  opposition,  but 
evinced  no  likelihood  of  becoming  the  blind  partisan  of 
other  side. 

The  following  is  a  pleasing  instance  of  the  generosity, 
the  delicacy,  and  the  un  wounding  benevolence  of  Byron's 
aalme: 

A  young  lady  of  considerable  talents ,  but  who  had 
■ever  been  able  to  succeed  in  turning  them  to  any  pro- 
liable  account,  was  reduced  to  great  hardships  through 
the  misfortunes  of  her  family.  The  only  persons  from 
vhon  she  could  have  hoped  for  relief  were  abroad,  and 
ID  niged  on,  more  by  the  sufferings  of  thofeshe  held  dear 
Ihaa  by  her  own,  she  summoned  up  resolution  to  wait  on 
Lord  Byron  at  his  apartments  in  the  Albany,  and  ask  his 
n^btcription  to  a  volume  of  poems:  she  had  no  previous 
kaoniedge  of  him  except  from  his  works,  but  from  the 
holdoess  and  feeling  expressed  in  them ,  she  concluded 
that  he  most  be  a  man  of  kind  heart  and  amiable  dispo- 
sition. Experience  did  not  disappoint  her,  and  though 
she  entered  tlie  apartment  with  faltering  steps  and  a  pal- 
pitsi6aigbeart,she  soon  found  courage  to  state  her  request, 
vhtch  die  did  in  the  most  simple  and  delicate  manner : 
he  heard  it  with  the  most  marked  attention  and  tlie  keen- 
otfjB^iathy;  and  when  she  had  ceased  speaking,  he, 
»tf  to  avert  her  thou|i^ts  from  a  subject  which  could  not 
he  hot  painful  to  her,  began  to  converse  in  words  so  fas- 
OMiBg,  and  tones  so  gentle,  that  sb/s  hardly  perceived 
hehad  been  ivriting,  until  he  pat  a  folded  slip  of  paper 
■16  her  hand,  saying  it  was  his  sabscription,  and  that  he 
MMl  heartily  wished  her  success.  '*BuV'  added  he,  "we 
«ehoth  young,  and  the  world  is  very  censorious,  and  so 
HI  were  to  take  any  active  part  in  procuring  subscribers 
l^fovr  poems,  I  fear  it  would  do  yon  harm  rather  than 
■M,"  The  jrouofT  lady,  overpowerd  by  the  prudence  and 
itfmtj  of  his  conduct,  took  her  leave,  and  upon  openijog 
iHhe  street  the  paper,  which  in  her  agitation  she  had  not 
ly  locked  at,  she  found  it  was  a  draft  upon  his 
for  fifty  pounds  1 


The  enmity  that  Byron  entertained  towards  the  Earl 
of  Carlisle  was  owing  to  two  causes:  the  earl  had  spoken 
rather  irreverently  of  the"Hours  ofldleness,"  whenByron 
expected,  as  a  relation,  that  he  would  have  countenanced 
it  He  had  moreover  refused  to  introduce  his  kinsman  to 
tlie  House  of  Lords,  even,  it  is  said,  somewhat  doubting 
Ills  right  to  a  seat  in  that  honorable  house. 

The  Earl  of  Carlisle  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  classic 
drama,  and  once  published  a  sixpenny  pamphlet,  in 
which  he  strenuously  argued  in  behalf  of  the  propriety 
and  necessity  of  small  theatres:  on  the  same  day  that  this 
weighty  publication  appeared,  he  subscribed  a  thousand 
pounds  for  some  public  purpose.  On  this  occasion  Byron 
composed  the  following  epigram 

Carlisle  subscribes  a  thousand  pound 
Out  of  his  rich  domains ; 
'  And  for  a  sixpence  circles  round 
The  produce  of  his  brains : 
'T  is  thus  the  difl'erenoe  you  may  hit 
Between  hia  fortune  and  his  wit 

Byron  retained  his  antipathy  to  this  relative  to  the 
last  On  reading  some  lines  in  the  newspapers  addressed 
to  Lady  Holland  by  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  persuading  her 
to  reject  the  snuff-box  bequeathed  to  her  by  -Napoleon, 
beginning: 

Lady,  reject  the  g^ft,  etc. 

He  immediately  wrote  the  following  parody : 

Lady,  accept  the  gift  a  hero  wore. 

In  spite  of  all  this  elegiac  stuff: 
Let  not  seven  stanzas  written  by  a  bore 

Prevent  your  ladyship  from  taking  snuff. 

Sir  Lumley  Skefiington  had  written  a  tragedy,  called, 
if  we  remember  right,  "The  Mysterious  Bride,"  which 
was  fairly  damned  on  the  first  night:  a  masquerade  took 
place  soon  after  tliis  fatal  catastrophe,  to  which  went 
John  Cam  Hobhoosc,  as  a  Spanish  nun  who  had  been 
ravished  by  the  French  army ,  and  was  under  the  pro- 
tection of  his  lordship.  Skefiington,  compassionating  the 
unfortunate  young  woman,  asked,  in  a  very  sentimental 
manner,  of  Byron,  "who  is  she?"—  "The  Mysterious 
Bride,"  replied  his  lordship. 

On  Byron's  return  from  his  first  tour,  Mr.  Dallas  called 
upon  him,  and,  after  the  usual  salutations  had  passed, 
inquired  if  he  was  prepared  with  any  other  work  to  sup- 
port the  fame  which  he  had  already  acquired.  Byron  then 
delivered  for  his  examination  a  poem,  entitled  "Hints 
from  Horace,"  being  a  paraphrase  of  the  art  of  poetry. 
Mr.  Dallas  promised  to  superintend  the  publication  of 
this  piece  as  he  had  done  that  of  the  satire,  and,  accord- 
ingly, it  was  carried  to  Cawthorn  the  bookseller,  and 
matters  arranged ;  but  Mr.  Dallas,  not  thinking  the  poem 
likely  to  increase  his  lordship's  reputation,  allowed  it  to 
linger  in  the  press.  It  began  thus: 

Who  would  not  laugh  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvass  with  each  flatter'd  face. 
Abused  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a  blush, 
Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  ? 
Or  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  honour  to  a  mermaid's  tail? 
Or  Low  D  *  **  (as  once  the  world  has  seen) 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen  -p 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Believe  me,  Moschus,  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  whioh^  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams. 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet. 

Mr.  Dallas  expressed  his  sorrow  that  his  lordship  had 
written  nothing  else.  Byron  then  told  him  that  he  had 


LAKE'S  L)FB  OF  LORD  BYBON. 


oci^sionally  composed  some  verses  in  Spenser's  measure, 
relative  to  the  countries  he  had  visited.  *^They  are  not 
worth  troubling  you  mth/*  said  his  lordship,  '*butyoa 
shall  have  them  all  with  you:"  he  then  took  ^'Cbilde 
Harold's  Pilgrimage"  from  a  trunk,  and  delivered  it  to 
him.  Mr.  Dallas,  having  read  the  poem,  was  in  raptures 
with  it;  he  instantly  resolved -to  do  his  utmost  in  sup- 
pressing the  "Hints  fromHorace,"  and  to  bring  out  Childe 
Harold.  He  urged  Byron  to  publish  this  last  poem;  but 
he  was  unwilling,  and  preferred  to  liave  the  *' Hints" 
published.  He  would  not  be  convinced  of  the  great  merit 
of  the'^'Childe,"  and  as  some  person  had  seen  it  before 
Mr.  Dallas,  and  expressed  disapprobation,  Byron  was 
by  no  means  sure  of  its  kind  reception  by  the  world.  In  a 
short  time  afterwards,  however,  he  agreed  to  its  publi- 
cation, and  requested  Mr.  Dallas  not  to  deal  witli  Caw- 
thorn,  but  offer  it  to  Miller  of  Albemarle  Street:  he  wished 
a  fashionable  publisher;  but  Miller  det'lined  it,  chiefly  on 
account  of  the  strictures  it  contained  on  Lord  Elgin, 
whose  publisher  he  was.  Longman  had  refused  to  publish 
the  "Satire,"  and  Byron  would  not  suffer  any  of  iiis  works 
to  come  from  tliat  house:  the  work  was  therefore  carried 
to  Mr.  Murray ,  who  then  kept  a  shop  opposite  St« 
Dunstan's  church  in  Fleet  Street.  Mr.  Murray  had  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  publish  for  Lord  Byron,  and  regretted 
that  Mr.  Dallas  had  not  taken  the  "English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers"  to  him;  but  this  was  after  its  success. 

Byron  fell  into  company  witli  Hogg ,  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  at  the  Lakes.  The  Shepherd  was  standing  at 
the  inn-door  of  Ambleside,  when  forth  came  a  strapping 
young  man  from  the  house,  and  off  with  his  hat,  and  out 
with  his  hand.  Hogg  did  not  know  him,  and  appearing  at 
a  dead  halt,  the  other  relieved  him  by  saying,  "Mr.  Hogg, 
I  hope  you  will  excuse  me;  my  name  is  Byron,  andl 
cannot  help  thinking  that  we  ought  to  hold  ourselves  ac- 
quainted." The  poets  accordingly  sliook  hands  immedia- 
tely, and,  while  they  continued  at  the  Lakes,  were  hand 
and  glove,  drank  furiously  together,  and  laughed  at  their 
brother  bards.  On  Byron's  leaving  the  Lakes,  he  sent 
Hogg  a  letter  quizzing  the  Lakists,  which  the  Shepherd 
was  so  mischievous  as  to  show  to  them. 

When  residing  at  Mitylene  in  the  year  1812,he  portion- 
ed eight  young  girls  very  liberally,  and  even  danced 
with  them  at  the  marriage-feast;  he  gave  a  cow  to  one 
man,  horses  to  another,  and  cotton  and  silk  to  several 
girts  who  lived  by  weaving  these  materials  :  he  also 
bought  a  new  boat  for  a  fisherman  who  had  lost  his  own 
in  a  gale,  and  he  often  gave  Greek  testaments  to  the  poor 
children. 

While  at  Metaxata,  in  1823,  an  embankment,  at  which 
several  persons  had  been  engaged  digging,  fell  in,  and 
buried  some  of  them  alive:  he  was  at  dinner  when  he 
heard  of  the  accident,  and,  starting  up  from  the  table, 
ran  to  the  spot,  accompanied  by  his  physician,  who  took 
a  supply  of  medicines  with  him.  The  labourers  who  were 
employed  to  extricate  their  companions,  soon  became 
alarmed  for  themselves,  and  refused  to  go  on,  saying, 
they  believed  they  had  dug  out  all  the  bodies  which  had 
becD  covered  by  the  ruins.  Lord  Byron  endeavoured  to 
induce  them  to  continue  their  exertions,  but  finding 
menaces  in  vain,  he  seized  a  spade  and  began  to  dig  most 
zealously;  at  length  the  peasantry  joined  him,  and  they 
succeeded  in  saving  two  more  persons  from  certain  death. 

It  is  stated  in  the  '* Conversations,"  that  Byron  was 
engaged  in  several  duels,  —  that  in  one  instance  he  was 
hims4lf  principal  in  an  <<aflfair  of  honour"  with  Hob- 
house,  —  and  would  have  been  so  in  another  with  Moore, 
if  the  Bard  of  Erin's  challenge  bad  been  properly  for- 
warded to  him. 

On  the  2d  of  Jannary,  1815,  Lord  Byron  married ,  at 
Seaham,  in  the  county  of  Durham,  Anne  Isabella^,  only 
daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Mi^banke  (since  Noel),  Bart.  To 
this  lady  he  had  made  a  proposal  twelve  months  before, 
but  was  rejected :  well  would  it  have  been  for  their 
mutual  happiness  had  that  rejection  been  repeated.  After 


their  marriage.  Lord  and  Lady  Byron  took  a  house  in 
London;  gave  splendid  diuner-parties ;  kept  separate  ; 
carriages;  and,  in  short,  hiunched  into  every  sort  of 
fashionable  extravagance.  This  could  not  last  long;  (be 
portion  which  his  lordship  had  received  with  Miss  Mil* 
banke  (ten  thousand  pounds)  soon  melted  away ;  and,  tt  ; 
length,  an  execution  was  actually  levied  on  the  furniture  ^ 
of  his  residence.  It  was  then  agreed  that  Lady  Byroa, 
who,  on  the  10th  of  December,  1815,  had  presented  her 
'lord  with  a  daughter,  should  pay  a  visit  to  her  fattier  tiU 
the  storm  was  blown  over,  and  some  arrangements  had 
been  made  with  their  creditors.  From  that  visit  she  never 
returned,  and  a  separation  ensued,  for  which  variou 
reasons  have  been  assigned ;  the  real  cause  or  causes, 
however,  of  that  regretted  event,  are  up  to  this  momeat 
involved  in  mystery,  though,  as  might  be  expected,  a 
wonderful  sensation  was  excited  at  the  time,  and  eveiy 
description  of  contradictory  rumour  was  in  active  cir- 
culation. 

Byron  was  first  introduced  to  Miss  Mil  banke  at  Lady- 
— 's.  Li  going  up  stairs  he  stumbled,  and  remarked  to 
Moore,  who  accompanied  him  that  it  was  a  bad  omea. 
On  entering  the  room,  he  perceived  a  lady  more  simply 
dressed  than  the  rest  sitting  on  a  sofa.  He  asked  Moore 
if  she  was  a  humble  companion  to  any  of  the  ladies.  The 
latter  replied,  "She  is  a  great  heiress;  you'd  better 
marry  her,  and  repair  the  old  place  Newstcad." 

The  following  anecdotes  on  the  subject  of  this  unfor- 
tunate marriage  are  given  from  Lord  Byron's  Conver- 
sations, in  his  own  words: 

"There  was  something  piquant ,  and  what  we  term 
Dretty,  in  Miss  Milbanke ;  her  features  were  small  and 
reminine,  though  not  regular;  she  had  the  fairest  skin 
imaginable;  her  figure  was  perfect  for  her  height,  and 
there  was  a  simplicity,  a  retired  modesty  about  her,  whidi 
was  very  characteristic,  and  formed  a  happy  contrast  Id 
the  cold  artificial  formality  and  studied  stifi'ness  which  is 
called  fashion:  she  interested  me  exceedingly.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  detail  the  progress  of  our  acquaintance:  I 
became  daily  more  attached  to  her,  and  it  ended  in  my 
making  her  a  proposal  that  was  rejected;  her  refnsal  iras 
couched  in  terms  that  could  not  ofi'end  me,  I  was  besidet 
persuaded  that  in  declining  my  ofier  she  was  governed 
by  the  influence  of  her  mother ;  and  was  the  more  con- 
firmed in  this  opinion  by  her  reviving  our  correspondence 
herself  twelve  mouths  after.  Thetenour  of  her  letter  was, 
that  although  she  could  not  love  me.  she  desired  my 
friendship.  Friendship  is  a  dangerous  word  for  young 
ladies;  it  is  love  full-fledged,  and  waiting  for  a  fine  day 
to  fly. 

"I  was  not  so  young  when  my  father  died,  bat  that  I : 
perfectly  remember  him,  and  had  very  early  a  horror  of  , 
matrimony  from  the  sight  of  domestic  broils:  this  Item- 
ing came  over  me  very  strongly  at  my  wedding.  Some* 
thing  whispered  me  that  I  was  sealing  my  own  death- 
warrant.  I  am  a  great  believer  in  presentiments ;  Socrates' 
demon  was  not  a  fiction ;  Monk  Lewis  had  his  monitor; 
and  Napoleon  many  warnings.  At.  the  last  moment  I 
would  have  retreated  if  I  could  have  done  so;  I  called  to 
mind  a  friend  of  mine,  who  had  married  a  young,  beanti-^ 
ful,  and  rich  girl,  and  yet  was  miserable ;  he  had  strongly 
urged  me  against  putting  my  neck  in  the  same  yoke :  and, 
to  sliow  you  how  firmly  I  was  resolved  to  attend  to  hit 
advice,  I  betted  Hay  fifty  guineas  to  one  that  I  should 
always  remain  single.  Six  years  afterwards  I  sent  hiiBii 
the  money.  The  day  before  I  proposed  to  Lady  Byron,  1 
had  no  idea  of  doing  so. 

"It  had  been  preaieted  by  Mrs.  Williams,  that  twenty* 
seven  was  to  be  a  dangerous  age  for  me;  the  fortune^ 
tetKng  witdi  was  right,it  was  destined  to  prove  so.  I  shaH 
never  forget  the  2d  of  January !  Lady  Byron  (Byrn,  h(f  ' 
pronounced  it)  was  the  only  unconcerned  person  presentt 
Lady  Noel,  her  mother,  cried;  I  trembled  like  a  leaf,-  ^ 
made  the  wrong  responses ,  and ,  after  the  ceremonTt 
called  her  Miss  Milbanke.  ' 


LAKB'8  LIFB  OF.  LORD  BYRON. 


XI 


'there  is  a  aii^ar  history  attached  to  the  ring;  the 

I    tery  day  the  matcli  was  ooacluded,  a  ring  of  my  mother's 

;    thatbad  been  lost  was  dug  up  by  thegardener  at  Newstead. 

Ithoi^t  it  was  sent  on  purpose  for  the  wedding;  but 

my  fliother's  oiarriage  bad  not  been  a  fortunate  one,  and 

this  ring  was  doomed  to  be  the  seal  of  an  unhappier 

I    anion  stilL 

^'After  the  ordeal  was  over,  we  set  off  for  a  country- 
seat  of  Sir  Ralph's,  and  I  was  surprised  at  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  journey,  and  somewhat  out  of  humour  to 
find  a  lady's  maid  stuck  between  me  and  my  bride.  It 
vas  rather  too  early  to  assume  the  husband,  so  I  was 
fiMced  to  submit,  but  it  was  not  with  a  very  good  graces 

''I  have  been  accused  of  saying,  on  getting  into  the 
carriage,  that  I  had  married  liady  Byron  out  of  spite,  and 
becauise  she  had  refused  me  twice.  Though  I  was  for  a 
BMHoent  vexed  at  her  prudery ,  or  whatever  it  may  be 
called,  if  I  had  made  so  uncavalier,  not  to  say  brutal,  a 
jpeech,  I  am  convinced  Lady  Byron  would  instantly 
bave  Idft  the  carriage  to  me  and  the  maid  (I  mean  the 
iadj's);  she  had  spirit  enough  to  have  done  so,  and 
vottld  properly  have  resented  the  affront. 

**Oui  honey-moon  was  not  all  sunshine,  it  had  its 
douds;  and  Hobhouse  has  some  letters  which  would 
lerve  to  explain  the  rbe  and  fall  in  the  barometer;  but 
it  was  never  down  at  zero. 

*'A  curious  tiling  happened  to  me  shortly  after  the 
honey-moon,  which  was  very  awkward  at  the  time,  but 
has  since  amused,  me  much.  It  so  happened  tiiat  three 
married  women  were  on  a  wedding- visit  to  my  wife  (and 
in  the  same  room  at  the  same  time),  whom  I  had  known 
to  be  all  birds  of  the  same  nest  Fancy  the  scene  of  con- 
lig»oa  that  ensued. 

**The  world  says  I  married  Miss  Miibanke  for  her 
Jbrtnne,  bei^use  she  was  a  great  heiress.  All  I  have  ever 
reouved  or  am  likely  to  receive  (and  that  has  been  twice 
paid  back  too) ,  was  10,000  Lst.  My  own  income  at  this 
period  was  small  and  somewhat  bespoke.  Newstead  was 
a  very  unprofitable  estate,  and  brought  me  in  a  bare 
UOO  Lst.  a  year ;  the  Lancashire  property  was  hampered 
with  a  law-suit,  which  has  cost  me  1 4000  Lst ,  and  is  not 
yet  finished. 

1  heard  afterwards  that  Mrs.  Charlmont  had  been  Uie 
means  of  poisoning  Lady  Noel's  mind  against  me;  that 
she  had  employed  herself  and  others  in  watching  me  in 
London,  and  had  reported  having  traced  me  into  a  house 
io  Pertland- Place.  There  was  one  act  unworthy  of  any 
one  but  such  a  confidante;  I  allude  to  the  breaking  open 
my  writing-desk:  a  book  was  found  in  it  that  did  not  do 
much  credit  to  my  taste  in  literature,  and  some  letters 
from  a  married  woman  with  whom  I  had  been  intimate 
More  my  marriage.  The  use  that  was  made  of  the  latter 
«aiflu>st  unjustifiable,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  the 
breach  of  confidence  that  led  to  their  discovery.  Lady 
^roa  sent  tliem  to  the  husband  of  the  lady,  who  had  the 
good  sense  to  take  no  notice  of  their  contents.  The 
giavcst  accusation  that  has  been  made  against  me  is  that 
of  having  intrigued  with  Mrs.  Mardyn  in  my  own  house, 
iaiRMiiieed  her  to  my  own  table;  there  never  was  a  more 
■tfonnded  calumny.  Being  of  the  Committee  of  Drory- 
Lmie  Theatre,  I  have  no  doubt  that  several  actresses 
called  on  me;  but  as  to  Mrs.  Mardyn,  wbo  was  a  beautiful 
I  mgamn,  and  might  have  been  a  dangerous  visitress,  I  w as 
;  MKcdy  acquainted  (to  speak)  with  her.  I  might  even 
I  BB^  a  more  serious  charge  against-*  --than  employing 
spies  to  watch  suspected  amours.  I  had  been  shut  up  in 
a^arkslreet  in  London  writing  'The  Siege  of  Corinth,' 
aad  had  refused  myself  to  every  one  till  it  was  finished. 
f  1  mas  surprised  one  day  by  a  doctor  and  a  lawyer  almost 
*  themselves  at  the  same  time  into  my  room;  I  did 
haow  till  afterwards  the  real  object  of  their  visit  I 
their  questions  singular^  frivolous,  and  some- 
ifliportoDate,  if  not  impertinent;  but  what  sliould 
ilMe  thought  if  1  had  known  that  they  were  sent  to 
provide  proofs  of  my  insanity  I  I  have  no  doubt  that  my 


answers  to  these  emissaries'  interrogations  were  not  very 
rational  or  consistent,  for  my  imagination  was  heated  by 
other  things;  but  Dr.  Baiilie  could  not  conscientiously 
make  me  out  a  certificate  for  Bedlam,  and  perhaps  the 
lawyer  gave  a  more  fiivourable  report  to  his  employers. 
The  doctor  said  afterwards  he  had  been  told  that  I  always 
looked  down  when  Lady  Byron  bent  her  eyes  on  me,  and 
exliibited  other  symptoms  equally  infallible,  particularly 
those  that  marked  tlie  late  king's  case  so  strongly.  1  do 
not,  however,  tax  Lady  Byron  with  tliis  transaction: 
probably  she  was  not  privy  to  it;  she  was  the  tool  of 
others.  Her  mother  always  detested  me,  she  had  not 
even  the  decency  to  conceal  it  in  her  own  house.  Dining 
one  day  at  Sir  Ralph's  (who  was  a  good  sort  of  man,  and 
of  whom  you  may  form  some  idea,  when  I  tell  you  that 
a  leg  of  mutton  was  always  served  at  his  table,  that  he 
might  cut  the  same  joke  upon  it),  I  broke  a  tooth,  and 
was  in  great  pain,  which  1  could  not  avoid  showing.  'It 
will  do  you  good,'  said  Lady  Noel;  *1  am  glad  of  it !'  — 
I  gave  her  a  look  1 

*<Lady  Byron  had  good  ideas,  but  could  never  express 
them;  wrote  poetry  too,  but  it  was  only  good  by  accident; 
her  letters  were  always  enigmatical,  often  unintelligible. 
She  was  easily  made  the  dupe  of  the  designing,,  for  she 
thought  her  knowledge  of  mankind  infallible.  She  had 
got  some  foolish  idea  of  Madame  de  Stael's  into  her 
head,  that  a  person  may  be  better  known  in  the  first  houi 
than  in  ten  years.  She  had  the  habit  of  drawing  people's 
cliaracters  after  she  had  seen  them  once  or  twice.  She 
wrote  pages  on  pages  about  my  cliaracter ,  but  it  was  as 
unlike  as  possible.  She  was  governed  by  what  she  called 
fixed  rules  and  principles,  squared  mathematically.  She 
would  have  made  an  excellent  wrangler  at  Cambridge. 
It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  she  gave  no  proof  of 
her  boasted  consistency;  first  she  refused  me,  then  she 
accepted  me,  then  she  separated  herself  from  me  —  so 
much  for  consistency.  I  need  not  tell  you  of  the  obloqjiiy 
and  opprobrium  that  were  cast  upon  my  name  when  our 
separation  was  nuide  public ;  I  once  made  a  list  from  the 
journals  of  the  day  of  the  different  worthies,  ancient  and 
modern,  to  whom  I  was  compared:  I  remember  a  few, 
Nero,  Apicius,  Epicurus,  Caligula,  Heliogabalus,  Henry 

the  Eighth,  and  lastly,  the ,  All  my  former  friends, 

even  my  cousin  George  Byron,  who  had  been  brought 
up  with  me,  and  whom  1  loved  as  a  brother,  took  my 
wife's  part:  he  followed  tlie  stream  when  it  was  strongest 
against  me,  and  can  never  expect  any  thing  from  me;  he 
shall  never  touch  a  sixpence  of  mine.  I  was  looked  upon 
as  the  worst  of  husbands,,  tlie  most  abandoned  and 
wicked,  of  men;  and  my  wife  as  a  suffering  angel,  an 
incarnation  of  all  the  virtues  and  perfections  of  the  sex. 
I  was  abused  in  the  public  prints*  made  the  common 
talk  of  private  companies,  hissed  as  I  went  to  the  House 
of  Lords ,  insulted  in  tlie  streets ,  afraid  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  whence  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Mardyn  had  been 
driven  witli  insult  The  Examiner  was  the  only  paper 
that  dared  say  a  word  in  my  defence,  and  Lady  Jersey 
the  only  person  in  the  fashionable  world  that  did  not  look 
upon  me  as  a  monster. 

^'In  addition  to  all  tliese  mortifications,  my  affairs  were 
irretrievably  involved,  and  almost  so  as  to  make  me  what 
tliey  wished.  I  was  compelled  to  part  with  Newstead, 
which  I  never  could  have  ventured  to  sell  in  my  mother's 
lifetime.  As  it  is,  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  having 
done  so,  though  I  am  told  that  the  estate  would  not  now 
bring  half  as  much  as  I  got  for  it:  tliis  does  noiat  all 
reooacile  me  to  liaviag  parted  with  the  old  Abbey.  I  did 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  this  step  but  from  tlie  last 
necessity;  I  had  my  wife's  portion  to  repay,  and  was 
determined  to  add  10,000  Lst  more  of  my  own  to  it, 
whidi  I  did:  I  always  hated  being  in  debt,  and  do  not 
owe  a  guinea.  The  moment  I  had  put  my  affairs  in  train, 
and  inlittle  more  than  eighteen  months  after  my  mar- 
riage, I  left  England,  an  involuntary  exile,  intending  it 
should  be  for  ever. " 


XII 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


Wc  shall  here  avail  ourtelrcs  of  some  observations 
by  a  powerful  and  elegant  critic,  *)  whose  opinions  on 
the  personal  character  of  Lord  Byron,  as  well  as  on  the 
merits  of  his  poems,  are,  from  their  originality,  candour, 
and  keen  discrimination,  of  considerable  weight. 

<*T}ie  charge  against  Lord  Byron,"  says  this  writer, 
'4s,  not  that  he  fell  a  victim  to  excessive  temptations,  and 
a  combination  of  circnmstances,  which  it  required  a  rare 
and  extraordinary  degree  of  virtue,  wisdom,  prudence, 
and  steadiness  to  surmount;  but  that  lie  abandoned  a 
situation  of  uncommon  advantages,  and  fell  weakly, 
pusiilanimously,  and  selfishly,  when  victory  would  have 
been  easy,  and  when  defeat  was  ignominious.  In  reply 
to  this  charge,  I  do  not  deny  that  Lord  Byron  inherited 
some  very  desirable,  and  even  enviable  privileges  in  the 
lot  of  life  which  fell  to  his  share,  f  should  falsify  my  own 
sentiments  if  I  treated  lightly  (he  gift  of  an  ancient  Eng* 
lish  peerage,  and  a  name  of  honour  and  venerable  anti- 
quity ;  but  without  a  fortune  competent  to  that  rank,  it  is 
not  *a  bed  of  roses,'  nay,  it  is  attended  with  many  and 
extreme  difficulties,  and  the  difficulties  arc  exactly  such 
as  a  genius  and  temper  like  Lord  Byron's  were  least  cal- 
culated to  meet  —  at  any  rate  least  calculated  to  meet 
under  the  peculiar  collateral  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed.  His  income  was  very  narrow;  his  Newstead 
property  left  him  a  very  small  disposable  surplus;  his 
Lancashire  property  was,  in  its  condition,  unproductive. 
A  profession,  such  as  the  army,  might  have  lessened,  or 
almost  annihilated  the  difficulties  of  his  peculiar  position ; 
but  probably  bis  lameness  rendered  this  impossible.  He 
seems  to  have  had  a  love  of  independence,  which  was 
noble,  and  probably  even  an  intractability ;  but  this  tem- 
per added  to  his  indisposition  to  bend  and  adapt  himself 
to  his  lot.  A  dull,  or  supple,  or  intriguing^  man,  witliout 
a  single  good  quality  of  head  or  heart,  might  have  ma- 
naged it  much  better;  he  might  have  made  himself  sub- 
servient to  government,  and  wormed  himself  into  some 
lucrative  place;  or  he  might  have  lived  meanly,  con- 
formed himself  stupidly  or  crtngingly  to  all  humours, 
and  been  borne  onward  on  the  wings  of  society  with  little 
personal  expense. 

'*Lord  Byron  was  of  another  quality  and  temperament 
If  the  world  would  not  conform  to  him,  still  less  would 
he  conform  to  the  world.  He  had  all  the  manly,  baronial 
pride  of  his  ancestors,  though  he  had  not  all  their  wealth, 
and  their  means  of  generosity,  hospitality,  and  patronage. 
He  had  the  will,  alas !  without  the  power. 

'<  With  this  temper,  these  feelings,  this  genius,  exposed 
to  a  combination  of  such  untoward  and  trying  circum- 
stances, it  would  indeed  have  been  inimitably  praise- 
worthy, if  Lord  Byron  could  have  been  always  wise, 
prudent,  calm,eorrect,  pure,  virtuous,  and  unassailable  :^ 
if  he  could  have  shown  all  tlie  force  and  splendour  of  his 
mighty  poetical  energies,  without  any  mixture  of  their 
clouds,  their  baneful  lightnings,  or  their  storms:  —  if  he 
could  have  preserved  all  his  sensibility  to  every  kind  and 
noble  passion,  yet  have  remained  placid,  and  unaffected 
by  the  attack  of  any  blameable  emotion ;— that  is,  it  would 
have  been  admirable  if  he  had  been  an  angH^and  not  a  man ! 

<* Unhappily,  the  outrages  he  reiviv(*d,  the  gross 
calumnies  which  were  heaped  upon  him,  even  in  the  time 
of  his  highest  fiivour  with  the  public,  turned  the  delights 
of  his  very  days  of  triumph  to  poison,  and  gave  him  a 
sort  of  moody,  fierce,  and  violent  despair,  which  led  to 
humours,  acts,  and  words,  that  mutually  aggravated  the 
ill  wiWand  the  offences  between  hun  and  his  assaihints. 
There  was  a  daring  spirit  in  his  temper  and  his  talenta, 
which  was  always  inflamed  rather  than  corrected  by 
opposition. 

"In  ttiis  most  unpropitious  state  of  things,  every  thing 
that  went  wrong  was  attributed  to  Lord  Byron,  and. 


♦)  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  Bart  who  has  written  so 
diffusely  and  so  ably  on  Lord  Byron's  genius  and 
character. 


when  once  attributed,  was  assumed  and  argued  upon  as 
an  undeniable  fact  Yet,  to  my  mind,  it  is  quite  clear,  — 
quite  unattended  by  a  particle  of  doubt,  ^  that  in  many 
things  in  which  he  has  been  the  most  blamed,  he  was  the 
absolute  victim  of  misfortune;  that  unpropitious  trains 
of  events  (for  I  do  not  wish  to  shift  the  blame  on  others) 
led  to  explosions  and  consequent  derangements,  wbicb 
no  cold,  prudent  pretender  to  extreme  propriety  and 
correctness  could  have  averted  or  met  in  a  manner  less 
blameable  than  that  in  which  Lord  Byron  met  them. 

**It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  a  character  less  fitted  to  oon- 
ciliate  general  society  by  his  manners  and  habits  tliaa 
that  of  Lord  Byron.  It  is  probable  that  he  could  make 
his  address  and  conversation  pleasing  to  ladies  when  he 
chose  to  please;  but,  to  the  young  dandies  of  fasbioa, 
noble  and  ignoble,  he  must  have  been  very  repulsive:  as 
long  as  he  continued  to  be  the  ton,  —  the  lion, — tiiey  uMy 
have  endured  him  without  opening  their  mouths,  because 
he  had  a  frown  and  a  lash  wbicli  they  were  not  willing  to 
encounter;  but  when  his  back  was  turned,  and  they 
thought  it  safe,  I  do  not  doubt  that  they  burst  out  into 
full  cry !  I  have  heard  complaints  of  his  vanity,  his  pee- 
vishness, his  desire  to  monopolise  distinction,  his  dislike 
of  alt  hobbies  but  his  owu.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
there  may  have  been  some  foundation  for  these  com- 
plaints: 1  am  sorry  for  it  if  there  was;  I  regret  such  little- 
nesses. And  then  another  part  of  the  story  is  probably 
left  untold :  we  hear  nothing  of  the  provocations  given 
hioi;— sly  hints,  curve  of  the  lip,  side-looks,  treacheroiis 
smiles,  Dings  at  poetry,  shrugs  at  noble  authors ,  slang; 
jokes,  idiotic  bets,  enigmatical  appointments,  and  boasts 
of  being  senseless  brutes !  We  do  not  hear  repeated  the 
jest  of  the  glory  of  the  Jew,  that  buys  the  ruined  peer's 
falling  castle;  the  d-d  good  fellow,  that  keeps  the  finest 
stud  and  the  best  hounds  in  the  country  out  of  the  snip- 
pings  and  odds  and  ends  of  his  contract;  antl  the  famous 
good  matcti  that  the  duke's  daughter  is  going  to  make 
with  Dick  Wigly,  the  son  of  the  rich  slave  merchant  at 
Liverpool !  We  do  not  hear  the  clever  dry  j(.*sts  whispered 

round  the  table  by  Mr ,  eldest  son  of  the  new  and  rich 

Lord ,  by  young  Mr ,  only  son  of  Lord  — ,  the 

ex-lords  A.,  B.,  and  C.,  sons  of  the  three  Irish  Union  earls, 
great  borough-holders,  and  the  very  grave  and  sarcastic 

Lord ,  who  believes  that  he  has  the  monopoly  of  all 

the  talents  and  all  the  political  and  legislative  knowledge 
of  the  kingdom,  and  that  a  poet  and  a  bellman  are  only 
fit  to  be  yoked  together. 

''Thus,  then,  was  this  illustrious  and  mighty  poet 
driven  into  exile!  Yes,  driven!  who  would  live  in  a 
country  in  which  he  bad  been  so  used,  even  though  it  was 
Uie  land  of  his  nativity,  the  land  of  a  thousand  noble  an- 
cestors, the  land  of  freedom,  the  land  where  his  head  had 
been  crowned  with  laurels,—  but  where  his  heart  liad 
been  tortured,  where  all  his  most  generous  and  most 
noble  tliouglits  had  been  distorted  and  rendered  ugly, 
and  where  his  slightest  errors  and  indiscretions  had  been 
magnified  into  hideous  crimes." 

Lord  Byron's  own  opinions  on  the  connubial  state  are 
thus  related  by  Captain  Parry:  — 

''Thereare,"8aid  his  lordsbip,*'80  many  undefinable,aad 
nameles8,and  not-to-be  named  causes  of  dislike,aversion, 
and  disgust,  in  the  matrimonial  state,  that  it  is  always 
impossible  for  the  public,  or  the  best  friends  of  the  par* 
ties,  to  judge  between  man  and  wife.  Theirs  is  a  relation 
about  which  nobody  but  themselves  can  form  a  cx>rrect 
idea,  or  have  any  right  to  speaks  As  long  as  ndtlier  party 
commits  gross  injustice  towards  the  other;  as  longas  nei- 
ther the  woman  nor  the  mati  is  guilty  of  any  offence  which 
is  injurious  to  the  community ;  as  long  as  the  husband 
provides  for  his  offspringt  and  secures  the  public  agiunst 
the  dangers  arising  from  their  neglected  education ,  or 
from  the  charge  of  supporting  them ;  by  what  riglit  does  it 
censure  him  for  ceasing  to  dwell  under  the  same  roof  with 
a  wooian,  who  is  to  him,  because  he  knows  her,  wbile 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xm 


others  do  not,  an  objei;t  of  loathings?  Can  any  thing  be 
more  monstroos  than  for  the  public  voice  to  compel 
individuals  who  dislike  each  other  to  continue  their  coba- 
bilation  ?  This  is  at  least  the  effect  of  its  interfering  with 
t  relationship  j  of  which  it  has  no  possible  means  of 
jndging.  It  does  not  indeed  drag  a  man  to  a  woman's  bed 
by  physical  force ;  but  it  docs  exert  a  moral  forceoontinu- 
ally  and  effectively  to  accomplish  the  same  purpose.  No- 
body can  escape  this  force  but  those  who  are  too  high,  or 
those  who  are  too  low,  for  public  opinion  to  reach ;  or 
those  hypocrites  who  are,  before  others,  the  loudest  in 
their  approbation  of  the  empty  and  unmeaning  forms  of 
society,  that  they  may  securely  indulge  all  their  propen- 
Hties  in  secret.  I  have  suffered  amazingly  from  this  inter- 
ftrence ;  for  tliough  I  set  it  at  defiance,  1  was  neither  too 
Ugh  nor  too  low  to  be  reached  by  it,  and  I  was  not  hy- 
pocrite enough  to  guard  myself  from  its  consequences. 

''What  do  they  say  of  my  family-affairs  in  England, 
Parry!  My  story,  I  suppose,  like  other  minor  events, 
laterested  the  people  for  a  day,  and  was  then  foigotteU ;" 
I  replied,  no ;  1  thought,  owing  to  the  very  greatinterest  the 
public  took  in  him,  it  was  still  remembered  and  talked 
about  I  mentioned  that  it  was  generally  supposed  a 
difference  of  religious  sentiments  between  liim  and  Lady 
Byron  had  causMl  the  public  breach.  ''No,  Parry,"  was 
ttie reply;  "Lady  Byron  has  a  liberal  mind,  particularly 
as  to  religions  opinions;  and  I  wish,  when  1  married  her, 
that  1  had  possessed  the  same  command  over  myself  that 
I  now  da  Had  I  possessed  a  litUe  more  wisdom,  and 
more  forbearance,  we  might  have  been  happy.  I  wished, 
when  I  was  first  married,  to  have  remained  in  the  country, 
particularly  till  my  pecuniary  embarrassments  were 
over.  1  knew  tiie  society  of  London;  I  knew  the  cha- 
racters of  many  of  those  who  are  called  ladies,  with  whom 
Lady  Byron  would  necessarily  have  to  associate,  and  1 
dreaded  her  contact  with  them.  But  I  have  too  much  of 
my  mother  about  me  to  be  dictated  to :  I  like  freedom 
from  constraint;  I  hate  artificial  regulations:  my  con- 
*  duct  has  always  been  dictated  by  my  own  feelings;  and 
Lady  Byron  was  quite  the  creature  of  rules.  She  was  not 
permitted  either  to  ride,  or  run,  or  walk,  but  as  the  pliy- 
alctan  prescribed.  She  was  not  suffered  to  go  out  when 
I  wished  to  go ;  and  then  the  old  house  was  a  mere  ghost- 
house;  I  dreamed  of  ghosts,  and  thought  of  them  waking. 
It  was  an  existence  I  could  not  support"  Here  Lord 
Byron  broke  offabrnptiy,  saying,  "I  bate  to  speak  of  ray 
faaily-affiEiirs;  though  1  have  been  compelled  to  talk 
nonsense  concerning  them  to  some  of  my  butterfly  visit- 
ors, glad  on  any  terms  to  get  rid  of  their  importunities. 
Iloogto  be  again  on  the  mountains.  I  am  fond  of  solitude, 
and  should  never  talk  nonsense  if  I  always  found  plain 
'    men  to  talk  to.'* 

In  the  spring  of  1816,  Lord  Byron  quitted  England,  to 
letnra  to  it  no  more.  He  crossed  over  to  France,  through 
whieh  he  passed  rapidly  to  Brussels,  taking  in  his  way 
a  survey  of  the  field  of  Waterloo.  He  then  proceeded  to 
Coblentz,  and  up  the  Rhine  to  Basle.  He  passed  the 
summer  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Geneva.  With  what 
enthusiasm  he  enjoyed,  and  with  what  contemplations  he 
dwelt  among  its  scenery, his  own  poetry  soon  exhibited  to 
ttievrorld.  His  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  his  Manfred, 
and  his  Prisoner  of  Chillon  were  composed  at  the  Cam- 
JMgM  Diodati,  at  Coligny,  a  mile  from  Geneva. 

These  productions  evidently  proved  that  the  nnfor- 
taaate  events  which  had  induced  Lord  Byron  to  become 
a  voluntary  exile  from  tiis  native  land,  however  they 
m^ght  have  exacerbated  his  feelings,  had  in  no  measure 
cMed  his  poetical  fire. 

Tke  anecdotes  that  follow  are  given  as  his  lordship 
irtiifd  them  to  Captain  Medwin : 

'Switzerland  Is  a  country  I  have  been  satisfied  with 

Mciag  once ;  Turkey  I  could  live  in  for  ever.  I  never 

i    ihlipel  my  predilections.  I  was  in  a  wretched  state  of 

I    tr«tth,  and  worse  spirits,  when  I  was  at  Geneva;  but 

I    fmct  aad  the  lake,  physicians  better  than  Polidori,  soon 


set  me  up.  I  never  led  so  moral  a  life  as  during  my  resi- 
dence in  that  country ;  but  I  gained  no  credit  by  it  Where 
tiiere  is  a  mortification,  there  ought  to  be  reward.  On 
the  contrary,  there  is  no  story  so  absurd  that  they  did 
not  invent  at  my  cost  I  was  watched  by  glasses  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  lake,  and  by  glasses  too  that  must 
have  had  very  distorted  optics.  1  was  waylaid  in  my 
evening  drives  —  I  was  accused  of  corrupting  all  tlie^'- 
setteg  in  the  rue  Basse.  I  believe  that  they  looked  upon 
me  as  a  man-monster  worse  than  XUcpiqueur, 

"1  knew  very  few  of  the  Genevese.  Hentsch  was  very 
civil  to  me;  and  I  have  a  great  respect  for  Sismondi.  I 
was  forced  to  return  the  civilities  of  one  of  their  profess- 
ors bv  asking  him,  and  an  old  gentieman,  a  friend  of 
Gray  s,  to  dine  with  me.  I  had  gone  out  to  sail  early  in 
the  morning,  and  the  wind  prevented  me  from  returning 
in  time  for  dinner.  I  understand  that  I  offended  them 
mortally.  Polidori  did  tiie  honours. 

"Among  our  countrymen  I  made  no  new  acquaint- 
ances ;  Shelley,  Monk  Lewis,  and  Hobhouse  were  almost 
the  only  English  people  I  satv.  No  wonder;  I  showed  a 
distaste  for  society  at  that  time,  and  went  littie  among 
the  Genevese;  besides,  I  could  not  speak  French.  What 
is  become  of  my  boatman  and  boat?  I  suppose  she  is 
rotten;  she  was  never  worth  much.  When  I  went  the 
tour  of  the  lake  in  her  with  Shelley  and  Hobhouse,  she 
was  nearly  wrecked  near  the  very  spot  where  Saint- 
Preux  and  Julia  were  in  danger  of  being  drowned.  It 
would  have  been  classical  to  have  been  lost  there,  but 
not  so  agreeable.  Shelley  was  on  the  lake  much  oitener 
than  I,  at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  day :  he  almost  lived 
on  it;  his  great  rage  is  a  boat  We  are  both  building  now 
at  Genoa,  I  a  yacht,  and  he  an  open  boat 

"Somebody  possessed  Madame  de  Stael  with  an  opi- 
nion of  my  immorality.  I  used  occasionally  to  visit  her  at 
Coppet;  and  once  she  invited  me  to  a  family-dinner, 
and  1  found  the  room  full  of  strangers,  who  had  come  to 
stare  at  me  as  at  some  outlandish  beast  in  a  raree-show. 
One  of  the  ladies  fointed,  and  the  rest  looked  as  if  his 
satanio  majesty  had  been  among  them.  Madame  de 
Stael  took  the  liberty  to  read  me  a  lecture  before  this 
crowd,  to  which  I  only  made  her  a  low  bow." 

His  lordship's  travelling  equipage  was  rather  a  sin- 
gular one,  and  afforded  a  strange  catalogue  for  the  Do- 
gana :  seven  servants,fi ve  carriages,nine  horses,  a  monkey, 
a  bull-dog  and  mastiff,  two  cats,  three  pea-fowls  and  some 
hens  (I  do  not  know  wheUier  I  have  classed  them  in 
order  of  rank),  formed  part  of  his  live  stock ;  these,  and 
all  his  books,  consisting  of  a  very  large  library  of  mo- 
dern works  (for  he  bought  all  the  best  that  came  out), 
together  with  a  vast  quantity  of  furniture,  might  well  be 
termed,  with  Ctesar,  'impediments." 

From  about  the  commencement  of  the  year  1817  to 
that  of  1820,  Lord  Byron's  principal  residence  was  Venice. 
Here  he  continued  to  employ  himself  in  poetical  compo- 
sition witii  an  energy  still  increasing.  He  wrote  the  La- 
ment of  Tasso ,  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  the 
dramas  of  Marino  Faliero,  and  the  Two  Foscari;  Beppo, 
Mazeppa,  and  the  earlier  cantos  of  Don  Juan. 

Considering  these  only  with  regard  to  intellectual  acti- 
vity and  force,  there  can  be  no  ditt'erence  of  opinion ; 
though  there  may  be  as  to  their  degree  of  poetical  ex- 
cellence, the  class  in  the  scale  of  literary  merit  to  which 
they  belong,  and  their  moral,  religious,and  political  tend- 
encies. The  Lament  of  Tasso ,  which  in  every  line 
abounds  in  the  most  perfect  poetry,  is  liable  to  no  coun- 
tervailing objection  on  the  part  of  the  moralist 

In  the  third  canto  of  the  "Pilgrimage,"  the  discontented 
and  repining  spirit  of  Harold  had  already  beoome  much 
softened: 

Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  fecc,        [grace. 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  tranquil 

He  is  a  being  of  still  gentler  mould  in  the  fourth  canto; 
his  despair  has  even  sometimes  assumed  a  smitingncss» 


XIV 


JLAKE'S  UFB  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


and  tbe  loYely  and  Ihrelj  creations  of  the  poel*s  brain  are 
less  paiofully  alloyed,  and  less  suddenly  checked  by  tbe 
gloomy  visions  of  a  morbid  imagination.  He  represented 
himself,  from  tlie  beginning,  as  a  ruin;  and  when  we  first 
gazed  upon  him,  we  saw  indeed  in  abundance  the  black 
traces  of  recent  violence  and  convulsion.  The  edifice  wajs 
not  rebuilt;  but  its  hues  were  softened  by  the  passing 
ivings  of  Time,  and  the  calm  slow  ivy  had  found  leisure 
to  wreath  the  soft  green  of  its  melancholy  among  the 
fragments  of  the  decay.  In  so  facUiie  pilgrim  became 
wiser,  as  he  seemed  to  think  more  of  others  and  with  a 
greater  spirit  of  humanity.  There  was  something  liendish 
in  the  air  with  which  he  surveyed  the  first  scene  of  his 
vvanderings;  and  no  proof  of  the  strength  of  genius  was 
ever  exhibited  so  strong  and  unquestionable  as  the  sud- 
den and  entire  possession  of  the  minds  of  men  by  such  a 
being  as  he  then  appeared  to  be.  He  looked  upon  a  bull- 
fight and  a  field  of  battle  with  no  variety  of  emotion. 
Brutes  and  men  were,  injiiscyes,  the  same  blijodj  stupid 
victims  of  the  savage  lust  of  pdlrcr.  He  seemed  to  shut 
liiseyes  to  every  thing  of  that'citizenship  and  patriotism 
which  ennobles  the  spirit  0fthr~sT»tdtm7~and  to  4e4ight  in 
scattering  the  dusfand  aslies  of  bis'derision  over  ail  the 
most  sacred  resting-places  of  tbe  son!  of  man.  Even  then* 
we  must  allow,  the  original  spirit  of  the  Bnglishman  and 
the  poet  broke  triumphantly,  at  times,  tlirough  the  chill- 
ing mist  in  which  it  bad  been  spontaneously  enveloped. 
In  Greece,  above  all,  the  contemplation  of  Actium,  Sala- 
mis,  Maratlion,  Thermopyhe,  and  Platea,  subdued  tbe 
prejudices  of  him  ivho  had  gazed  unmoved,  or  with  dis- 
dain, upon  fields  of  more  recent  ^|lOnF«—¥iie.itQbUity  of 
manhood  appeared  to  delight  this  moody_yi8itant ;  and 
he  accorded,  without  reluctance,  to  the  sliades  of  long 
departed  heroes  tliat  reverent  homage  which ,  in  the 
strange  mixture  of  envy  and  scorn  wherewith  the  coutenv* 
plati  ve  so  often  regard  active  men,  he  had  refused  to  the 
living,  or  to  the  newly  dead. 

But  there  would  be  no  end  of  descanting  on  the  cha- 
racter of  the  Pilgrim,  nor  of  the  moral  reflections  which 
it  awakens;  we  tiierefore  take  leave  of  Childe  Harold  in 
his  own  beaatifol  language : 

Farewell!  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  -^ 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger;  —  yet,  farewell  I 
Ye  I  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell; 
Farewell!        •♦♦♦♦• 


Alas!  we  must  now  say  farewell  ''for  ever." 

Manfred  was  the  first  of  Lord  Byron's  dramatic  poems, 
and,  we  tliink,  the  finest  The  spirit  of  his  genius  seems 
there  wrestling  with  the  spirit  of  his  nature,  the  struggle 
being  for  the  palm  of  sublimity.  Manfred  has  always  ap- 
peared to  us  one  of  the  most  genuine  creations  of  the 
noble  bard's  mind.  The  melancholy  is  more  heartfelt; 
the  poet  does  not  here  seem  to  scow  1  his  brows,  but  they 
drop  under  the  weight  of  his  thoughts;  his  intelk:ct,  too, 
is  strongly  at  work  in  it,  and  the  stern  haughtiness  of  tlie 
principal  character  is  altogether  of  an  intellectual  cast: 
tlie  conception  of  this  character  is  Miltonic.  The  poet 
has  made  him  worthy  to  abide  amongst  tiiose  ^'palaces 
of  nature,''  those  ''icy  halls,"  "where  forms  and  fall^  tlie 
avalanche."  Manfred  stands  up  against  the  stupendous 
scenery  of  the  poem,  and  is  as  lofty,  towering  and  grand 
as  the  mountains:  when  we  picture  him  in  imagination 
be  assumes  a  shape  of  height  and  independent  dignity, 
shining  in  its  own  splendour  amongst  the  snowy  summits 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  climb.  The  passion,  too,  in 
this  compositi<Ai,  is  fervid  and  impetuous,  but  at  the 
same  time  deep  and  full,  which  is  not  always  the  case  in 
Byron's  productions;  itis  serious  and  sinoeretliroHghout. 


The  music  of  tiie  lan^ageia  as  solemn  and  as  touclungas 

that  of  the  wind  coming  through  the  bending  ranks  of  the 
inaccessible  Alpine  forests;  and  tlie  mists  and  vapours 
rolling  down  the  gullies  and  ravines  that  yawn  horribly  ; 
on  tlie  eye,  are  not  more  wild  and  striking  in  their  ap* 
pearance  than  are  the  supernatural  creations  of  the  poet's  ' 
fancy,  whose  magical  agency  is  of  mighty  import,  but  is 
nevertheless  continually  surmounted  by  the  iiigh  intel- 
lectual power,  invincible  will,  and  intrepid  philosophy 
of  Maui'red. 

The  first  idea  of  the  descriptive  passages  of  this 
beautiful  poem  will  be  easily  recognised  in  the  folio  wiog 
extract  from  Lord  Byron's  travelling -memorandum* 
book. 

'*Sept  22, 18ia  Left  Tbun  in  a  boat,  which  carried  us 
the  length  of  this  lake  in  three  hours.  The  lake  small,  but  * 
the  banks  fine — rooks  down  to  the  water's  edge — landed 
at  New  house.  Passed  Interlacken— entered  upon  a  range 
of  scenes  beyond  all  description  or  previous  conception. 
Passed  a  rock  bearing  an  inscription  —  two  brothers  — 
one  murdered  the  other  —  just  the  place  for  it  After  a 
variety  of  windings  came  to  an  enormous  rock —arrived 
at  tbe  foot  of  the  mountain  (the  Jungfrau)  —  glaciers  — . 
torrents  —  one  of  these  900  feet  visible  descent  —  lodge 
at  the  curate's  —  set  out  to  see  the  valley  -—  heard  an 
avalanche  fiaill,  like  thunder! — ^glaciers  enormous — storm 
comes  on  —  thunder  and  lightning,  and  hail !  all  in  per- 
fection and  beautiful.  The  torrent  is  in  shapes  curving 
over  the  rock,  like  the  tail  of  the  white  horse  streaming 
in  the  wind  —  just  as  might  be  conceived  would  be  that 
of  the  *Pale  Horse,'  on  which  Death  is  mounted  in  the 
Apocalypse.  It  is  neitlier  mist  nor  water,  but  a  sonie* 
thing  between  both ;  its  immense  height  gives  it  a  wave, 
a  curve,  a  spreading  here,  a  oondension  there— wonder- 
ful —  indescribable. 

"^ept.  23.  Ascent  of  the  AVingren,  the  Dent  d^argent 
shitting  like  truth  on  one  side,  on  the  other  the  clouds 
rose  from  the  opposite  valley,  curling  up  perpendicular 
precipices,  like  the  foam  of  the  ocean  of  hell  during  a 
spring  tide!  It  was  white  and  sulphury,  and  immeasu*  ' 
rably  deep  in  appearance.  The  side  we  ascended  was  of 
course  not  of  so  precipitous  a  nature,  but  on  arriving  at 
the  summit  we  looked  down  on  the  other  side  upon  a 
boiling  sea  of  cloud,  dashing  against  tlie  crag  on  which 
we  stood.  Arrived  at  the  Grecnderwold;  mounted  and 
rode  to  the  higher  glacier  —  twilight,  but  distinct  —  very 
fine — glacier  Kke  a  frozen  hurricane—  starlight  beauti- 
ful—  the  whole  of  the  day  was  fine,  and,  in  point  of 
weather,  as  the  day  in  which  Paradise  was  made.  Passed 
whole  woods  of  witliered  pines  —  all  withered  —  trunks 
stripped  and  lifeless  —  done  by^a  single  winter." 

Of  Lord  B^'ron's  tragedies  we  shall  merely  remark, 
with  reference  to  the  particular  nature  of  their  tragic  cha- 
racter, tliat  the  effect  of  them  all  is  rather  grand,  terrible, 
and  terrific,  than  mollifying,  subduing,  or  pathetic  As 
dramadc  poems  they  possess  much  beauty  and  originality. 

The  style  and  nature  of  tbe  poem  of  Don  Juan  forms  a 
singularly  felicitous  mixture  of  burlesque  and  pathos,  of 
humorous  observation  and  the  higher  elements  of  poetical 
composition.  Never  was  the  English  language  festooned 
into  more  luxurious  stanzas  than  in  Don  Juan:  like  the 
dolphin  sporting  in  its  native  waves,  at  every  turn, 
however  grotesque,  displaying  a  new  hue  and  a  new 
beauty,  so  tbe  noble  author  there  shows  an  absolute 
control  over  his  means,  and  at  every  cadence,  rhyme,  or 
construction,  however  whimsical,  delights  us  with  novel 
and  magical  associations.  We  wish,  we  heartily  wish,  that 
the  fine  poetry  which  is  so  richly  scattered  through  the 
sixteen  cantos  of  tliis  most  ordinal  and  most  astonish- 
ing production,  bad  not  been  mixed  up  with  very  much 
that  is  equally  frivolous  as  foolish;  and  sincerely  do  we 
regret,  that  the  alloying  dross  of  sensuality  should  run  so 
freely  through  the  otherwise  rich  yein  of  the  author's 
verse. 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BTRON. 


XV 


Whilst  at  Venice,  Byron  displayed  a  most  noble  in- 
stSBce  of  gpenerosity .  The  house  of  a  shoemaker,  near  his 
lordship's  residence  in  St  Samuel,  was  burnt  to  the 
groond,  with  every  article  it  contained,  and  the  proprietor 
reduced  with  a  larj^e  family  to  the  greatest  indigence  and 
waaL  When  Lord  Byron  ascertained  the  afflicting  cir- 
eaiBStances  of  that  calamity,  he  not  only  ordered  a  new 
and  superior  habitation  to  be  immediately  built  for  the 
suflerer,  the  whole  expense  of  which  was  borne  by  his 
lordship,  but  also  presented  the  unfortunate  tradesman 
with  a  sum  equal  in  value  to  the  whole  of  his  lost  stock 
in  trade  and  furniture. 

Lord  Byron  avoided  as  much  as  possible  any  inter- 
coarse  with  his  countrymen  at  Venice;  this  seems  to 
have  been  in  a  great  measure  necessary,  in  order  to  pre- 
Vfnt  the  intrusion  of  impertinent  curiosity.  In  an  appen- 
da  to  one  of  his  poems,  written  with  reference  to  a  book 
of  travels,  the  author  of  whidi  disclaimed  any  wish  to  be 
ifitrodnced  to  the  noble  lord,  he  loftily  and  sarcastically 
ckutises  the  incivility  of  such  a  gratuitous  declaration, 
eipresses  hi^  ^utter  abhorrence  of  any  contact  with  the 
bavelfing  English ;"  and  thus  concludes :  "Except  Lords 
Laosdowlie,  Jersey,  and  Lauderdale,  Messrs.  Scott, 
Hammond,  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  the  late  Mr.  Lewis, 
W.Bankes^M.Hoppner,  Thomas  Moore,  Lord  Kionaird, 
his  brother,  Mr.  Joy,  and  Mr.  Hobhouse,  I  do  not  recol- 
lect to  have  exchanged  a  word  with  another  Englishman 
siDoe  I  left  their  country,  and  almost  all  these  1  had  known 
before.  The  others,  and  God  knows  there  were  some 
hnadreds,  who  bored  me  with  letters  or  visits,  I  refused 
to  have  any  eommunication  with ;  and  shall  be  proud  and 
loppy  when  that  wish  becomes  mutual.'^ 

After  a  residence  of  three  years  at  Venice,  Lord  Byron 
removed  to  Ravenna,  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1819. 
Here  he  wrote  the  Prophecy  of  Dante,  which  exhibited  a 
new  specimen  of  the  astonishing  variety  of  strength  and 
expansion  of  faculties  he  possessed  and  exercised.  About 
fliesaafietimehe  wrote  Sardanapalus,  a  tragedy;  Cain, 
a  mystery;  and  Heaven  and  Eartli,  a  mystery.  Though 
there  are  some  obvious  reasons  which  render  Sardana- 
palus unfit  for  the  Bnglish  stage,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
nrast  splendid  specimen  which  our  language  affords  of 
that  species  of  tragedy  which  was  tlic  exclusive  object  of 
Lord  Byron's  admiration.  Cain  is  one  of  the  productions 
whidi  has  subjected  its  noble  author  to  tlie  severest  de- 
uiDciations,  on  account  of  the  crime  of  impiety  alleged 
against  it;  as  it  seems  to  have  a  tendency  to  call  in 
question  the  benevolence  of  Providence.  In  answer  to  the 
lond  and  general  outcry  which  this  production  occa- 
sioned. Lord  Byron  observed,  in  a  letter  to  his  publisher, 
'^  *Cain'  be  blasphemous,  ^Paradise  Lost'  is  blaspiie- 
moQS,  and  the  words  of  the  Oxford  gentleman^  *£vil,  be 
thou  my  good',  arc  from  that  very  poem  from  the  mouth 
of  Satan;  and  is  there  any  thing  more  in  that  of  Lucifer 
iu  the  mystery?  *Caiu'  is  nothing  more  than  a  drama,  not 
apiece  of  argument:  if  Lucifer  and  Cain  speak  as  tlie 
lint  rebel  and  first  murderer  may  be  supposed  to  speak, 
nearly  alt  the  rest  of  the  personages  talk  also  according 
toQieir  characters;  and  the  stronger  passions  have  ever 
been  permitted  to  the  drama.  I  have  avoided  introducing 
ftc  Deity  as  in  Scripture,  though  Milton  does,  and  not 
very  wisely  eitlier :  but  have  adopted  his  angel  as  sent  to 
Cain  instead,  on  purpose  to  avoid  shocking  any  feelings 
OB  the  subject,  by  falling  short  of  what  all  uninspired  men 
mast  &11  short  iu,  viz.  giving  an  adequate  notion  of  the 
eftctofthe  presence  of  Jehovah.  The  old  mysteries  in- 
troduced him  liberally  enough,  and  all  this  I  avoided  in 
te  new  one." 

As  event  occurred  at  Kavenna  during  his  lordship's 
IliT  there,  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  him,  and  to 
wilch  he  alludes  in  the  fifth  canto  of  Don  Juan.  The  mi- 
Any  commandant  of  the  place,  who,  though  suspected 
of  bdng  secretly  a  Carbonaro,  was  too  powerful  a  man  to 
i  heftrr»ted,  was  assassinated  opposite  to  Lord  Byron's 
'    faboe.  His  lordship  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  at  the 


usual  hour  of  exercise,  when  his  horse  started  at  the 
report  of  a  gun:  on  looking  i^p.  Lord  Byron  perceived  a 
man  throw  down  a  carbine  and  run  away  at  full  speed, 
and  another  man  stretched  upon  the  pavement  a  few 
yards  from  himself;  it  was  the  unhappy  commandant. 
A  crowd  was  soon  collected,  but  no  one  ventured  to  offer 
the  least  assistance.  Lord  Byron  directed  his  servant  to 
lift  up  the  bleeding  body,  and  carry  it  into  his  palace; 
though  it  was  represented  to  him  that  by  doing  so  he 
would  confirm  the  suspicion,  which  was  already  enter-* 
tained^  of  his  belonging  to  the  same  party.  Such  an  ap- 
prehension could  have  no  effect  on  Byron's  mind  when 
an  act  of  humanity  was  to  be  performed;  he  assisted  in 
bearing  the  victim  of  assassination  into  the  house,  and 
patting  Mm  on  a  bed.  He  was  already  dead  from  several 
wounds :  **he  appeared  to  have  breathed  his  last  without 
a  struggle,^'  said  his  lordship,  when  afterwards  recount- 
ing the  aflair.  *'I  never  saw  a  countenance  so  calm.  His 
adjutant  followed  the  corpse  into  the  house;  I  remember 
his  lamentation  over  him :— *Povcro  diavolo  I  non  aveva 
fatta  male,  anch^  adun  cane.' "  The  following  were  the 
noble  writer's  poetical  reflexions  (in  Don  Juan)  on  view- 
ing the  dead  body: 

— "  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  gazed  the  same) 

To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death. 

Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  failh ; 

But  it  was  all  a  mystery:  —  here  we  are. 

And  there  we  go:  —  but  where?  Five  bits  of  lead, 

Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far ! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed? 

Can  every  element  our  elements  mar? 

And  air,  earth,  water,  fire,  —  live,  and  we  dead  ? 

We  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things  ?  —  No  more : 

But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before." 

That  a  being  of  such  glorious  capabilities  should  abs- 
tractedly, and  without  an  attempt  to  tlirow  the  respon- 
sibility on  a  fictitious  personage,  have  avowed  such  start- 
ling doubts,  was  a  daring  which,  whatever  might  then 
have  been  his  private  opinion,  he  ought  not  to  have 
hazarded* 

"It  is  difficult,"  observes  Captain  Med  win,  "to  judge, 
from  the  contradictory  nature  of  his  writings,  what  the 
religious  opinions  of  Lord  Byron  really  were.  From  the 
conversations  I  held  with  him,  on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  if  he  were  occasionally  sceptical,  and  thought 
it,  as  he  says  in  Don  Juan, 

"A  pleasant  voyage,  perhaps,  to  float 

Like  Pyrrho,  in  a  sea  of  speculation." 
yet  his  wavering  never  amounted  to  a  disbelief  in  the 
divine  Founder  of  Christianity." 

"Calling  on  him  one  day,"  continues  the  Captain,  "we 
found  him,  as  was  sometimes  tlie  case,  silent,  dull,  and 
sombre.  At  length  he  said:  'Here  is  a  little  book  some- 
body has  sent  me  about  Christianity,  that  has  made  me 
very  uncomfortable;  the  reasoning  seems  to  me  very 
strong,  the  proofs  are  very  staggering,  I  don't  think  you 
can  answer  it,  Shelley,  at  least  I  am  sure  I  can't,  and 
what  is  more,  I  don't  wish  it.' 

"Speaking  of  Gibbon,  Lord  Byron  said:  *L— B 

thought  the  question  set  at  rest  in  tlie  History  of  the  De- 
cline and  Fall,  but  I  am  not  so  easily  convinced.  It  is  not 
a  matter  of  volition  to  unbclieve.  Who  likes  to  own  that 
he  has  ben  a  fool  all  his  life,  —  to  unlearn  all  that  he  has 
been  taught  in  his  youth,  or  can  think  that  some  of  the 
best  men  that  ever  lived  have  been  fools?  I  don't  know 
why  I  am  considered  an  unbeliever.  I  disowned  the  other 
day  that  I  was  of  Shelley's  school  in  metaphysics,  though 
I  admired  his  poetry;  not  but  that  he  has  changed  his 
mode  of  thinking  very  much  since  he  wrote  the  notes  to 
"Queen  Mab,"  which  I  was  accused  of  having  a  hand  in. 
I  know,  however,  that  I  am  considered  an  infidel.  My 
wife  and  sister,  when  they  joined  parties, sent  me  prayer- 
books.  There  was  a  Mr.  Mulock,  who  went  about  the 
continent  preaching  orthodoxy  in  politics  and  religion, 


XVI 


LAKJfi'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


a  writer  of  bad  sonnets^  and  a  lecturer  in  worse  prose,  — 
he  tried  to  convert  me  to  some  new  sect  of  Christianity. 
He  was  a  ^reat  anti-materialist,  and  abused  Locke.' 

•*On  another  occasion  he  said:  *I  have  just  received  a 
letter  from  a  Mr.  Sheppard,  inclosing  a  prayer  made  for 
my  welfare  by  his  wife  a  few  days  before  her  death.  The 
letter  states  that  he  has  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  this 
amiable  woman,  who  had  seeu  me  at  Ramsgate,  many 
years  ago,  rambling  among  the  clifl's;  that  she  had  been 
impressed  with  a  sense  of  my  irreligion  from  the  tenour 
of  my  works,  and  had  often  prayed  fervently  for  my  con- 
version, particularly  in  her  last  moments.  The  prayer  is 
beautifully  written.  I  like  devcition  in  women.  IShc  must 
have  been  a  divine  creature.  I  pity  the  man  who  has  lost 
her!  1  shall  write  to  him  by  return  of  the  courier,  to  con- 
dole with  him,  and  tell  him  that  Mrs.  S.  need  not  have 
entertained  any  concern  for  my  spiritual  aliairs,  for  that 
no  man  it  more  of  a  ckrittian  than  I  am,  whatever  my 
writings  may  have  led  her  and  others  to  suspect'  " 

We  have  give^  the  above  extracts  from  a  sense  of 
justice  to  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron;  they  are  redeem- 
ing and  consolatory  evidences  that  his  heart  was  far 
from  being  sheathed  in  unassailable  scepticism,  and,  as 
such,  ought  not  to  be  omitted  in  a  preface  to  his  works. 

In  the  autumn  of  1821,  the  noble  bard  removed  to  Pisa, 
in  Tuscany.  He  took  up  his  residence  there  in  the  Lan- 
franchi  palace,  and  engaged  in  an  intrigue  with  the  beauti- 
ful Guiocioli,  wife  of  the  Count  of  that  name,  which  con- 
nexion, with  more  tlian  his  usual  constancy,  he  main- 
tained for  nearly  three  years,  during  which  period  the 
Countess  was  separated  from  her  husband,  on  an  appli- 
cation from  the  latter  to  the  Pope. 

The  following  is  a  sketch  of  this  ''fair  enchantress,''  as 
taken  at  the  time  the  liaison  was  formed  between  her  and 
Byron.  **  The  Countess  is  twenty-three  years  of  age, 
though  she  appears  no  more  than  seventeen  or  eighteen. 
Unlike  most  of  the  Italian  women,  her  complexion  is  de- 
licately fair.  Her  eyes,  large,  dark,  and  languishing,  are 
shaded  by  the  longest  eye-lashes  in  the  world,  and  her 
hair,  which  is  ungathered  on  her  head,  plays  over  her 
falling  shoulders  in  a  profusion  of  natural  ringlets  of  the 
darkest  auburn.  Her  figure  is,  perhaps,  too  much  embon- 
point for  her  height;  but  her  bust  is  perfect  Her  features 
want  little  of  possessing  a  Grecian  regularity  of  outline; 
and  she  has  the  most  beautiful  mouth  and  teeth  imagi- 
nable. It  is  impossible  to  see  without  admiring  -  to  hear 
tlie  Guiccioli  speak  without  being  fascinated.  Her  ama- 
bility  and  gentleness  show  themselves  in  every  intonation 
of  her  voice,  which,  and  the  music  of  her  perfect  Italian, 
gives  a  peculiar  charm  to  every  thing  she  utters.  Grace 
and  elegance  seem  component  parts  of  her  nature.  Not- 
withstanding that  she  adores  Lord  Byron,  it  is  evident 
that  the  exile  and  poverty  of  her  aged  father  sometimes 
affect  her  spirits,  and  throw  a  shade  of  melancholy  on 
her  countenance  which  adds  to  the  deep  interest  this 
lovely  woman  creates.  Her  conversation  is  lively  without 
being  learned;  she  has  read  all  the  best  authors  of  her 
own  and  the  French  language.  She  often  conceals  what 
she  knows,  from  the  fear  of  being  thought  to  know  too 
much,  possibly  from  being  aware  that  Lord  Byron  was 
not  fond  o(  blues.  He  is  certainly  very  much  attached  to 
her ,  without  being  actually  in  love.  His  description  of 
the  Georgioni  in  the  Manfrini  palace  at  Venice  is  meant 
for  the  Countess.  The  beautiful  sonnet  prefixed  to  the 
'Prophecy  of  Dante'  was  addressed  to  her." 

The  lines,  written  by  Byron  when  he  was  about  to  quit 
Venice  to  join  the  Countess  at  Ravenna  (See  p.  d91.) 
show  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  that  time. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  more  unvaried  life  than 
Lord  Byron  led  at  this  period  in  the  society  of  a  few 
select  friends.  Billiards,  conversation,  or  reading,  tilled 
up  the  intervals  till  it  was  time  to  take  the  evening-drive, 
ride,  and  pistol-practice.  ^ 

He  dined  at  half  an  hour  after  sun-set,  then  drove  to 
Count  Gamba's,  the  Countess  Gniccioli's  fother,  passed 


several  hoars  in  her  society,  returned  to  bis  palace,  and 
either  read  or  wrote  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning; 
occasionally  drinking  spirits  diluted  with  water  as  a 
medicine,  from  a  dread  of  a  nephritic  complaint  to 
which  he  was,  or  &ncied  himself,  subject 

While  Lord  Byron  resided  at  Pisa,  a  serious  affray 
occurred,  in  which  he  was  personally  concerned.  Taking 
his  usual  ride ,  with  some  friends ,  one  of  them  was 
violently  jostled  by  a  serjcant-major  of  hussars,  who 
dashed ,  at  full  speed ,  through  the  midst  of  the  party. 
They  pursued  and  overtook  him  near  the  Piaggia  gate; 
but  their  remonstrances  were  answered  only  by  abuse 
and  menace,  and  an  attempt,  oMhe  part  of  the  guard  at 
the  gate,  to  arrest  them.  This  occasioned  a  severe  scufile, 
in  which  several  of  Lord  Byron's  party  were  wounded, 
as  was  also  the  hussar.  The  consequence  was,  that  all 
Lord  Byron's  servants  (who  were  warmly  attached  to 
him,  and  had  sho\%u  great  ardour  in  his  defence)  were 
banished  from  Pisa;  and  witli  them  the  Counts  Gamba, 
father  and  son.  Lord  Byron  was  himself  ad\  ised  to  leave 
it;  and  as  the  Countess  accompanied  her  father,  lieaooa 
after  joined  them  at  Leghorn,  and  passed  six  weeks  at 
Monte  Nero.  His  return  to  Pisa  was  oocasioned'by  a  new 
persecution  of  the  Counts  Gamba.  An  order  was  issued 
for  them  to  leave  the  Tuscan  states  in  four  days;  and 
after  their  embarkation  for  Genoa,  the  Countess  and 
Lord  Byron  openly  lived  together,  at  the  Lanfranchi 
palace. 

It  was  at  Pisa  that  Byron  wrote  "Werner,"  a  tragedy; 
the  "Deformed  Transformed,"  and  continued  his  "Don 
Juan"  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  canto.  We  venture  to 
introduce  here  the  following  critical  summary  of  this 
wonderful  production  of  genius. 

The  poem  of  Don  Juan  has  all  sorts  of  faults,  many  of 
which  cannot  be  defended,  and  some  of  which  are  dis- 
gusting ;  but  it  has,  also,  almost  every  sort  of  poetical 
merit:  there  are  in  it  some  of  the  finest  passages  Lord 
Byron  ever  wrote;  there  is  amazing  knowledge  of  human 
nature  In  it;  there  is  exquisite  humour;  there  is  freedom, 
andbound,and  vigour  of  narrative  imagery.sentiment  and 
style,  which  are  admirable;  there  is  a  vast  fertility  of  deep, 
intensive,  and  Original  thought;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
there  is  the  profusion  of  a  prompt  and  most  richly-stored 
memory.  The  invention  is  lively  and  poetical;  the  de- 
scriptions are  brilliant  and  glo  wing,yet  not  over-wrought, 
but  fresh  from  nature,  and  faithful  to  her  colours;  and 
the  prevalent  character  of  the  whole  (bating  too  many 
dark  spots),  not  dispiriting,  though  gloomy ;  not  misan- 
thropic, though  bitter ;  and  not  repulsive  to  the  visions 
of  poetical  enthusiasm,  though  indignant  and  resentful. 

Lord  Byron's  acc^uaintance  with  Leigh  Hunt,  the  late 
editor  of  the  Examiner,  originated  in  his  grateful  feeling 
for  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Hunt  stood  forward  in  bis 
justification,  at  a  time  when  the  current  of  public  opinion 
ran  strongly  against  him.  This  feeling  induced  him  to 
invite  Mr.  Hunt  to  tlie  Lanfranchi  palace,  where  a  suite 
of  apartments  were  fitted  up  for  him.  On  his  arrival  in 
the  spring  of  18t22,  a  periodical  publication  was  pro- 
jected, under  the  title  of  "The  Liberal,"  of  which  Hunt 
was  to  be  the  editor,  and  to  which  Lord  Byron  and  Percy 
Shelley  (who  had  been  residing  for  some  time  on  ternns 
of  great  intimacy  with  his  lordship)  were  to  contribute. 
Three  numbers  of  the"Lit>eral"  were  published  inLondon, 
when,  in  consequence  of  the  unhappy  fate  of  Mr.  Shelley 
(who  perished  in  the  Mediterranean  by  the  upsetting  of  a 
boat),  and  of  other  dLicouraging  circumstances,  it  was 
discontinued. 

Byron  attended  the  funeral  of  his  poet-friend,  the 
following  description  of  \^hich,  by  a  person  who  waa 
present,  is  not  without  interest:  — 
*  <M8th  August,  182*1.  —  On  the  occasion  of  Shelley  *s 
melancholy  fate,  I  revisited  Pisa,  and  on  the  day  of  my 
arrival  learnt  tliat Lord  Byron  was  gone  to  the  sea-shore, 
to  assist  in  performing  the  last  offices  to  his  friend.  We 


I4AK£'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XVII 


cMwIoaspot  marked  by  an  old  and  withered  trook  of 
a  iirtrcey  and  near  it,  on  the  beadi,  stood  a  solitary  but 
covered  with  reeds.  The  situation  was  well  calculated  for 
a  poelfs  frave..  ^  few  weeks  before  I  bad  ridden  with 
hiia  and  Lord  Byron  to  this  very  spot»  which  I  after- 
wards visited  more  than  once.  In  front  was  ama^ni- 
fieeot  extent  of  the  blue  and  wmdless  Mediterranean, 
with  the  isles  of  Elba  and  Guyana,  —  Lord  Byron's 
jacht  at  anchor  in  the  offing:  on  the  other  side  an  almost 
boendiess  extent  of  sandy  wilderness,  uncultivated  and 
vBinhabited,  here  and  tliere  interspersed  in  tuAs  with 
waderwood  carved  by  the  sea-breeze,  and  stunted  by  tlie 
barrea  and  dry  nature  of  the  soil  in  which  it  grew.  At 
eqaal  distances  along  the  coast  stood  higK^uare  towers, 
ibr  the  double  purpose  of  guarding  the  coast  from  smugg- 
flog,  and  enforcing  the  quarantine  laws.  This  view  was 
boanded  by  an  immense  extent  of  the  Italian  Alps,  which 
are  here  particularly  picturesque  from  their  volcanic  and 
laaniiUd  appearances,  and  which,  being  composed  of 
white  marble,  give  their  summits  the  appearance  of  snow. 
As  a  foreground  to  this  picture  appeared  as  extraordinary 
a  group.  Lord  Byron  and  Trelawney  were  seen  standing 
over  the  burning  pile,  with  some  of  the  soldiers  of  the 
guard;  and  Leigh  Hunt,  whose  feelings  and  nerves 
oouM  not  carry  him  through  the  scene  of  horror,  lying 
back  in  the  carriage, — the  four  post-horses  ready  to 
drop  with  the  intensity  of  the  noon-day  sun.  The  stillness 
of  all  around  was  yet  more  felt  by  the  shrill  scream  of  a 
aolitafy  curlew ,  which,  perhaps  attracted  by  the  body, 
wheeled  in  soch  narrow  circles  round  the  pile,  that  it 
Bight  have  been  struck  with  the  hand,  and  was  so  fearless 
that  it  could  not  be  driven  away.  Looking  at  tlie  corpse, 
Lofd  Byron  said:  —  "Why,  that  old  black  silk  hand- 
kcfchief  retains  its  form  better  than  that  human  body  V 
Searoely  was  the  ceremony  concluded,  when  Lord  Byron, 
igUaled  by  the  spectacle  he  had  witnessed,  tried  to  dis- 
sipate in  some  degree  the  impression  of  it  by  his  favourite 
rerreation.  He  took  off  his  clothes,  therefore,  and  swam 
to  the  yacht,  which  was  riding  a  few  miles  distant  The 
beat  of  the  sun  and  checked  perspiration  threw  him  into 
a  fever,  which  he  felt  coming  on  before  he  left  the  water, 
aad  whkfa  became  more  violent  before  he  reached  Pisa. 
Oa  his  retam  he  immediately  took  a  warm  bath,  and  the 
aeit  morning  was  perfectly  recovered.'' 

The  enmity  between  Byron  and  Southey,  the  poet- 
laareate,  is  as  well  known  as  that  between  Pope  and 
Colfey  Gibber.  Their  politics  were  diametrically  opposite, 
aad  the  noble  bard  regarded  the  bard  of  royalty  as  a  rene- 
gado  from  his  early  principles.  It  was  not,  however,  so 
nacfa  on  account  of  political  principles  that  the  enmity 
between  Byron  and  Southey  was  kept  up.  The  peer,  in 
bit  satire,  had  handled  the  epics  of  the  laureate  **too 
roa^y,"  and  this  the  latter  deeply  resented.  Whilst  tra- 
veifBig  on  the  continent,  Southey  observed  Shelley's 
aaBK  in  the  Album,  at  Mont  Anvert,  with  **A&toq"  writ- 
tea  after  it ,  and  an  indignant  comment  in  tlie  same 
faoguage  written  under  it;  also  the  names  of  some  of 
Byron's  other  friends.  The  laureate,  it  is  said,  copied  the 
Bmes  and  the  comment,  and,  on  his  return  to  England, 
reported  the  whole  circumstances,  and  hesitated  not  to 
ooadade  Byron  of  the  same  principles  as  his  friends.  In 
a  poem  be  subsequently  wrote,  called  the  "Vision  of 
Mgmenty''  he  stigmatized  Lord  Byron  as  the  tather  of 
flbe'^tanic  School  of  Poetry."  His  lordship,  in  a  note 
appended  to  the  *^TwoFoscari,"  retorted  in  a  very  severe 
Bttaacr,and  eren  permitted  himself  to  ridicule  Southey 's 
wife^  the  sister  of  Coleridge's  wife,  they  having  been  at 
one  tiaae  'Hwo  milliners  of  Bath."  The  laureate  wrote  an 
aaswer  to  this  note  in  the  Courier  newspaper,  which, 
when  Byroo  saw  it,  enraged  him  so  much  that  he  con- 
sailed  with  his  friends  whether  or  not  he  ought  to  go  to 
Sflglaod  to  answer  it  personally. .  In  cooler  moments, 
however,  he  resolved  merely  to  write  his  ''Vision  of 
h^Knent,"  which  was  a  parody  on  Southey 's,  and  ap- 
i  one  of  the  numbers  of  the  "Iiibetal,"  for  which 


Hirnt,  the  publisher,  was  prosecuted  by  the  ^^Consti- 
tutional Asisociation/'  and  found  guilty. 

As  some  of  our  readers  may  be  curious  to  know  the 
rate  which  Lord  Byron  was  paid  for  his  productions,  we 
annex  the  following  statement,  byMr.Murray,  the  book- 
seller, of  the  sums  given  by  him  for  the  copy-rights  of 
most  of  his  lordship's  works: 

Childe  Harold,  I.  II 60K)  Lst. 

—  —  III 1575 

—  —  IV 2100 

Giaour 525 

Bride  of  Abydos 5'25 

Corsair 525 

Lara 700 

Siege  of  Corinth 525 

Parisina 525 

Lament  of  Tasso 315 

Manfred ;    .    .    .    .      315 

Beppo 525 

DonJuanLII 1525 

—    —  m.  IV.  V 1525 

Doge  of  Venice 1050 

Sardanapalus,  Cain,  and  Foscari  .    .     1100 

Mazeppa 525 

Prisoner  of  Chillon 525 

Sundries 450 

Total    .~Z      15,455  Lst 

As  is  the  cose  with  many  men  in  aflluent  circumstances, 
Byron  was  at  times  more  than  generous;  and  agfun,  at 
other  times,  what  might  be  called  mean.  He  once  bor- 
rowed 500Lst  in  order  to  give  it  to  the  widow  of  one  who 
had  been  his  friend;  he  frequently  dined  on  five  Pauls, 
and  once  gave  his  bills  to  a  lady  to  be  examined,  because 
he  thought  he  was  cheated.  He  gave  1 000  Lst  for  a  yacht, 
which  he  sold  again  for  300  Lst,  and  refused  to  give  the 
sailors  theur  jackets.  It  ought  however,  to  be  observed, 
lhat£e^fiC<2SUy  ^^  natural  to  him,  and  that  his  avarice.  . 
if  it  can  be  so  termed,  was  a  mere  whim  or  caprice  of  the^ 
moment  —  a  rdle  he  could  not  long  sustain.  He  once 
borrowed  100  Lst  to  give  to  the  brother-in-law  of 
Southey,  Coleridge,  the  poet,  when  the  latter  was  in 
distress.  In  his  quarrel  with  the  laureate  he  was  pro- 
voked to  allude  to  this  circumstance,  which  certainly  he 
ought  not  to  have  done. 

Byron  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  Waverley  novels, 
and  never  travelled  without  them.  '*They  are,"  said  he  to 
Captain  Med  win  one  day,  ''a  library  in  themselves,  —  a 
perfect  literary  treasure.  I  could  read  them  once  a  year 
with  new  pleasure."  During  that  morning  he  had  been 
reading  one  of  Sir  Walter's  novels,  and  delivered,  accord- 
ing to  Medwin,  the  following  criticism.  '*How  difficult 
it  is  to  say  any  thing  new !  Who  was  that  voluptuary  of 
antiquity,  who  ofl'ered  a  reward  for  a  new  pleasure?  Per- 
haps all  nature  and'art  could  not  supply  a  new  idea." 

The  anxious  and  paternal  tenderness  Lord  Byron  felt 
for  his  daughter,  is  expressed  with  unequalled  beauty  and 
pathos  in  the  first  stanza  of  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.  '<What  do  you  think  of  Ada?"  said  he  to 
Medwin,  looking  earnestly  at  his  daughter's  miniature, 
that  hung  by  the  side  of  his  writing-table.  'They  tell  me 
she  is  like  me  —  but  she  has  her  mother's  eyes.  It  is  very 
odd  that  my  mother  was  an  only  child;  ~  I  am  an  only 
child;  my  wife  is  an  only  child;  and  Ada  is  an  only  child. 
It  is  a  singular  coincidence;  that  is  the  least  that  can  be 
said  of  it  I  can't  help  thinking  it  was  destined  to  be  so ; 
and  perhaps  it  is  best  I  was  once  anxious  for  a  son ;  but, 
after  our  separation,  was  glad  to  have  had  a  daughter; 
for  it  would  have  distressed  me  too  much  to  have  taken 
him  away  from  Lady  Byron,  and  I  could  not  have  trusted 
her  with  a  son's  educatioiu  I  have  no  idea  of  boys  being 
brought  up  by  mothers.  I  suffered  too  much  from  that 
myself:  and  then,  wandering  about  the  world  as  I  do,  I 
could  not  take  proper  care  of  a  child :  otherwise  I  should 
not  have  left  AUegra,  poor  little  thing!  at  Ravenna.  She 

t 


xvm 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


has  been  a  great  resoaroe  to  me,  though  I  am  not  so  fond 
of  her  as  of  Ada:  and  yet  I  mean  to  make  their  fortunes 
equal  —  there  will  be  enough  for  them  both.  I  have 
desired  in  my  will  that  Allegra shall  not  marry  an  English- 
man. The  Irish  and  Scotch  make  better  husbands  than 
we  do.  You  will  tliink  it  was  an  odd  fancy;  but  I  was  not 
in  the  best  of  humours  with  my  countrymen  at  that 
moment  —  you  know  the  reason.  I  am  told  that  Ada  is 
a  little  termagant ;  I  hope  not.  I  shall  write  to  my  sister 
to  know  if  this  is  the  case:  perhaps  I  am  wrong  in  letting 
Lady  Byron  have  entirely  her  own  way  in  her  education. 
I  hear  that  my  name  is  not  mentioned  in  her  presence; 
that  a  green  curtain  is  always  kept  over  my  portrait,  as 
over  something  forbidden;  and  that  she  is  not  to  know 
that  she  has  a  lather  till  she  comes  of  age.  Of  course  she 
will  be  taught  to  hate  me;  she  will  be  brought  up  to  it. 
Lady  ByTon  is  conscious  of  all  this,  and  is  afraid  that  I 
shall  some  day  carry  olf  her  daughter  by  stealth  or  force. 
I  might  claim  her  of  the  Chancellor ,  without  having 
recourse  to  either  one  or  the  other;  but  Iliad  rather  be 
unhappy  myself  than  make  her  mother  so;  probably  I 
shall  never  see  her  again."  Here  he  opened  his  writing- 
desk,  and  showed  me  some  hair,  which  he  told  me  was 
his  child's. 

Several  years  ago,  Lord  Byron  presented  his  friend, 
Mr.  Thomas  Aloore,  with  his  "Memoirs,"  written  by 
himself,  with  an  understanding  that  they  were  not  to  be 
published  until  after  his  death.  Mr.  Moore,  with  the 
consent  and  at  the  desire  of  Lord  Byron,  sold  the  manu- 
script to  Mr.  Murray,  the  bookseller,  for  the  sum  of  two 
thousand  guineas.  The  following  statement  by  Mr.  Moore, 
will  however  show  its  fate.  '^Without  entering  into  the 
respective  claims  of  Mr.  Murray  and  myself  to  the  pro- 
perty in  these  memoirs  (a  question  which  now  that  they 
are  destroyed  can  be  but  of  little  moment  to  any  one),  it 
is  sufficient  to  say  that,  believing  tlie  manuscript  still  to 
be  mine,  I  placed  it  at  the  disposal  of  Lord  Byron's  sister, 
Mrs.  Leigh,  with  the  sole  reservation  of  a  protest  against 
its  total  destruction;  at  least,  without  previous  perusal 
and  consultation  among  the  parties.  The  majority  of  the 
persons  present  disagreed  with  this  opinion,  and  it  waa 
the  only  point  upon  which  there  did  exist  any  difi'erenoe 
between  us.  The  manuscript  was  acrx>rdingly  torn  and 
burnt  before  our  eyes,  and  1  immediately  paid  to  Mr.  Mur- 
ray, in  the  presence  of  the  gentlemen  assembled,  two 
thousand  guineas,  with  interest,  being  the  amount  of 
what  I  owed  him  upon  the  security  of  my  bond,  and  for 
which  I  now  stand  indebted  to  my  publishers,  Messrs. 
Longman  and  Co. 

*'Since  then,  the  family  of  Lord  Byron  have,  in  a 
manner  highly  honourable  to  themselves,  proposed  an 
arrangement,  by  which  the  sum  thus  paid  to  Mr.  Murray 
might  be  reimbursed  me;  but  from  feelings  and  consi- 
derations, which  it  is  unnecessary  here  to  explain,  1  have 
respectfully,  but  peremptorily,  declined  their  ofi'er." 

Before  we  close  the  details  of  what  may  be  termed  Lord 
Byron's  poetical  life  —  before  we  enter  on  the  painfully 
interesting  particulars  connected  with  the  last  and  noblest 
part  he  performed  in  his  brilliant  but  brief  career  —  we 
beg  leave  to  introduce  the  following  .mmmary  of  his 
chara<Her: 

There  seems  to  have  been  something  of  a  magical 
antidote  in  Lord  Byron's  genius  to  the  strange  propen-^ 
sities,  to  evil  arising  both  from  his  natural  passions  and 
temper,  and  the  act^ideutal  unpropitious  circumstances 
of  his  life.  In  nO  man  were  good  and  evil  mingled  in  such 
strange  intimacy,  and  in  such  strange  proportions.  His 
passions  were  extraordinarily  violent  and  fierce;  and  his 
temper,  uneasy,  bitter,  and  capricious.  His  pride  was 
deep  and  gloomy,  and  his  ambition  ardent  and  uncon- 
trollable. All  these  were  exactly  such  as  the  fortuitous 
position  of  his  infancy,  boyhood,  and  first  manhood, 
tended  to  aggravate  by  discouragements,  crosses,  and 
mortifications.  He  was  directly  and  immediately  sprung; 
firom  a  stock  of  old  nobility,  of  an  historic  name,  of 


venerable  antiquity.  All  bis  alliances,  including  Ms fathor, 
had  moved  in  liigh  society.  But  this  gay  father  died,  im« 
provident  or  reckless  of  the  future,  and  left  him  to  wastt 
his  childhood  in  poverty  and  dereliction,  in  the  rennote 
town  of  Aberdeen,  among  the  few  maternal  relations  who 
yet  would  not  utterly  abandon  his  mother's  shipwrecked 
fortunes.  At  die  age  of  six  years  he  became  presumptive 
heir  to  the  family  peerage,  and  at  the  age  of  ten  the  peerage 
devolved  on  him.  He  then  was  sent  to  tlie  public  school 
of  Harrow;  but  neither  his  person,  his  acquired  habxtSy 
his  scholarship,  nor  his  temper,  fitted  him  for  this  strange 
arena.  A  peer,  not  immediately  issuing  from  the  fashion* 
able  circles,  and  not  as  rich  as  foolish  boys  suppose  a 
peer  ought  to  be,  must  have  a  wonderful  tact  of  society, 
and  a  managing,  bending,  intriguing  temper,  to  play  his 
part  with  eclat,  or  with  comfort,  or  even  without  degrar 
dation.  All  the  treatment  wiiich  Lord  Byron  now  received 
confirmed  the  bitterness  of  a  disposition  and  feelings 
naturally  sour,  and  already  augmented  by  chilling  so- 
litude, or  an  uncongenial  sphere  of  society. 

To  a  mind  endowed  with  intense  sensibility  and  nnex- 
tinguishable  ambition,  these  circumstances  operated  in 
cherishing  melancholy,  and  even  misanthropy.  They 
bred  an  intractability  to  the  light  humours,  the  heartless 
cheerfulness,  and  all  the  artillery  of  unthinking  emptiness 
by  which  tlie  energies  of  tlie  bosom  are  damped  and 
broken.  There  were  implanted  within  him  the  seeds  of 
profound  reflexion  and  emotion,  which  grew  in  him  to 
such  strength,  that  the  tameness,  the  petty  passions,  and 
frivolous  desires  of  mankind  in  their  ordinary  intercour- 
ses of  pleasure  and  dissipation,  could  never  long  retain 
him  in  their  chains  without  weariness  and  disgust,  eveo 
when  they  courted,  dandled,  flattered,  and  admired  him. 
He  was  unskilled  in  their  pitiful  accomplishments,  and 
disdained  the  trifling  aims  of  their  vanity,  and  the  tests 
of  excellence  by  which  they  were  actuated,  and  by  which 
they  judged.  He  never,  therefore,  enjoyed  their  blan- 
dishments, and,  ere  long,  broke  like  a  giant  from  their 
bonds. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  that  disappointments,  working 
on  a  sombre  temper,  and  the  consequent  melancholy  ana 
sensitiveness  aiding,  and  aided  by,  the  spells  of  the  muse» 
were  Lord  Byron's  preservatives;  at  least,  that  they  pro- 
duoed  redeeming  splendours,  and  moments  of  pure  and 
untained  intellect,  and  exalting  ebullitions  of  grand  or 
tender  sentiment,  or  noble  passion,  which,  by  fits  at 
least,  if  not  always,  adorned  his  compositions,  and  will 
for  ever  electrify  and  elevate  his  readers. 

Had  Lord  Byron  succeeded  in  the  ordinary  way  to  bis 
peerage,  accompanied  by  the  usual  circumstances  of  pros- 
perity and  case,  —  had  nothing  occurred  capable  of  sti«> 
mutating  to  strong  personal  exertions,  the  mighty  seeds 
within  him  had  probably  been  worse  than  neutral  —  they 
had  worked  to  unqualified  mischief!  In  many  cases  this 
is  not  the  effect  of  prosperity ;  but  Lord  Byron's  qualities 
were  of  a  very  peculiar  cast,  as  well  as  intense  and  unri- 
valled in  degree. 

\  When,  in  the  spring  of  1816,  Lord  Byron  quitted  £ag-- 
1  land,  to  return  to  it  no  more,  he  had  a  dark,  perilous^  aod 
appalling  prospect  before  him.  The  chances  against  the 
jdue  future  use  of  his  miraoulous  and  fearful  i^fts  of 
genius,  poisoned  and  frenzied  as  they  were  by  blighted 
hopes  and  all  tlie  evil  incidents  which  had  befallen  him, 
were  too  numerous  to  be  calculated  without  overwhelm- 
ing dismay !  Few  persons,  of  a  sensibility  a  little  above 
the  common,  would  have  escaped  the  pit  of  black  and 
unmitigated  despondence !  But  Lord  Byron's  elasticity  of 
mind  recovered  itself,  and  soon  rose  to  far  higher  coa^ 
oeptions  and  performances  than  before.  He  passed  tlie 
summer  upon  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Geneva !  With 
/what  enthusiasm  he  enjoyed  and  with  what  contem- 
plations he  dwelt  among  its  scenery,  his  own  poetry  soon 
exhibited  to  the  world!  He  has  been  censured  for  his 
peculiarities,  his  unsocial  life,  and  his  disregard  of  the 
babitSy  the  decorams,  and  the  civilities  of  the  world,  and 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XIX 


oflhenutik  to  which  be  belonged.  He  might  have  pleaded, 
that  the  world  rejected  him,  and  he  the  world;  but  the 
chajrge  is  idle  in  itself,  admitting  it  to  have  originated 
with  his  own  will.  A  man  lias  a  right  to  live  in  solitude  if 
he  chases  it;  and,  above  all,  he  who  gives  such  fruits  of 
his  solitude  1 

Intheaatumn  of  1822,  Lord  Byron  quitted  Pisa,  and 
went  to  Genoa,  where  he  remained  throughout  the  winter. 
A  letter  written  by  his  lordship,  while  at  Genoa,  is  sin- 
gularty  honourable  to  him,  and  is  the  more  entitled  to 
■olioc,  as  it  tends  to  diminish  the  credibility  of  an  as- 
sertion made  since  his  death,  that  he  could  bear  no  rival 
hi  feme,  but  instantly  became  animated  with  a  bitter  jea- 
tonsyand  hatred  of  any  person  who  attracted  the  public 
attention  from  himself.  If  there  be  a  living  being  towards 
whom,  according  to  that  statement.  Lord  Byron  would 
hate  experienced  such  a  sentiment,  it  must  be  the  pre- 
tuned  author  of  *'Waverley."  And  yet,  in  a  letter  to 
Monsieur  Beyle,  dated  May  29,  182>%  the  folio wiug  are 
the  jost  and  liberal  expressions  used  by  Lord  Byron,  in 
adverting  to  a  pamphlet  which  had  been  recently  pub- 
lished by  Monsieur  Beyle. 

'There  is  one  part  of  your  observations  in  the  pamphlet 
which  I  shall  venture  to  remark  upon:  —  it  regards 
Waiter  Scott  You  say  that  "his  character  is  little  worthy 
of  enthusiasm/'  at  the  same  time  that  you  mention  his 
productions  in  the  manner  they  deserve.  I  have  known 
Walter  Scott  long  and  well,  and  in  occasional  situations 
which  call  forth  the  real  character,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  his  character  is  worthy  of  admiration;  —  that,  of  all 
men,  be  is  the  most  open,  the  most  honourable,  the  most 
amjabie.  With  bis  politics  I  have  nothing  to  do:  they 
differ  from  mine,  which  renders  it  difficult  for  me  to  speak 
of  them.  But  he  is  perfectly  sincere  in  them,  and  sincerity 
may  be  humble^  but  she  cannot  be  servile.  1  pray  you, 
therefore,  to  correct  or  soften  that  passage.  You  may, 
perhaps,  attribute  this  officiousness  of  mine  to  a  false 
affectation  of  candour,  as  I  happen  to  be  a  writer  also. 
Attribute  it  to  what  motive  you  please,  but  believe  the 
truth.  I  say  that  Walter  Scott  is  as  nearly  a  thorough  good 
BMo  as  man  can  be,  because  I  know  it  by  experience  to 
he  the  case." 

The  motives  which  ultimately  induced  Lord  Byron  to 
leave  Italy,  and  join  the  Greeks,  struggling  for  emanci- 
patioo»  arc  sufficiently  obvious.  It  was  in  Greece  that 
ha  high  poetical  faculdes  had  been  Erst  fully  developed. 
Greece,  a  land  of  the  most  venerable  and  illustrious 
history,  ofpeculiarly  grand  and  beautiful  scenery,  inha- 
bited by  various  races  of  the  most  wild  and  picturesque 
maaners,  was  to  him  the  land  of  excitement,  —  never- 
cbying,  never-wearying,  never-changing  excitement  It 
was  necessarily  the  chosen  and  favourite  spot  of  a  man  of 
powerful  and  original  intellect,  of  quick  and  sensible 
Mbgs,  of  a  restless  and  untameable  spirit,  of  various 
bformatioo,  and  who,  above  all,  was  satiated  with  com- 
noQ  enjoyments,  and  disgusted  with  what  appeared  to 
Urn  to  be  the  formality,  hypocj-isy  and  sameness  of  daily 
file.  Pwelling  upon  tliat  country,  as  it  is  clear  from  all 
Lord  Byron's  writings  be  did,  with  the  fondest  solicitude, 
and  being,  as  he  was  well  known  to  be,  an  ardent,  though, 
perhaps,  not  a  very  systematic  lover  of  freedom,  be  could 
nenonnconoerned  spectator  of  its  recent  revolution :  and 
at  aooa  as  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  presence  might  be 
neful,  he  prepared  to  visit  once  more  the  shores  of 
Greece.  It  is  not  improbable,  also,  that  he  had  become 
ambitious  of  a  name  as  distinguished  for  deeds  as  it  was 
already  by  his  writings.  A  glorious  and  novel  career  appa- 
icoOj  presented  itself,  and  he  determined  to  try  the  event 

Lord  Byron  embarked  at  Leghorn,  and  arrived,  in 
CeiMnlonia  in  the  early  part  of  August,  1823,  attended 
ftf  a  suite  of  six  or  seven  friends,  in  an  Bnglish  vessel 
(the  HerculeSy  Captain  Scott),  which  he  had  chartered 
Sat  the  express  purpose  of  taking  him  to  Greece.  His 
lordship  had  never  seen  any  of  the  volr-anic  mountains, 
and  for  this  purpose  tbe  vessel  deviated  from  its  regular 


course,  in  order  to  pass  the  island  of  Stromboli,  and  lay 
off  that  place  a  whole  night,  in  the  hopes  of  witnessing 
the  usual  phenomena,  but,  for  the  first  time  within  the 
memory  of  man,  the  volcano  emitted  no  fire.  The  disap- 
pointed poet  was  obliged  to  proceed,  in  no  good  humour 
with  the  fabled  forge  of  Vulcan. 

Greece,  though  witti  afair  prospect  of  ultimate  triumph, 
was  at  that  time  in  an  unsettled  state.  The  third  cam- 
paign bad  commenced,  with  several  instances  of  distin- 
guished success — her  arms  were  every  where  victorious, 
but  her  councils  were  distracted.  Western  Greece  was 
in  a  critical  situation,  and  although  the  heroic  Marco 
Botzaris  had  not  fallen  in  vain,  yet  the  glorious  enter- 
prise in  which  he  perished  only  checked,  and  did  not 
prevent  the  advance  of  the  Turks  towards  Anatolica  and 
Missolonghi.  This  gallant  chief,  worthy  of  the  best  days 
of  Greece,  hailed  with  transport  Lord  Byron's  arrival  in 
that  country,  and  his  last  act  before  proceeding  to  the 
attack,  in  which  he  fell,  was  to  write  a  warm  invitation 
for  his  lordship  to  come  to  Missolonghi.  In  his  letter, 
which  he  addressed  to  a  friend  at  Missolonghi,  Botzaris 
alludes  to  almost  tlie  first  proceeding  of  Lord  Byron  in 
Greece,  which  was  the  arming  and  provisioning  of  forty 
Suliotes,  whom  he  sent  to  join  in  the  defence  of  Misso- 
longhi. After  the  battle  Lord  Byron  transmitted  bandages 
and  medicines,  of  which  he  had  brought  a  large  store 
from  Italy,  and  pecuniary  succour  to  those  who  had  been 
wounded.  He  had  already  made  a  very  generous  offer  to 
the  government  He  says,  in  a  letter,  "I  offered  to  ad- 
vance a  thousand  dollars  a  month,  for  the  succour  of 
Missolonghi ,  and  the  Suliotes  tinder  Botzaris  (since 
killed) ;  but  the  government  have  answered  me  through 
of  this  island,  that  they  wish  to  confer  with  me  pre- 
viously, which  is,  in  fact,  saying  they  wish  me  to  spend 
my  money  in  some  f)thcr  direction.  I  will  take  care  that 
it  is  for  the  public  cause,  otherwise  I  will  not  advance  a 
para.  The  opposition  say  they  want  to  cajole  me,  and  the 
party  in  power  say  the  others  wish  to  seduce  me;  so, 
between  the  two,  I  have  a  diflicult  part  to  play :  however, 
I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  factions,  unless  to 
reconcile  them,  if  possible." 

Lord  Byron  established  himself  for  some  time  at  the 
small  village  of  Metaxata,  in  Cephalonia,  and  dispatched 
two  friends,  Mr.  Trelawncy  and  Mr.  Hamilton  Browne, 
with  a  letter  to  the  Greek  government,  in  order  to  collect 
intelligence  as  to  the  real  state  of  thing^.  His  lordship's 
generosity  was  almost  daily  exercised  in  his  new  neigh- 
bourhood. He  provided  for  many  Italian  families  in 
distress,  and  even  indulged  the  people  of  the  country  in 
paying  for  the  religious  ceremonies  which  they  deemed 
essential  to  their  success. 

In  the  mean  while.  Lord  Byron's  friends  proceeded  to 
Tripolitza,  and  found  Colocotroni  (the  enemy  of  Mauro- 
cordato,  who  had  been  compelled  to  flee  from  the  pre- 
sidency) in  great  power :  his  palace  was  filled  with  armed 
men,  like  the  castle  of  some  ancient  feudal  chief,  and 
a  good  idea  of  his  character  may  be  formed  from  the  lan- 
guage he  held.  He  declared  that  he  had  told  Mauro- 
cordato  that,  unless  he  desisted  from  his  intrigues,  he 
would  put  him  on  an  ass  and  whip  him  out  of  the  Morea, 
and  that  he  had  only  been  withheld  from  doing  so  by  the 
representation  of  his  friends,  who  had  said  that  it  would 
injure  the  cause. 

They  next  proceeded  to  Salamis,  where  the  congress 
was  sitting,  and  Mr.  Trelawney  agreed  to  accompany 
Odysseus,  a  brave  mountain-chief,  into  Negropont.  At 
this  time  the  Greeks  were  preparing  for  many  active 
enterprises.  Marco  Botzaris'  brother,  with  his  Suliotes 
and  Maurocordato,  were  to  take  charge  of  Missolonghi, 
which,  at  that  time  (October,  1823),  was  in  a  very  cri- 
tical state,  being  blockaded  both  by  land  and  sea.  "There 
have  been,"  says  Mr.  Trelawney,  "thirty  battles  fought 
and  won  by  the  late  Marco  Botzaris,  and  his  gallant  tribe 
of  Suliotes,  who  are  shut  up  in  Missolonghi.  If  it  fall, 
Athens  will  be  in  danger,  and  thousands  of  throats  out. 


XX 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


A  few  thousand  dollars  would  provide  ships  to  relieve  it; 
a  portion  of  this  sum  is  raised— and  I  would  coin  my 
heart  to  save  this  key  of  Greece !"  A  report  like  this  was 
sufficient  to  show  the  point  where  succour  was  most 
needed,  and  Lord  Byron's  determination  to  relieve  Misso* 
longhi  was  still  more  decidedly  confirmed  by  a  letter 
which  he  received  from  Maurocordato. 

Maurocordato  was  at  this  time  endeavouring  to  collect 
a  fleet  for  the  relief  of  Missolonghi,  and  Lord  Byron  ge- 
nerously ofl'ered  to  advance  four  hundred  thousand 
piastres  (about  12,000  Lst)  to  pay  for  fitting  it  out  In 
a  letter  in  which  he  announced  this  his  noble  intention, 
he  alluded  to  tbe  dissensions  in  Greece,  and  stated,  that 
if  these  continued,  all  hope  of  a  loan  in  England,  or  of 
assistance,  or  even  good  wishes  from  abroad,  would  be 
at  an  end. 

''I  must  frankly  confess/'  he  says  in  his  letter,  ''that 
unless  union  and  order  are  confirmed,  all  hopes  of  a  loan 
will  be  in  vain,  and  all  the  assistance  which  the  Greeks 
could  expect  from  abroad,  an  assistance  wbich  migbt  be 
neither  trifling  nor  worthless,  will  be  suspcndei!  or 
destroyed;  and,  what  is  worse,  the  great  powers  of 
Europe,  of  whom  no  one  was  an  enemy  to  Greece,  but 
seemed  inclined  to  favour  her  in  consenting  to  the 
establishment  of  an  independent  power,  will  be  per- 
suaded tliat  tlie  Greeks  are  unable  to  govern  themselves, 
and  will,  perhaps,  themselves  undertake  to  arrange  your 
disorders  in  such  a  way  as  to  blast  the  brightest  hopes 
you  indulge,  and  that  are  indulged  by  your  friends. 

"And  allow  me  to  add  once  for  all,  I  desire  the  well- 
being  of  Greece,  and  nothing  else;  I  will  do  all  I  can  to 
secure  it;  but  I  cannot  consent  —  I  never  will  consent 
to  the  English  public,  or  English  individuals  being  de- 
ceived as  to  tlie  real  state  of  Greek  afl'airs.  The  rest, 
gentlemen,  depends  on  you;  you  have  fought  gloriously ; 
act  honourably  towards  your  fellow-cidzeus  and  towards 
the  world,  and  then  it  will  no  more  be  said,  as  has  been 
repeated  for  two  thousand  years  witli  tbe  Roman  histo- 
rian, that  Philopaemen  was  ttie  last  of  the  Grec^ians.  Let 
not  calumny  itself  (and  it  is  difiicult  to  guard  against  it 
in  so  difficult  a  struggle)  compare  the  Turkish  Pacha 
with  the  patriot  Greek  in  peace,  after  you  have  extermi- 
nated him  in  war.'' 

The  dissensions  among  the  Greek  chiefs  evidently  gave 
great  pain  to  Lord  Byron,  whose  sensibility  was  keenly 
atifected  by  the  slightest  circumstance  which  he  consi- 
dered likely  to  retard  the  deliverance  of  Greece.  "For 
my  part,"  heobservesinanotherof  his  letters,  "I  will  stick 
by  the  cause  while  a  plank  remains  which  can  be  honour- 
ably clung  to;  if  I  quit  it,  it  will  be  by  the  Greeks'  conduct, 
and  not  the  Holy  Allies,  or  the  holier  Mussulmans."  In 
a  letter  to  his  banker  at  Cephalonia,  he  says:  "I  hope 
tilings  here  will  go  well,  some  time  or  otlter;  I  will  stick 
by  the  cause  as  long  as  a  cause  exists." 

His  playful  humour  sometimes  broke  out  amidst  the 
deep  anxiety  he  felt  for  the  success  of  the  Greeks.  He 
ridiculed  with  great  pleasantry  some  of  the  supplies 
which  had  been  sent  out  from  England  by  the  Greek 
committee.  In  one  of  his  letters,  also,  after  alluding  to 
his  having  advanced  4000  Lst,  and  expecting  to  be  called 
on  for  4000  Lst  more,  he  says:  "How  can  I  refuse,  if 
they  (the  Greeks)  will  fight,  and  especially  if  I  should 
happen  to  be  in  their  company?  I  therefore  request  and 
require  that  you  should  apprise  my  trusty  and  trust- 
worthy trustee  and  banker,  and  crown  and  sheet-anchor, 
Douglas  Kinnaird  the  honourable,  that  he  prepare  all 
monies  of  mine,  including  the  purchase-money  of  Roch- 
dale manor,  and  mine  income  for  the  year  A.  f>.  1824,  to 
answer  and  anticipate  any  orders  or  drafts  of  mine,  for 
the  good  cause,  in  good  and  lawful  money  of  Great 
Britain,  etc.  etc  etc.  May  you  live  a  thousand  years ! 
which  is  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  longer  than  the 
Spanish  Cortes  constitution.*' 

All  being  ready,  two  Ionian  vessels  were  ordered,  and, 
embarking  his  horses  and  efl'ects.  Lord  Byron  sailed  firom 


Argostoli  on  the  29th  of  December.  At  Zante,  his  lord- 
ship took  a  considerable  quantity  of  specie  on  board,  and 
proceeded  towards  Missolonghi.  Two  accidents  occurred 
in  this  short  passage.  Count  Gamba,  who  had  accom- 
panied his  lordship  from  Leghorn,  had  been  charged 
with  the  vessel  in  which  the  horses  and  part  of  the  money 
were  embarked.  When  ofl' Chiarenza,  a  point  which  lies 
between  Zante  and  the  place  of  their  destination,  they 
were  surprised  at  daylight  on  finding  themselves  under 
tbe  bows  of  a  Turkish  frigate.  Owing,  however,  to  the 
activity  displayed  on  board  Lord  Byron's  vessel,  and  her 
superior  sailing,  she  escaped,  while  the  second  was  fired 
at,  brought  to,  and  carried  into  Patras.  Count  Gamba 
and  his  companions  being  taken  before  Yusufi*  Pacha, 
fully  expected  to  share  the  fate  of  some  unfortunate  men 
whom  that  sanguinary  chief  had  sacriiiced  the  preceding 
year  at  Prevesa,  and  their  fears  would  most  probably 
have  been  realised,  had  it  not  been  for  the  presence  <^ 
mind  displayed  by  the  Count,  who,  assuming  an  air  of 
hauteur  and  indifi'creuce,  accused  the  captain  of  (he 
frigate  of  a  scandalous  breach  of  neutrality,  in  firing  at 
and  detaining  a  vessel  under  English  colours,  and  con- 
cluded by  informing  Ynsufi',  that  he  might  expect  the 
vengeance  of  the  British  government  in  tlius  interrupting 
a  nobleman  who  was  merely  on  his  travels,  and  bound  to 
Calamos.  The  Turkish  chief,  on  recognising  in  the 
master  of  the  vessel  a  person  who  had  saved  his  life  id 
the  Black  Sea  fifteen  years  before,  not  only  consented  to 
the  vessel's  release,  but  treated  the  whole  of  tlic  pas- 
sengers with  the  utmost  attention,  and  even  urged  them 
to  take  a  day's  shooting  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Owing  to  contrary  winds,  Lord  Byron's  vessel  was 
obliged  to  take  shelter  at  the  Scropes,  a  cluster  of  rocks 
within  a  few  miles  of  Missolonghi.  Vfr'liile  detained  here, 
he  was  in  considerable  danger  of  being  captured  by 
the  Turks. 

Lord  Byron  was  received  at  Missolonghi  with  enthu* 
siastic  demonstrations  of  joy.  No  mark  of  honour  or 
welcome  which  the  Greeks  could  devise  was  omitted. 
The  ships  anchored  off  the  fortress  fired  a  salute  as  he 
passed.  Prince  Maurocordato,  and  all  the  authorities, 
with  the  troops  and  the  population,  met  him  on  his  land- 
ing, and  accompanied  bim  to  the  house  which  had  been 
prepared  for  him,  amidst  the  shouts  of  the  multitude  and 
the  discharge  of  cannon. 

One  of  the  first  objects  to  which  he  turned  his  attention 
was  to  mitigate  the  ferocity  with  which  the  war  had  been 
carried  oiu  The  very  day  of  his  lordship's  arrival  was 
signalised  by  his  rescuing  a  Turk,  who  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  some  Greek  sailors.  The  individual  thus  saved, 
having  been  clothed  by  his  orders,  was  kept  in  the  houae 
until  an  opportunity  occurred  of  sending  him  to  Patras. 
Nor  had  his  lordship  been  long  at  Missolonghi,  befbre  an 
opportunity  presented  itself  for  showing  his  sense  of 
Yusufi' Pacha's  moderation  in  releasing  Count  Gamba. 
Hearing  that  there  were  four  Turkish  prisoners  in  the 
town,  he  requested  that  they  might  be  placed  in  his  bands. 
This  being  immediately  granted,  he  sent  tbem  to  Patras, 
with  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Turkish  chief,  expressing 
his  hope  that  the  prisoners  thenceforward  taken  on  both 
sides  would  be  treated  with  humanity.  This  act  was 
followed  by  another  equally  praise- worthy,  which  proved 
how  anxious  Lord  Byron  felt  to  give  a  new  turn  to  the 
system  of  war&re  hitherto  pursued.  A  Greek  cruiser 
having  captured  a  Turkish  boat,  in  which  there  was  a 
number  of  passengers,  chiefly  women  and  cliildren,  they 
were  also  placed  in  the  hands  of  Lord  Byron,  at  his  par- 
ticular request;  upon  which  a  vessel  was  immediately 
hired,  and  the  whole  of  them,  to  the  number  of  twenty- 
four,  were  sent  to  Prevesa,  provided  with  every  requisite 
for  their  comfort  during  the  passage.  The  Turkish 
governor  of  Prevesa  thanked  his  lordship,  and  assured 
him,  that  he  would  take  care  equal  attention  should  be 
in  future  shown  to  the  Greeks  who  might  beoomo 
prisoners. 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXI 


Aaothcr  gmod  olQcct  with  Lord  Byron,  and  one  which 
he  never  oeosed  to  forward  with  the  most  anxious  solici- 
tade^  was  to  reconciie  the  quarrels  of  the  native  cliiefs,  to 
nakethem  friendly  and  confiding  towards  one  another, 
and  snbmlssive  to  the  oFders  of  the  government  He  had 
neither  time  nor  opportunity  to  carry  this  point  to  any 
neat  extent:  much  good  was,  however,  done. 

Lord  Byron  landed  at  Missolongbi  animated  witli  mi- 
fitary  ardour.  After  paying  the  fleet,  which,  indeed,  had 
only  come  out  under  the  expectation  of  receiving  its 
trrcnrs  from  the  loan  which  he  promised  to  make  to  the 
proTisiottal  gorernment,  he  set  about  forming  a  brigade 
ofSaliotes.  Five  hundred  of  these,  the  bravest  and  most 
resolute  of  thesoldiers  of  Greece,  were  taken  into  his  pay 
on  the  1st  of  January,  1824.  An  expediUon  against  Le- 
psnlo  was  proposed,  of  which  the  command  was  given  to 
Lord  Byron.  This  expedition,  however,  had  to  experience 
delay  and  disappointment.  The  Sn]iot«s,  conceiving 
that  they  had  found  a  patron  whose  wealth  was  inex- 
hautible,  and  whose  generosity  was  boundless,  deter- 
mined U>  make  the  most  of  the  occasion,  and  proceeded 
to  the  most  extravagant  demands  on  their  leader  for 
anears,  and  under  other  pretences.  These  mountaineers, 
BDtameable  in  the  field,  and  unmanageable  in  a  town, 
veie,  at  this  moment,  peculiarly  disposed  to  be  obstinate, 
fiolous,  and  mercenary.  They  had  been  chiefly  instru- 
mental in  preserving  Missolongbi  when  besieged  the  pre- 
vious autumn  by  the  Turks;  had  been  driven  from  their 
abodes;  and  the  whole  of  their  families  were,  at  this 
time,  in  the  town,  destitute  of  either  home  or  sufficient 
snppfies.  Of  turbulent  and  reckless  character,  they  kept 
the  ptoce  in  awe^*  and  Maurocordato  having,  unlike  the 
oAcr  eaptains,  no  soldiers  of  his  own,  was  glad  to  find  a 
body  of  valiant  mercenaries,  especially  if  paid  for  out  of 
the  funds  of  another ;  and,  consequently,  was  not  disposed 
to  treat  them  with  harshness.  Within  a  fortnight  after 

I  Lend  Byron's  arrival,  a  burgher  refusing  to  quarter  some 
Saliotes,  who  rudely  demanded  entrance  into  his  house, 
was  killed,  and  a  riot  ensued,  in  which  some  lives  were 
tost.  Lord  Byron's  impatient  spirit  could  ill  brook  tlie 
delay  of  a  favourite  scheme,  but  he  saw,  with  the  utmost 
Gkagrin,  that  the  state  of  bis  troops  was  such  as  to  render 

i     any  attempt  to  lead  them  out  at  that  time  impracticable. 
The  project  of  proceeding  against  Lepanto  being  thus 

I  snspended,  at  a  moment  when  Lord  Byron's  enthusiasm 
was  at  its  height,  and  when  he  had  fully  calculated  on 
striking  a  blow  which  could  not  fail  to  be  of  the  utmost 

I     service  to  the  Greek  cause,  the  unlooked-for  disappoint- 

'  oMBt  preyed  on  his  spirits,  and  produced  a  degree  of 
inilibility  which,  if  it  was  not  the  sole  cause,  contributed 
greatly  to  a  severe  fit  of  epilepsy,  with  which  he  was  at- 
taekcd  on  the  15th  of  February.  His  lordship  was  sitting 
m  Oe  apartment  of  Colonel  Stanhope,  talking  in  a  jocular 
■aaner  with  Mr.  Parry,  the  engineer,  when  it  was  ob- 
served, from  occasional  and  rapid  changes  in  his  counte- 
naarir,  that  he  was  sufl^ering  under  some  strong  emotion. 
Oft  a  sudden  he  complained  of  a  weakness  in  one  of  his 
kn,  and  rose,  but  finding  himself  unable  to  walk,  he 
oM  oet  for  assistance.  He  then  fell  into  a  state  of  ner- 

i     mm  and  convulsive  agitation,  and  was  placed  on  a  bed. 
Por  some  minutes  his  countenance  wtki  much  distorted. 
He  however  quickly  recovered  his  senses,  his  speech 
1,  and  he  soon  appeared  perfectly  well,  although 
1  and  exhausted  by  the  violence  of  the  struggle. 
the  fit,  he  behaved  with  his  usual  extraordinary 
I,  and  his  efforts  in  contending  with,  and  attempt- 
ip^  lo  master,  the  disease,  are  described  as  gigantic  In 
te  «mne  of  the  month,  the  attack  was  repeated  four 
i;  the  violence  of  the  disorder,  at  length,  yielded  to 
amediea  which  his  physicians  advised,  such  as  bleed- 
Arid  battling,  perfect  relaxation  of  mind;  and  he 
Inlly  recovered.  An  accident,  however,  happened  a 
days  after  his  first  illness,  which  was  ill  calculated  to 
^Iheeflbrts  of  bis  medical  advisers.  A  Suliote  aceom- 
by  aBOther  man,  and  the  late  Marco  Botzaris' 


little  boy,  walked  into  the  Seraglio,  which  place,  before 
Lord  Byron's  arrival,  bad  l>een  used  as  a  sort  of  fortress 
and  barrack  for  the  Suliotes,  and  out  of  which  they  were 
ejected  with  great  difficulty  for  the  reception  of  the 
committee-stores,  and  for  the  occupation  of  the  engineers, 
who  required  it  for  a  laboratory.  The  sentinel  on  guard 
ordered  the  Suliote  to  retire,  which  being  a  species  of 
motion  to  which  Suliotes  are  not  accustomed,  the  man 
carelessly  advanced ;  upon  which  the  Serjeant  of  the 
guard  (a  German)  demanded  his  business,  and  receiving 
no  satisfactory  answer,  pushed  him  back.  These  wild 
warriors,  who  will  dream  for  years  of  a  blow  if  revenge 
b  out  of  their  power,  are  not  slow  to  resent  even  a 
push.  The  Suliote  struck  again,  the  Serjeant  and  he 
closed  and  struggled,  when  the  Suliote  drew  a  pistol 
from  his  belt;  the  Serjeant  wrenched  it  out  of  his  hand, 
and  blew  the  powder  out  of  the  pan.  At  this  moment 
Captain  Sass,  a  Swede,  seeing  the  fray,  came  up,  and 
ordered  the  man  to  be  taken  to  the  guard-room.  The 
Suliote  was  then  disposed  to  depart,  and  would  have 
done  so  if  the  serjeant  would  have  permitted  him.  Un- 
fortunately, Captain  Sass  did  not  confine  himself  to 
merely  giving  the  order  for  his  arrest;  for  when  the 
Suliote  struggled  to  get  away.  Captain  Sass  drew  his 
sword  and  suruck  him  with  the  flat  part  of  it ;  whereupon 
the  enraged  Greek  flew  upon  him,  with  a  pistol  in  one 
hand  and  the  sabre  In  the  otlier,  and  at  the  same  moment 
nearly  cut  off  the  Captain's  right  arm,  and  shot  him 
through  the  head.  Captain  Sass,  who  was  remarkable 
for  hi^  mild  and  courageous  character,  expired  in  a  few 
minutes.  The  Suliote  also  was  a  man  of  distinguished 
bravery.  This  was  a  serious  affair,  and  great  apprehen- 
sions were  entertained  that  it  would  not  end  here.  The 
Suliotes  refused  to  surrender  the  man  to  justice,  alleging 
that  he  had  been  struck,  which,  in  Suliote  law,  justifies 
all  the  consequences  which  may  follow. 

In  a  letter  written  a  few  days  after  Lord  Byron's  first 
attack,  to  a  friend  in  Zante,  he  speaks  of  himself  as  rapidly 
recovering.  "I  am  a  good  deal  belter,"  he  observes, 
^'though  of  course  weakly.  The  leeches  took  too  much 
blood  from  my  temples  the  day  after,  and  there  was  some 
difficulty  in  stopping  it ;  but  I  have  been  up  daily,  and 
out  in  boats  or  on  horseback.  To-day  I  have  taken  a 
warm  bath, and  Uveas  temperately  as  well  can  be,  without 
any  liquid  but  water,  and  without  any  animal  food."  After 
adverting  to  some  other  subjects,  the  letter  thus  conclu- 
des: '^Matters  are  here  a  little  embroiled  with  the  Su- 
liotes, foreigners,  etc;  but  I  still  hope  better  things,  and 
will  stand  by  the  cause  as  long  as  my  health  and  circum- 
stances wilt  permit  me  to  be  supposed  useful." 

Notwithstanding  Lord  Byron's  improvement  in  health, 
his  friends  felt,  from  the  first,  tliat  he  ought  to  try  a  change 
of  air.  Missolongbi  is  a  flat,  marshy,  and  pestilential  pbicc, 
and,  except  for  purposes  of  utility^  never  would  have 
been  selected  for  his  residence.  A  gentleman  of  Zante 
wrote  to  him  early  In  March,  to  induce  him  to  return  to 
that  island  for  a  time.  To  his  letter  the  following  answer 
was  received:  — 

<<I  am  extremely  obliged  by  your  offer  of  your  country- 
house,  as  for  all  other  kindness,  in  case  my  health  should 
require  my  removal ;  but  i  cannot  quit  Greece  while  there 
is  a  chance  of  my  being  of  (even  supposed)  utility.  There 
is  a  stake  worth  millions  such  as  I  am,  and  while  I  can 
stand  at  all,  I  must  stand  by  the  cause.  While  I  say  this, 
I  am  aware  of  the  difficulties,  and  dissensions,  and  defects 
of  the  Greeks  themselves:  but  allowance  must  be  made 
for  them  by  all  reasonable  people." 

It  may  be  well  imagined,  after  so  severe  a  fit  of  illness, 
and  that  in  a  great  measure  brought  on  by  the  conduct  of 
the  troops  he  had  taken  into  his  pay,  and  treated  with  the 
utmost  generosity,  that  Lord  Byron  was  in  no  humour 
to  pursue  his  scheme  against  Lepanto,  oven  supposing 
that  his  state  of  health  had  i>een  such  as  toi>ear  the  fatigue 
of  a  campaign  in  Greece.  The  Suliotes,  however,  showed 


.    i 


xxu 


LAKE'S  USE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


some  signs  of  repentaaoe,and  ofiered  to  place  (bemselvvs 
at  his  lordship's  disposal.  But  still  they  had  an  objection 
to  the  nature  of  the  service :  '*they  would  not  fight  against 
stone  walls  V  It  is  not  surpcising  that  the  expedition  to 
.Lepanto  was  no  longer  thought  of. 

In  conformity  with  our  plan,  we  here  add  a  selection  of 
anecdotes ,  connected  with  Lord  Byron's  residence  at 
HissolonghL  They  are  principally  taken  from  Capt 
Parry's  **Last  Days  of  Lord  Byron;"  a  work  which 
seems  to  us,  from  its  plain  and  unvarnished  style,  to  bear 
the  stamp  and  impress  of  truth. 

In  speaking  of  the  Greek  Committee  one  day,  his  lord- 
ship said  — '*!  conceive  tliat  I  have  been  already  grossly 
ill-treated  by  tlie  oommittee.  In  Italy,  Mr.  Bkiquiere, 
their  agent*  informed  me  that  every  requisite  supply  would 
be  forwarded  with  all  dispatch.  I  was  disposed  to  come 
to  Greece,  but  I  hastened  my  departure  in  conseqnenoe 
of  earnest  solicitations.  No  time  was  to  be  lost,  I  was 
told,  and  Mr.  Blaquiere,  instead  of  waiting  on  me  at  liis 
return  from  Greece,  left  a  paltry  note,  which  gave  me  no 
information  whatever.  If  I  ever  meet  with  him,  I  shall 
not  fail  to  mention  my  surprise  at  his  conduct;  b^t  it  has 
been  all  of  a  piece.  I  wish  the  acting  committee  had  had 
some  of  the  trouble  which  has  fallen  on  me  since  my 
arrival  here;  they  would  have  been  more  prompt  in  their 
proceedings,  and  would  have  known  better  what  the 
country  stood  in  need  oT.  They  would  not  have  delayed 
the  supplies  a  day,  nor  have  sent  out  German  officers, 
poor  fellows,  to  starve  at  Missolonghi,  but  for  my  assist- 
ance. I  am  a  plain  man,  and  cannot  comprehend  the 
use  of  printing-presses  to  a  people  who  do  not  read.  Here 
the  committee  have  sent  supplies  of  maps,  I  suppose, 
that  I  may  teach  the  young  mountaineers  geog:raphy. 
Here  are  buglehorns,  witliout  bugle-men,  and  it  is  a 
chance  if  we  can  find  any  body  in  Greece  to  blow  tliem. 
Books  are  sent  to  a  people  who  want  guns:  they  ask  for 
a  sword,  and  the  committee  give  them  the  lever  of  a 
printing-press.  Heavens !  one  would  think  the  committee 
meant  to  inculcate  patience  and  submission,  and  to  con- 
demn resistance.  Some  materials  for  constructing  forti- 
fications they  have  sent,  but  they  have  chosen  their  people 
so  ill,  that  the  work  is  deserted,  and  not  one  para  have 
they  sent  to  procure  other  labourers.  Their  secretary, 
Mr.  Bowriug,  was  disposed,  I  believe,  to  claim  the  pri- 
vilege of  an  acquaintance  with  me.  He  wrote  me  a  long 
letter  about  the  classic  land  of  freedom,  the  birth-place 
of  the  arts,  the  cradle  of  genius,  the  habitation  of  the 
gods,  the  heaven  of  poets,  and  a  great  many  such  fine 
things.  I  was  obliged  to  answer  him,  and  1  scrawled  some 
nonsense  in  reply  to  his  nonsense;  but  1  fancy  I  shall 
get  no  more  such  epistles.  When  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
of  the  poetry-part  of  my  letter,  I  wrote,  "so  much  for 
blarney,  now  for  business."  I  have  not  since  heard  in  the 
same  strain  from  Mr.  Bo  wring." 

"My  ftiture  intentions,"  continued  he,  "as  to  Greece, 
may  be  explained  in  a  few  words :  I  will  remain  here  till 
she  is  secure  against  the  Turks,  or  till  she  has  fallen 
under  their  power.  All  my  income  shall  be  spent  in  her 
service;  but,  unless  driven  by  some  great  necessity,  I 
will  not  touch  a  farthing  of  the  sum  intended  for  my 
sister's  children.  Whatever  I  can  accomplish  with  my  in- 
come, and  my  personal  exertions,  shall  be  cheerfully  done. 
When  Greece  is  secure  against  external  enemies,  I  will 
leave  the  Greeks  to  settle  their  government  as  they  like. 
One  service  more,  and  an  eminent  service  it  will  be,  I 
think  I  may  perform  for  them.  You,  Parry,  shall  have  a 
schooner  built  for  me,  or  I  will  buy  a  vessel ;  the  Greeks 
shall  invest  me  with  the  character  of  their  ambassador  or 
agent;  I  will  go  to  the  United  States,  and  procure  that 
free  and  enlightened  government  to  set  the  example  of 
recognising  the  federation  of  Greece  as  an  independent 
state.  This  done,  Bngland  must  follow  the  example,  and 
then  the  fate  of  Greece  will  be  permanently  fixed,  and  she 
will  enter  into  all  her  rights,  as  a  member  of  the  great 
commonwealth  of  Christian  Burope." 


''This,"  observes  Captain  Piarry,  in  his  pfaun  tad  maaly 

manner,  "was  Lord  Byron's  hope,  and  tliis  was  to  be  fail 
last  project  in  favour  of  Greece.  Into  it  no  motive  of 
personal  ambition  entered ,  more  than  that  just  and  < 
proper  one,  the  basis  of  all  virtui,  and  the  distinguished 
characteristic  of  an  honourable  mind  —  the  hope  of 
gaining  the  approbation  of  good  men.  Asaaa«thor,lM 
liad  ahx^ady  attained  the  pinnacle  of  popularity  and  of 
fame;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  his  noble  ambition.  He 
hastened  to  Greece,  with  a  devotion  to  liberty,  and  a  m$k 
in  favour  of  the  oppressed,  as  pure  as  ever  shone  in  the 
bosom  of  a  knight  in  the  purest  days  of  chivalry  to  gaia 
the  reputation  of  an  unsullied  warrior,  and  of  a  disaater- 
ested  statesman.  He  was  her  unpaid,  but  the  blessings  of 
all  Greece,  and  the  high  honour  his  own  oountry-men 
bestow  on  his  memory,  bearing  him  in  their  hearts,  prove 
tliat  be  was  not  her  unrewarded  champion." 

Lord  Byron's  address  was  the  most  afiable  and  court- 
eons  perhaps  ever  seen;  his  manners,  when  in  a  good 
humour,  and  desirous  of  being  well  with  his  guest,  were 
winning,  fascinating  in  tlie  extreme,  and  though  bland, 
still  spirited,  and  with  an  air  of  frankness  and  genero- 
sity—qualities in  wliidi  he  was  certainly  not  deficient 
He  was  open  to  a  fault  —  a  characteristic  probably  the 
result  of  his  fearlessness  and  independence  of  the  world ; 
but  so  open  was  he,  that  his  friends  were  obliged  to  be 
upon  their  guard  with  him.  He  was  the  worst  person  in 
the  world  to  confide  a  secret  to ;  and  if  any  diarge  against 
any  body  was  mentioned  to  him,  it  was  probably  the  first 
communication  he  made  to  the  person  in  question.  He 
hated  scandal  and  tittle-tattle — loved  the  manly  straight- 
forward course :  he  would  harbour  no  doubts,  and  never 
live  with  another  witli  suspicions  in  his  bosom — out  came 
the  accusation,  and  he  called  upon  the  individual  to  dear, 
or  be  ashamed  of,  himself.  He  detested  a  lie  —  nothing 
enraged  him  so  much:  he  was  by  temperament  and 
education  excessively  irritable,  and  a  lie  cM>mpietely  uu- 
chained  him  —  his  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  He  had 
considerable  tact  in  detecting  untruth;  he  would  smell  it 
out  almost  instinctively;  he  avoided  the  timid  driveller, 
and  generally  chose  his  companions  among  the  lovers  and 
practisers  of  sincerity  and  candour.  A  man  tells  a  false- 
hood ,  and  conceals  the  truth,  because  he  is  afraid  that 
the  declaration  of  the  tiling  as  it  is  will  hurt  him.  Ijord 
Byron  was  above  all  fear  of  this  sort:  he  flinched  from 
telling  no  one  what  he  thought  to  bis  face ;  from  his  in- 
fancy he  had  been  afraid  of  no  one.  Falsehood  is  not  the 
vice  of  the  powerful:  the  Greek  slave  lies,  the  Turkish 
tyrant  is  remarkable  for  his  adherence  to  truth.  The 
anecdote  that  follows,  told  by  Parry,  is  highly  charac- 
teristic :  — 

"When  the  Turkish  fleet  was  lying  off  Cape  Papa, 
blockading  Missolonghi,  I  was  one  day  ordered  by  Lord 
Byron  to  a<xompany  him  to  tlie  mouth  of  the  harbour  to 
inspect  the  fortiticadons,  in  order  to  make  a  report  on 
the  state  they  were  in.  He  and  I  were  in  his  own  punt,  a 
little  boat  which  he  had,  rowed  by  a  boy;  and  in  a  large 
boat,  accompanying  us,  were  Prince  Maurocordato  and 
his  attendants.  As  I  was  viewing ,  on  one  hand ,  the 
Turkish  fleet  attentively,  and  reflecting  on  its  powers,  and 
our  means  of  defence;  and  looking,  on  the  other,  at 
Prince  Maurocordato  and  liis  attendants,  perfectly  un- 
concerned, smoking  their  pipes  and  gossiping  as  if  Greece 
were  liberated  and  at  peace,  and  Missolonghi  in  a  state 
of  complete  security,  I  could  not  help  giving  vent  to  a 
feeling  of  contempt  and  indignation.  'What  is  tlie  mat- 
ter,' said  his  lordship,  appearing  to  be  very  serious, 
<what  makes  yon  so  angry,  Parry  V  *l  am  not  angry/  I 
replied,  *my  lord,  but  somewhat  indignant  The  Turks, 
if  they  were  not  the  most  stupid  wretches  breatiiing, 
might  take  the  fort  of  Vasaladi,  by  means  of  two  pinnaces, 
any  night  they  pleased;  they  have  only  to  approach  it 
with  mufiled  oars;  they  will  not  be  heard,  I  will  answer 
for  their  not  being  seen;  and  they  may  storm  it  in  a  few 
minutes.  With  eight  gun-boats,  properly  armed  with 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXIII 


M-ponnden,  they  might  batter  both  Missolongbi  and 
AoatoUca  to  the  ground.  And  there  sits  the  old  gentle- 
voman,  Prince  Manrocordato  and  his  troop,  to  whom  I 
applied  an  epithet  I  will  not  here  repeat^  as  if  they  were 
all  perfectly  safe.  They  Itnow  their  powers  of  defence  are 
inadequate,  and  they  have  no  means  of  improving  them. 
If  I  were  in  titeir  place,  I  should  be  in  a  fever  at  the 
thought  of  my  own  incapacity  and  ignorance,  and  I 
should  burn  with  impatience  to  attempt  the  destruction 
of  those  stupid  Turkish  rascals.  The  Greeks  and  Turks 
are  opponents  worthy,  by  their  imbecility,  of  each  other.' 
(bad  scarcely  explained  myself  fully,  when  his  lordship 
ordered  our  boat  to  be  placed  alongside  the  other,  and 
actually  related  our  whole  conversation  to  the  priuce.  in 
doing  it,  however,  he  took  on  himself  the  task  of  pacifying 
both  the  prince  and  me,  and  though  I  was  at  first  very 
angry,  and  the  prince,  I  believe,  very  much  annoyed,  he 
SQoceeded.  Maurocordato  afterwards  showed  no  dissa- 
tislaotion  with  me,  and  i  prized  Lord  Byron's  regard  too 
Bucli,  to  remain  long  displeased  with  a  proceeding  which 
was  only  an  unpleasant  manner  of  reproving  us  both." 

*K>n  one  occasion  (which  we  before  slightly  alluded 
to)  he  had  saved  twenty-four  Turkish  women  and  chil- 
dren from  slavery  and  all  its  accompanying  horrors.  I  was 
sammoned  to  attend  him  and  receive  his  orders,  that 
every  thing  should  be  done  which  might  contribute  to 
thdr  comfort  He  was  seated  on  a  cushion  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room,  the  women  and  children  were  standing 
before  him,  with  their  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  him,  and  on 
his  right  hand  was  his  interpreter,  who  was  extracting 
from  the  women  a  narrative  of  their  sufferings.  One  of 
them,  apparently  about  thirty  years  of  age,  possessing 
f^eat  vivacity,  and  whose  manners  and  dress,  though  she 
was  then  dirty  and  disfigured,  indicated  that  she  was 
superior  in  rank  and  condition  to  her  companions,  was 
spokeswoman  for  the  whole*  I  admired  the  good  order  the 
others  preserved,  never  interfering  with  the  explanation 
or  Interrupting  the  single  speaker.  I  also  admired  the 
rapid  manner  in  which  the  interpreter  explained  every 
fUng  they  said,  ao  as  to  make  it  almost  appear  that  there 
was  but  one  speaker.  —  After  a  short  time,  it  was  evident 
Ifail  what  Lord  Byron  was  hearing  affected  his  feelings- 
fab  oounlcnanGe  changed,  his  colour  went  and  came,  and 
Itfaoogfat  he  was  ready  to  weep.  But  he  had  on  all  oc- 
ctttOBS  a  ready  and  peculiar  knack  in  turning  conver- 
flBliott  from  any  disagreeable  or  unpleasant  subject;  and 
he  imd  recourse  to  this  expedient.  He  rose  up  suddenly, 
tmA  tarning  round  on  his  heel,  as  was  his  wont,  he  said 
soaKthiog  quickly  to  his  interpreter,  who  immediately 
repealed  it  to  the  women.  All  eyes  were  instantly  fixed 
oiiaK,andone  of  the  party,  a  young  and  beautiful  woman, 
spoke  very  warmly.  Lord  Byron  seemed  satisfied,  and 
said  they  might  retire.  The  women  all  slipped  off'  their 
shoes  in  an  instant,  and  going  up  to  his  lordship,  each  in 
iMwe  tiioDyaccompanied  by  their  children,  kissed  his  hand 
fiervcBtiy,  invoked,  in  the  Turkish  manner,  a  blessing 
boihoa  his  head  and  heart,  and  then  quitted  the  room. 
TUs  was  too  much  for  Lord  Byrod,  and  he  turned  his 
liHcaway  to  conceal  his  emotion/' 

*H)ne  of  Lord  Byron's  household  had  several  times 
iavoived  himself  and  his  master  in  perplexity  and  trouble, 
hf  Us  unrestrained  attachment  to  women.  In  Greece  this 
had  been  very  annoying,  and  induced  Lord  Byron  to 
fhiBk  of  a  means  of  curing  it  A  young  Suliote  of  the 
ftmrd  was  accordingly  dressed  up  like  a  woman,  and 
uikacled  to  |^lace  himself  in  the  way  of  the  amorous 
MMHL  The  bait  took,  and  after  some  communication, 
hadiaflier  by  signs  than  by  words,  for  the  pair  did  not 
■iicntand  each  other's  language,  the  sham  lady  was 
cttMeAdty  conducted  by  the  gallant  to  one  of  Lord  Byron's 
■fMluiints.  Here  the  couple  were  surprised  by  an  enrag- 
es SkGote,  a  husband  provided  for  the  occasion,  accom- 
1  by  half  a  dozen  of  his  comrades,  whose  presence 

t  Ihreats  terrified  the  poor  lacquey  almost  out  of  his 

lo.  The  noise  of  course  brought  Lord  Byron  to  the 


spot,  to  laugh  at  the  tricked  serving-man,  and  rescue 
him  from  the  effects  of  his  terror."  * 

"A  few  days  after  the  earthquake,  which  took  place  on 
the  2Ist  of  February,  as  we  were  all  sitting  at  tabic  in  the 
evening,  we  were  suddenly  alarmed  by  a  noise  and  a 
shaking  of  the  house,  somewhat  similar  to  that  which  we 
had  experienced  when  the  earthquake  occurred.  Of 
course  all  started  from  their  places,  and  there  was  the 
same  kind  of  confusion  as  on  the  former  evening,  at  which 
Byron,  who  was  present,  laughed  immoderately;  we 
were  re-assured  by  this,  and  soon  learnt  that  the  whole 
was  a  method  he  had  adopted  to  sport  with  our  fears." 

"The  regiment,  or  rather  the  brigade,  we  formed,  can 
be  described  only  as  Byron  himself  describes  it  There 
was  a  Greek  tailor,  who  had  been  in  the  British  service 
in  the  Ionian  Islands,  where  he  had  .married  an  Italian 
woman.  This  lady,  knowing  something  of  the  military 
service,  petitioned  Lord  Byron  to  appoint  her  husband 
master 'tailor  of  the  brigade.  The  suggestion  was  useful, 
and  this  part  of  her  petition  was  immediately  granted. 
At  the  same  time,  however,  she  solicited  that  she  might 
be  permitted  to  raise  a  corps  of  women,  to  be  placed 
under  her  orders,  to  accompany  the  regiment  She  stipu- 
lated for  free  quarters  and  rations  for  them,  but  rejected 
all  claim  for  pay.  They  were  to  be  free  of  all  incumbran- 
ces, and  were  to  wash,  sew,  cook,  and  otherwise  provide 
for  the  men.  The  proposition  pleased  Lord  Byron,  and, 
stating  the  matter  to  me,  he  said  he  hoped  I  should  have 
no  objection.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see  women  ac- 
company the  English  army,  and  I  knew  that,  though 
sometimes  an  incumbrance,  they  were  on  the  whole  more 
beneficial  than  otherwise.  In  Greece  there  were  many 
circumstances  which  would  make  their  services  extremely 
valuable,  and  I  gave  my  consent  to  the  measure.  The 
tailor's  wife  did  accordingly  recruit  a  considerable  number 
of  unincumbered  women,  of  almost  all  nations,  but  prin- 
cipally Greeks,  Italians,  Maltese,  and  Negresses.  *I  was 
afraid,'  said  Lord  Byron,  *when  I  mentioned  this  matter 
to  you,  you  would  be  crusty,  and  oppose  it,  —  it  is  the 
very  thing.  Let  me  see,  my  corps  outdoes  Falstaff*s : 
there  are  English,  Germans,  French,  Maltese,  Ragusians, 
Italians,Neapoli(ans«  Transy  Ivanians,  Russians,  Suliotes, 
Moreotcs,  and  Western  Greeks  in  front,  and,  to  bring 
up  tlie  rear,  tlic  tailor's  wife  and  her  troop.  Glorious 
Apollo !  no  general  had  ever  before  such  an  army.' " 

"Lord  Byron  had  a  black  groom  with  him  in  Greece,  an 
American  by  birth,  to  whom  he  was  very  partial.  He  al- 
ways insisted  on  this  man's  calling  himMassa,  whenever 
he  sp(»ke  to  him.  On  one  occasion,  the  groom  met  with 
two  women  of  his  own  complexion,  who  bad  been  slaves 
to  the  Turks  and  liberated,  but  had  been  left  almost  to 
starve  when  the  Greeks  had  risen  on  their  tyrants.  Being 
of  the  same  colour  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them 
and  the  groom,  and  he  applied  to  me  to  give  both  these 
women  quarters  in  the  Seraglio.  I  granted  the  applica^ 
tion,  and  mentioned  it  to  Lord  Byron,  who  laughed  at 
the  gallantry  of  his  groom,  and  ordered  that  he  should  be 
brought  before  him  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  day,  to  answer 
for  his  presumption  in  making  such  an  application.  At 
ten  o'clock,  accordingly,  he  attended  his  master  with 
g^eat  trembling  and  fear,  but  stuttered  so  when  he  at« 
tempted  to  speak,  that  he  could  not  make  himself  under- 
stood; Lord  Byron  endeavouring,  almost  in  vain,  te 
preserve  his  gravity,  reproved  him  severely  for  his  pre- 
sumption. Blacky  stuttered  a  tliousand  excuses,  and  was 
ready  to  do  any  thing  to  appease  his  massa's  anger.  His 
great  yellow  eyes  wide  open,  he  trembling  from  head  to 
foot,  his  wandering  and  stuttering  excuses,  his  visible 
dread— all  tended  to  provoke  lauyliter ;  and  Lord  Byron, 
fearing  his  own  dignity  would  be  hove  overboard,  told 
him  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  listen  to  his  sentence.  I  was 
commanded  to  enter  it  in  his  memorandum-book,  and 
then  he  pronounced  in  a  solemn  tone  of  voice,  while 
Blacky  stood  aghast,  expecting  some  severe  punishment, 
the  following  doom :    'My  determination  is ,  that  the 


XXIV 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


chiidreD  born  of  those  black  women,  of  which  you  may 
be  the  father,  shall  be  my  property,  and  I  will  maintain 
them.  What  say  you?'  'Go  — Go— God  bless  you, 
massa,  may  you  live  great  while,'  stuttered  out  the 
groom,  and  sallied  forth  to  tell  the  good  news  to  the 
two  distressed  women. 

The  luxurjf  of  Lord  Byron's  living  at  this  time  may  be 
seen  from  the  following  order,  which  he  gave  his  snperin- 
tendant  of  the  household,  for  the  daily  expenses  of  his 
own  table.  It  amounts  to  no  more  than  one  piastre. 

Paras. 
Bread,  a  pound  and  a  half    ....        15 

Wine 7 

Fish 15 

Olives .  3 

40 

This  was  his  dinner;  breakfast  consisted  of  a  single  dish 
of  tea,  without  milk  or  sugar. 

The  circumstances  that  attended  the  death  of  this  il- 
lustrious and  noble-minded  man,  are  described  in  the 
following  plain  and  simple  manner  by  his  faithful  valet 
and  constant  follower,  Mr.  Fletcher:  — 

''My  master,"  says  Mr.  Fletcher,  ^'continued  his  usual 
custom  of  riding  daily  when  the  weather  would  permit, 
until  the  9th  of  April.  But  on  that  ill-fated  day  he  got 
very  wet,  and  on  his  return  home  his  lordship  changed 
the  whole  of  his  dress;  but  he  had  been  too  long  in  bis 
wet  clothes,  and  the  cold,  of  which  he  had  complained 
more  or  less  ever  sinee  we  left  Cephalonia,  made  this 
attack  be  more  severely  felL  Though  rather  feverish 
during  the  night ,  his  lordship  slept  pretty  well ,  but 
complained  in  the  morning  of  a  pain  in  his  bones,  and  a 
head-aclie:  this  did  not,  however,  prevent  him  from 
taking  a  ride  in  the  afternoon,  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  was 
his  last.  On  his  return,  my  master  said  that  the  saddle 
was  not  perfectly  dry^  fk>om  being  so  wet  the  day  before, 
and  observed  that  be  thought  it  had  made  him  worse. 
His  lordship  was  again  visited  by  the  same  slow  fever, 
and  I  was  sorry  to  perceive,  on  the  next  morning,  that 
illness  appeared  to  be  increasing.  He  was  very  low,  and 
complained  of  not  having  had  any  sleep  during  the  niglit. 
His  lordship's  appetite  was  also  quite  gone.  I  prepared 
a  little  arrow-root,  of  which  he  took  three  or  four  spoon- 
fuls, saying  it  was  very  good,  but  he  could  take  no  more. 
It  was  not  till  the  third  day,  the  12th,  that  I  began  to  be 
alarmed  for  my  master.  In  all  his  former  colds  he  always 
slept  well,  and  was  never  affected  by  this  slow  fever.  I 
therefore  went  to  Dr.  Bruno  and  Mr.  Millingcn,  the  two 
medical  attendants ,  and  inquired  minutely  into  every 
circumstance  connected  with  my  master's  present  illness : 
both  replied  that  there  was  no  danger,  and  I  might  make 
myself  perfectly  easy  on  the  subject,  for  all  would  be  well 
in  a  few  days.  This  was  on  the  I3tb.  On  the  following 
day,  I  found  my  master  in  such  a  state,  that  I  could  not 
feel  happy  without  supplicating  that  he  would  send  to 
Zante  for  Dr.  Thomas.  After  expressing  my  feais  lest  his 
lordship  should  get  worse,  he  desired  me  to  consult  the 
doctors,  which  I  did,  and  was  told  there  was  no  occasion 
for  calling  in  any  person,  as  they  hoped  all  would  be  well 
in  a  few  days.  Here  I  should  remark,  that  his  lordship 
repeatedly  said,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  he  was  sure  the 
doctors  did  not  understand  his  disease;  to  which  I  an- 
swered, *Then,  my  lord,  have  other  advice  by  all  means.' 
*They  tell  me,'  said  his  lordship,  <that  it  is  only  a  com- 
mon cold,  which,  yon  know,  I  have  had  a  thousand 
times.'  'I  am  sure,  my  lord,'  said  I,  Hhat  you  never  had 
one  of  so  serious  a  nature.'  *I  think  I  never  had,'  was  his 
lordship's  answer.  I  'repeated  my  supplications  that 
Dr.  Thomas  should  be  sent  for,  on  the  16th,  and  was 
again  assured  tliat  my  master  would  be  better  in  two  or 
three  days.  After  these  confident  assurances,  I  did  not 
renew  my  entreaties  until  it  was  too  late.  With  respect 
to  the  medicines  that  were  given  to  my  master,  I  could 
not  persuade  myself  that  those  of  a  strong  purgative 


nature  were  the  best  adapted  for  his  complaint,  conclu- 
ding that,  as  he  had  nothing  on  his  stomach,  the  only 
effect  would  be  to  create,  pain ;  indeed,  this  must  liave 
been  the  case  with  a  person  in  perfect  health.  The  whole 
nourishment  taken  by  my  master,  for  the  last  eight  days, 
consisted  of  a  small  quantity  of  broth,  at  two  or  three 
different  times,  and  two  spoonfuls  of  arrow-root  on  the 
18th,  the  day  before  his  death.    The  first  time  I  hcaitl 
of  there  being  any  intention   of  bleeding  his  lordship 
was  on  the  I5th,  when  it  was  proposed  by  Dr.  Bnioo, 
but  objected  to  at  first  by   my  master,    who  asked 
Mr.  Millingen  if  there  was  any  great  reason  for  taking 
blood.'  The  latter  replied  that  it  might  be  of  service, 
but  added  it  might  be  deferred  till  the  next  day ;  and, 
accordingly,  my  master  was  bled  in  the  right  arm  on 
the  evening  of  the  16th,  and  a  pound  of  bk>od  was  taken. 
I  observed,  at  the  time,  that  it  had  a  most  inflamed 
appearance.  Dr.  Bruno  now  began  to  say,  that  he  had 
frequently  urged  my  master  to  be  bled,  but  that  he  alwajs 
refused.  A  long  dispute  now  arose  about  the  time  that  had 
been  lost,  and  the  necessity  of  sending  for  medical  aid  to 
Zante;  upon  which  I  was  informed,  for  the  first  time, 
that  it  would  be  of  no  use,  as  my  master  would  be  better 
or  no  more  before  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Thomas.  His  lord- 
ship continued  to  get  worse,  but  Dr.  Bruno  said,  he 
thought  letting  blood  again  would  save  his  life;  and  I  lost 
no  time  in  telling  my  master  bow  necessary  it  was  to 
comply  with  the  doctor's  wishes.  To  this  he  replied  by 
saying,  he  feared  they  knew  nothing  about  his  disorder; 
and  then,  stretching  out  his  arm,  said,  'Here,  take  my 
arm  andtio  whatever  you  like.'  His  lordship  continued 
to  get  weaker,  and  on  the  17th  he  was  bled  twice  in  the 
morning,  and  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon :  the  bleediog 
at  both  times  was  followed  by  fainting  fits,  and  he  would 
have  fallen  down  more  than  once  had  I  not  caught  him  in 
my  arms.  In  order  to  prevent  such  an  accident,  I  took 
care  not  to  permit  his  lordship  to  stir  without  supportiag 
him.  On  this  day  my  master  said  to  me  twice,  *I  cannot 
sleep,  and  you  well  know  I  have  not  been  able  to  sleep 
for  more  than  a  week;  I  know,'  added  his  lordship,  'that 
a  ipan  can  only  be  a  certain  time  without  sleep  and  then 
he  must  go  mad  without  any  one  being  able  to  save  him; 
and  I  would  ten  times  sooner  shoot  myself  than  be  mad, 
for  I  am  not  afraid  of  dying  —  I  am  more  fit  to  die  than 
people  think!' 

'1  do  not,  however,  believe  that  his  lordship  had  any 
apprehension  of  his  fate  till  the  day  aftci'  the  18th,  when 
he  said,  *I  fear  you  and  Tita  will  be  ill  by  sitting  conti- 
nually night  and  day.'  I  answered,  *We  shall  never  leave 
your  lordship  till  you  are  better.'  As  my  master  had  a 
slight  fit  of  delirium  on  the  16th,  I  took  care  to  remove 
the  pistol  and  stiletto^  which  had  hitherto  been  kept  at  his 
bedside  in  the  night.  On  the  18th  his  lordship  addressed 
me  frequently,  and  seemed  to  be  very  much  dissatisfied 
with  his  medical  treatment  I  then  said,  'Do  allow  me  to 
send  for  Dr.  Thomas?'  to  which  he  answered,  *l>o  so, 
but  be  quick;  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  let  you  do  so  before, 
as  I  am  sure  they  have  mistaken  my  disease.  Write 
yourself,  for  I  know  they  would  not  like  to  see  other 
doctors  here.'  I  did  not  lose  a  moment  in  obeying  my 
master's  orders;  and  on  informing  Dr.  Bruno  and 
Mr.  Millingen  of  it,  they  said  it  was  very  right,  as  they 
now  began  to  be  afraid  themselves.  On  returning  to  my 
master's  room,  his  first  words  were  'have  you  seat?*  — 
*I  have,,  my  lord,'  was  my  answer;  upon  which  he  said, 
'you  have  done  right,  for  I  should  like  to  know  wliat  is 
the  matter  with  me.'  Although  his  lordship  did  not  ap- 
pear to  think  his  dissolution  was  so  near,  I  could  perceive 
he  was  getting  weaker  every  hour,  and  he  even  began  to 
have  occasional  fits  of  delirium.  He  afterwards  said,  'I 
now  begin  to  think  I  am  seriously  ill,  and  in'  case  I  should 
be  taken  off  suddenly,  I  wish  togiveyou  several  directions, 
which  I  hope  you  will  be  particular  in  seeing  executed/ 
I  answered  I  would  in  case  such  an  event  came  to  pass, 
bat  expressed  a  hope  that  he  would  live  many  years  to 


xxvn 


A  CHARACTER  OF  LORD  BYRON, 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


AtfiMT  the  general  calmnett  of  the  political  at- 
■ospliere,  we  have  been  stunned  from  another  quarter 
by  one  of  tliose  death-notes  which  are  pealed  at  intervals, 
asfromanarchai^l'strunipetyto  awaken  the  soul  of  a 
vhde  people  at  once.  Lord  Byron,  who  has  so  long  and 
so  asqily  filled  the  highest  plate  in  the  public  eye,  has 
shared  the  lot  of  humanity.  HiAiordship  died  at  Misso- 
looghi  oo  the  19th  of  ApriL  That  mighty  genius  which 
walked  amoiiigst  men  as  something  superior  to  ordinary 
Bortaltty,  and  whose  powers  were  beheld  with  wonder, 
and  soniethiog  approaching  to  terror,  as  if  we  knew  not 
wbedicr  they  were  of  good  or  of  evil,  is  laid  as  soundly 
to  rest  as  the  poor  peasant  whose  ideas  never  went  beyond 
his  daily  task.  IThe  voice  of  just  blame  and  of  malignant 
censure  are  at  o3!ceirilenced ;  and  we  feel  almost  as  if  the 
great  luminary  (^heaven  had  suddenly  disappeared  from 
the  sky,  at  the  moment  when  every  telescope  was  levelled 
far  the  eiaminati<m  of  the  spots  which  dimmed  its  bright- 
neat.  It  is  not  now  the  question  what  were  Byron's  faults, 
what  his  mistakest  but,  how  is  the  blank  which  he  has 
kftia  British  literature  to  be  filled  up?  Not,  we  fear,  in 
«ae  generatioiiy  which,  among  many  highly  gifted  per- 
sons, has  produced  none  who  approach  Byron  in  origin- 
■Bty,  the  first  attribute  of  genius.  Only  thirty  six  years 
•Ui^somneh  already  done  for  inmiortality,  —  so  much 
0m  n  iiiaining,  aa  it  seems  to  us  short-sighted  mortals, 
la  Mjntaln  and  to  extend  his  feme,  and  to  atone  for 
mMoa  IB  conduct  and  levities  in  composition;  who  will 
■olgrieve  that  such  a  race  has  been  shortened,  though 
am  always  keepingthe  straight  path  ~  such  a  light  extin- 
gaiihed,  though  sometimes  flaming  to  dazzle  and  to  be- 
vflderT  One -word  on  this  ungrateful  subject  ere  we 
frftitforevcr. 

The  enors  of  LordByron  arose  neither  firom  depravity 
ifhear^  —  for  nature  had  not  committed  the  anomaly  of 

"  iglo  such  extraordinary  talents  an  imperfect  moral 
,—  nor  firom. feelings  dead  to  the  admiration  of 
u  No  man  had  ever  a  kinder  heartfor  sympathy,  or 
%WUK  Open  hand  for  the  relteftrf  disfresST,' uud  no  mind 
«aif^^]^;eformed  lOf  m^  euibusi^n^aamlration oT 
■aUractionSy'pfOvided  lie-wicr  donvinced'thatthe  actors 
hidproceeded  upon  disinterested  principles.  LordByron 
ims  totally  free,  from  the^  cucjse  jmd  4iegRRlation'0f  Jite- 
UftmCf  —  its  jealousies,  we  mean,  and  its  envy.  But  his 
MMMhnfuI  gettius  was  df  a  nature  which  disdained 
Mpmnt  even  when  restraint  was  most  wholesome.  When 
itiihool,  the  tasks  in  which  he  excelled  were  those  only 
fUeh  he  undertook  voluntarily;  and  bis  situation  as  a 
f&uagttma  of  rank,  with  strong  passions,  and  in  the  un- 
MImllod  enjoyment  of  a  considerable  fortune,  added  to 
mM  impatience  of  strictures  or  coercion  which  was 

Cnal  to  him.  As  up  Author,  he  refused  to  plead  at  the 
of  criticism;  as  a  man^  he  would  not  submit  to  be 


morally  amenable  to  tlie  tribunal  of  public  opinion.  Re- 
monstrances from  a  friend, of  whose  intentions  and  kind- 
ness he  was  secure,  had  often  great  weight  with  him;  but 
there  were  few  who  could  venture  on  a  task  so  difficult 
Reproof  be  endured  with  impatience^  and  repsoach  har- 
dened him  in  his  error,  —  so  that  he  often  resembled  the 
gallant  war-steed,  who  rushes  forward  on  the  sfeel  that 
wounds  him.  In  tiie  most  painful  crisis  of  his  private  life 
he  evinced  this  irritability  and  impatience  of  censure  in 
such  a  degree,  as  almost  to  resemble  the  noble  victim  of 
the  bull-tight,  which  is  more  maddetied  by  the  squibs, 
darts,  and  petty  annoyances  of  the  unworthy  crowds 
beyond  the  lists,  than  by  tlie  lance  of  his  nobler,  and,  so 
to  speak,  his  more  legitimate  antagonist  In  a  word,  much 
of  that  in  which  he  erred  was  in  bravado  and  scorn  of  his 
censors,  and  was  done  with  the  motive  of  Dry  den's  despot, 
''To  show  his  arbitrary  power." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  his  was  a  false  and  prejudiced 
view  of  such  a  contest;  and  if  the  noble  Bard  gained  a 
sort  of  triumph,  by  compelling  the  world  to  read  his 
poetry,  though  mixed  with  baser  matter,  because  it  was 
his,  he  gave  in  return  an  unworthy  triumph  to  the  un- 
worthy, besides  deep  sorrow  to  those  whose  applause,  in 
his  cooler  moments,  he  most  valued* 

It  was  the  same  with  his  politics,  which  on  several  oc- 
casions assumed  a  tone  menacing  and  contemptuous  to 
the  constitution  of  his  country ;  while  in  fect,Lord  Byron 
was  in  his  own  heart  sufficientiy  sensible,  not  only  oif  his 
privileges  as  a  Briton,  but  of  the  distinction  attendiiur  his 
high  birth  and  rank,  and  was  pccoliarry  sensitive  of  those 
shades  which  constitute  what  is  termed  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman.  Indeed, notwithstanding  his  having  employed 
epigrams  and  all  the  petty  war  of  wit,  when  such  would 
have  been  much  better  abstained  from,  he  would  have 
been  found,  had  a  collision  taken  place  between  the 
aristocratic  parties  in  the  State,  exerting  all  his  energies 
in  defence  of  that  to  which  he  naturallv  belonged.  His 
own  feeling  on  these  subjects  he  has  explained  in  the  very 
last  canto  of  Don  Juan;  and  they  arc  in  entire  harmony 
with  the  opinions  which  we  liaVe  seen  expressed  in  liis 
correspondence,  at  a  moment  when  matters  appeared  to 
approach  to  a  serious  struggle  in  his  native  country. 

We  are  not,  however,  Byron's  apologists,  for  now^ 
alas!  he  needs  none.  His  excellencies  will  now  be  uni- 
versally acknowledged,  and  his  faults  (let  us  hope  and 
believe)  not  remembered  in  bis  epitaph.  It  will  be  recol- 
lected what  a  part  he  has  sustained  in  British  literature 
since  the  first  appearance  of  Childe  Harold,  —  a  space 
of  nearly  sixteen  years.  There  has  been  no  reposing 
under  tiieshadeof  his  laurels,  no  living  upon  the  resource 
of  past  reputation;  none  of  that  co<f(l/tn^  and  petty  pre- 
caution, whicli  little  authors  call  'taking  care  of  their 
fame."  Byron  let  his  fame  take  care  of  itselL  His  foot 


xxvni 


GOETHE  UND  BYROK. 


was  always  in  the  arena,  his  shield  hung  always  in  the 
lists;  and  although  bis  own  gigantic  renown  increased 
the  difficulty  of  the  struggle ,  since  he  could  produce 
nothing,  however  great,  which  exceeded  the  public  esti- 
mates of  his  genius,  yet  he  advanced  to  the  honourable 
contest  again  and  again  and  again,  and  came  always  off 
witli  distinction,  almost  always  with  cAnplete  triumph. 
As  various  in  composition  as  Shakspeare  himself  (this 
will  be  admitted  by  all  who  are  acquainted  with  his  Don 
Juan)  he  has  embraced  every  topic  of  human  life,  and 
sounded  every  string  on  the  divine  harp,  from  its  slight- 
est to  its  most  powerful  and  heart- astounding  tones. 
There  is  scarce  a  passion  or«  situation  which  has  escaped 
his  pen;  and  he  might  be  drawn,  like  Garrick,  between  the 
weeping  and  the  laughing  Muse,  although  his  most  power- 
ful efforts  have  certainly  been  dedicated  to  Melpomene. 
His  genius  seemed  as  prolific  as  various.  The  most  pro- 
digal use  did  not  exhaust  his  powers,  nay,  seemed  rather 
to  increase  their  vigour.  Neither  ChiltU  Haroldy  nor  any 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  Byron's  earlier  tales,  contain 
more  exquisite  morsels  of  poetry  than  are  to  be  found 
scattered  through  the  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  amidst  verses 
which  the  author  appears  to  have  thrown  off  with  an  effort 


as  spontaneous  as  that  of  a  tree  resigning  its  teres  to  the 
wind.  But  that  noble  tree  will  never  more  bear  fruit  or 
blossom!  It  has  been  cut  down  in  its  strength,  and  the 
past  is  all  that  remains  to  us  of  Byron.-  We  can  scarce 
reconcile  ourselves  to  the  idea  —  scarce  think  that  the 
voice  is  silent  for  ever,  which,  bursting  so  often  on  oar 
ear,  was  often  heard  with  rapturout  admiration,  some- 
times with  regret,  but  always  with  the  deepest  interest: 
All  that's  bright  must  fade. 
The  brightest  still  the  fleetest 
With  a  strong  feeling  of  awful  sorrow  we  take  leave  of 
the  subject  Death  creeps  upon  our  most  serious  as  well 
as  upon  our  most  idle  employments ;  and  it  is  a  jreflectioa 
solemn  and  gratifying,  that  he  found  our  Byron  in  no 
moment  of  levity,  but  contributing  his  fortune,  and  ha- 
zarding his  life,  in  behalf  of  a  people  only  endeared  to 
him  by  their  past  glories,  and  as  fellow -creatures  suffering 
under  the  yoke  of  a  heathen  oppressor.  To  have  fallen 
in  a  crusade  for  freedom  and  humanity,  as  in  olden  times 
it  would  have  been  an  atonement  for  the  blackest  crimes, 
may  in  the  present  be  allowed  to  expiate  greater  follies 
than  even  exaggerated  calumny  has  propagated  against 
Byron. 


GOETHE  UND  BYRON. 


Zwisohen  den  bciden  Dichtem  bestand  ein  VerhKltniss, 
durch  dessen  zarte  Andeutung  der  Ueberlebende  dem 
Abgeschiedenen  ein  wArdiges  Denkmal  gesetzt  hat 

<'Der  dcntsche  Bichter,  bis  ins  hohe  Alter  bemtlht, 
die  Yerdienstc  frCiherer  und  mitlebender  Manner  sorg- 
r^tig  und  rein  anzuerkennen ,  indem  er  dies  als  das 
sicherste  Mittel  eigener  Bildung  von  jeher  betrachtete, 
musste  wohl  auch  auf  das  grosse  Talent  des  Lords,  bald 
nach  desseji  erstemErscheuen,  aufmerksam  werdcn,  wie 
er  denn  auch  die  Fortschritte  jcner  bedeutenden  Lci- 
stungen  und  eines  ununterbrochenen  Wirkens  unab- 
liissig  begleitete.  Hierbei  war  denn  leicht  zu  bemerken, 
dass  die  allgemeine  Anerkennung  des  dichterischen  Yer- 
dienstes  mit  Yermehrung  und  Steigcrung  rasch  auf  ein- 
ander  folgender  Productionen  in  gleichem  Maase  fort- 
wuchs.  Auch  ware  die  diesseitige  frobcThcilnahmehieran 
hochst  vollkommen  ge  wesen,  hatte  nicht  dcr  genialcOich- 
ter  durch  leidenscbaftlicbeLebensweiseund  inneres  Mis- 
behagcn  sich  selbst  ein  so  geistreichcs  als  griinzenloses 
Hervorbringen  und  seinen  Freunden  den  reizenden  Ge- 
nuss-  an  seinem  hohen  Daseyn  einigermassen  verkflm- 
mert  Der  deutsche  Bewunderer  jcdoch,  bierdurch  nicht 
geirrt,  folgte  mit  Aufmerksamkeit  einem  so  seltenen 
Leben  und  Diohten  in  aller  seiner  Exoentricitiit,  die  frei- 
lich  urn  desto  auffallender  seyn  musste,  als  ihresGleichen 
in  vergangenen  Jahrhunderten  nicht  wohl  su  entdecken 
gewesen  und  uns  die  Elemente  zur  Berechnuag  einer 
solchen  Bahn  vbllig  abgingen.  Indessen  waren  die  Be- 
mahungen  des  Deutschen  dem  Bngliinder  nicht  snbe« 
kannt  geblieben,  der  davon  in  seinen  Gedichten  unzwei- 
deutigc  Beweise  darlegte,  nicht  weniger  sich  durch  Rei- 
aende  mit  manchem  freundlicheu  Grass  veraehmen  liess. 


Sodann  aber  folgte,  Aberraschend,  gleichfalls  durch  Yer« 
mittlung,  das  Originaiblatt  einer  Dedication  des  Trauer- 
spiels  SardanapaiuM  in  den  ehrenreiGhsten  Ausdrtlokea 
und  mit  der  freundlichen  Anfrage,  oh  solche  gedachtem 
StadL  vorgedrnckt  werden  kbnnte.  Der  deutsche  mit  sich 
selbst  und  seinen  Leistnngen  im  hohen  Alter  wohlbe* 
kannte  Dichter  durfte  den  Inhalt  jener  Widmung^  nur 
als  Aeusserung  eines  treiHichen ,  hodiftlhlenden »  sich 
selbst  seine  Gegeustimde  schafienden,  unerschbpflichea 
Geistes  mit  Dank  und  Besclieidenheit  betrachten ;  auch 
fSiklilte  er  sich  nicht  unzufrieden,  als,  bei  mandierlei  Yer- 
spatung,  Sardanapal  ohne  ein  solches  Yorwort  gedrackt 
wurde,  und  fhnd  sich  schon  glOcklich  im  Besitz  eines 
lithographirtenFac  simile,  zu  hochst  werthemAndenkdk 
Dochgabder  edle  Lord  seinen  Yorsatz  nicht  auf^  dem 
deutschen  Zeit-  und  Geist-Genossen  eine  bedeutende 
Frenndiichkeit  zu  erweisen;  wie  denn  das  Trauerspiel 
Werner  ein  hochst  sdiatzbares  Denkmal  an  der  Stime 
fahrt  Hiemadi  wird  man  denn  wohl  dem  deutschen 
Dichtergreise  zutrauen,  dass  er,  einen  so  grandlich  gu- 
ten  Willen,  welcher  uns  auf  diesar  Erde  selteu  bege^net, 
von  einem  so  hoch  gefeierten  Manne  ganz  unverhoffl  er^ 
fehrend,  sich  gleidifiills  bereitete  mit  Klarheit  und  Kraft 
auszttsprechen,  von  welcher  Hoohachtung  er  flir  seinen 
unAbertrofEenen  Zeitgenossen  durchdrnngen,  von  wel- 
chem  theilnehmenden  Gefuhl  fUr  ihn  er  belebt  sey.  Aber 
die  Aufgabe  fand  sich  so  gross,  und  erschien  iuuuer 
grosser,  jemehr  man  ihrniihcr  trat;  denn  was  soil  man 
von  einem  Brdgebornen  sagen,  dessen  Yerdienstc  durch 
Betrachtnng  und  Wort  nicht  zu  ersdibpfen  sind?  Ala 
daher  ein  junger  Mann,  Herr  Sterling ,  angenehm  von 
Person  und  rein  von  Sitten,  im  Frilbjahr  1623  seinen 


LORD  BTBON'B  LAST  LINBS. 


xnx 


Wcf  TOB  Oeoua  gerade  nach  Weimar  nabin,  mid  auf 
aaem  kkinea  Biatte  weoig  eigeabaadige  Worte  des 
TCKkrtea  Maiuies  als  Bmpfdilaag  Oberbrachte,  als  ana 
tald  daraaf  daa  Gerikeht  verlautete,  der  Lord  werde 
seiaea  groasea  SinBy  seiae  maaaigfidtigea  Krafle,  aa  er- 
kabeag^fihrliche  Tbatea  fiber  ICeer  verweadea,  da  war 
udit  liager  so  madera  uad  etiig  aachatehendea  Gedicht 
feichffiebco: 

£ia  freandlich  Wort  komnrt,  eiaes  nach  dam  andero, 
Voa  Sfldea  her  uad  briagt  oas  frohe  Staadea ; 

Sf  rafk  oas  aaf  aam  Edelstea  au  waadern, 
Nkht  iat  der  Geist,  doch  iat  der  Fuss  gebaadea. 

Wk  loll  ich  dem,  dea  ich  so  laag'  begleitet^ 
Naa  etwas  Trautich's  ia  die  Ferae  sagea  ? 

DuBy  der  sich  selbst  im  laaersten  bestreitet. 
Stark  aagcwohaty  das  tiefste  Weh  zo  tragea. 

WoU  sejr  ihm  docb,  wean  er  sloh  selbst  einpfiadet! 

£r  wage  aelbst  sieh  faoehb^lAckt  aa  aentten, 
Wcaa  Mnaeakraft  die  Schmeraea  (kberwiadet; 

Uad  wie  ich  iha  erkanat,  mog'  er  sich  keaaen. 
WitMuw,  tUn  22.  JuMy,  1823*  ^ 

Es  gelangte  aach  Geaua»  faad  ihn  abcr  aicht  mehr  da- 
iribst;  achoa  war  der  treffliche  Frenad  al^gesegeU  uad 
achiea  daeaa  jeden  schoa  weit  entferat;  darch  Stflrme 
jcdock  sarOokgehalteay  landcte  er  ia  Livorno,  wo  ihn 
du  henfich  geaendetegerade  aoch  traf,  urn  es  tm  Angen- 


bficke  seiner  Abfehrt,  den  24.  Jnly  ld23»  mit  eiaem  rei- 
neo  schon-geffthlten  Blatt  erwiedern  an  konnen;  als 
werthestes  Zeugaiss  eines  wOrdigea  Verhaltaisses  outer 
den  kostbarsten  DocoBAeatea  vom  Besitaer  aafznbe- 
wahrea.  So  sehr  oas  nan  ein  aoiches  Blatt  erfreoen  und 
rfthren  and  an  der  schbnsten  Lebenshoffnang  aofregen 
niusste,  so  erhalt  es  gegenwiirtig  dorch  das  uaseitige  Ai>- 
ieben  des  hohen  Schreibendea  den  grossten  schmerz- 
iichsteo  Werth,  indem  es  die  allgemeiae  Traaer  der 
Sittea-  uad  liicbterwelt  Aber  seinen  Yerlust  tHr  nns 
ieider  ganz  in8l>esondere  schiirft,  die  wir  nach  vollbrach- 
tem  grossen  BemOhen  hoffen  durften,  den  yorzflglichsten 
Geist,  den  glftcklich  erworbenea  Freond  und  zugleich 
den  measchlicbsten  Sieger ,  personlich  zu  begrOssen. 
Nun  aber  erhebt  uns  die  Ueberzeogung ,  dass  seine 
Nation  ans  deal,  theilweise  gegen  ihn  autbrauseaden, 
tadeladea,  scheltenden  Taumei  piotzlich  zor  Nftchtern- 
heiterwachen  und  allgemein  begreifen  werde,  dass  alle 
Sohalen  und  Schiacken  der  Zeit  und  des  IndividuoaBS^ 
durch  weldie  sich  anch  der  beste  hindurcfa  uad  beraus 
zu  arbeiten  hat^aur  augenblicklichy  verganglich  und  bin- 
fallig  gewesen,  wogegen  der  staunuafswArdige  Rulim^  ^ 
zu  deal  er  seia  Yateriand  f&r  jetzt  und  kinfUg'  erhebt, 
in  seiner  Herrlichkcit  griinzenlos  und  in  seinen  Folgea 
uabcrechenbar  bleibt.  Gewiss,  diese  Nation,  die  sich  so 
yieler  grosser  Namen  rAhnien  darf,  wird  ihn  Tcrkliirt  zu 
denjenigen  steliea,  durch  die  sie  sich  immerfort  selbst  zu  W 
chren  hat"  ^ 


LORD  BYRON'S  LAST  LINES. 


Til  tiaie  Aia  heart  ihoold  be  unmoved 

Saoe  others  it  has  ceased  to  move  ; 
Tdy  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 

StiUletmelovc. 

Myjdays  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone : 
Tie  worm,  the  canker  aad  the  grief. 
Are  mine  alone. 

Iha  ire  that  ia  my  bosoms  preys 

is  like  to  some  volcaaic  isle; 
BaloKch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  -* 
A  faneral  pile. 

tie  hope,  the  fears,  the  jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  paia 
lad  power  of  love  I  cannot  share, 

But  wear  the  chain. 

Itt 'tb  act  <««#  —  it  is  not  Jbra  •<- 
Swh  tboqgfata  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  i 
I     Viere  glory  seals  the  hero's  bier. 

Or  binds  his  brow. 


Tlie  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see ; 
The  Spartan  borne  upon  his  shield 

Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !  (aot  Greece^she  is  awake !) 
Awake. my  spirit!  think  through  tcrAoai 

H y  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake  — 
'  4  And  then  strike  home  I 

Tread  those  reviving  passions. do wai» 

Unworthy  Manhood !  Unto  thee 
IndifiereUt  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regretst  thy  youth  —  why  live?  — 

The  laad  of  honourable  death 
Is  here  —  up  to  the  field,  aad  give 

Away  thy  breath! 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  ftur  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

And  take  thy  rest, 
lUisflangkiy  Jmmannf  the  22»  1824. 


^^1 


L^^x.  yii^    CONTENTS. 


The  Life  of  the  Author          .  •  .  I-XXXH 

Chllde  Haroki'j  PUffrimag^  •  .  •       •        1 
N  The  Giaour 

The  Bride  of  Abydo«     .        •  .  •  •        .61 


^^Thc  Corsair  • ^     Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte 

V  Lara otSJlBnglish  Bards  and  Scotch  Beviewers 

V  The  Siege  of  Corinth 103 

O' P^Misina 112> 

118 


-=^^The  Prisoner  of  Chillon        .        •        .        . 

^Maceppa 

Beppo 130 

V^I>OBJttan lae 

^Thelsland •        .311 

NfManfrcd 326 

Marino  Faliero 339 

.  375 

.  397 

•  409 
.        .        .        .  433 

.  465 

I        •        •        •  503 

•  519 
.  521 


N 


Cain 

Heaven  and  Earth  • 

The  Two  Foscari 

Sardanapalos 

Werner        •        •        •        « 

The  Deformed  Transformed 

The  Lament  of  Tasso    . 

The  Prophecy  of  Dante 


The  Dream 528 

Darkness      • 630 


Prometheus  •       .       .        . 
Churchill's  Grave 
Monody  on  Sheridan's  DeaA 
[ebrew  Melodiefl         « 


581 
53) 
5» 
634 
d» 

54r 

561 
551 


The  Curse  of  Minerva  •        •        •    ^  . 
TheAgeofBronnft       •       • 

[VTheyi^ion  of  Judgment ^ 

"^122;  s!^£SoeUaneous  Poems  .        .        .        .        ,        .  ^570 
Waits,' an  Apostrophic  Hymn       •        •  .617 

Franoesca  of  Rimini 6S0 

Hints  from  Horaoe 631 

Hours  of  Idleness 6S9 

Translations  and  Imitations 6S8 

Fugitive  Pieces .        .    644 

Moigantc  Maggiore 683 

The  Blues,  a  Literary  Bdogue      .        •        .        .    659 

A  Fragment 68S 

Letter  on  Bowles' Strictures  on  Pope  .  .  .665 
A  Second  Letter  on  Bowles'  Strictures  oa  Pope  •  675 
Review  of  Wordsworth's  Poems  .  .  .  .686 
Letter totheEdicor of '<My Grandmother^sReview"    087 

Parliamentary  Speeches 690 

Bxtrapt  from  Moore's  Notice  of  Byron's  LUe        .    696 


Notes  to  Childe  Harold's  I41grimage    •       ...    609 

Notes  to  tiie  Giaour      .        • '      .        .        .        .734 

^  Notes  to  the  Bride  of  Abydos        •        .        .        .^  fso 

Notes  to  the  Corsair 738 

Note  to  Lara 740 

Notes  to  the  Siege  of  Corinth         .        .        .        .741 

Notes  to  Parisina 742 

Notes  to  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon    .        .        .        .743 

Notes  to  Don  Juan 744 

Notes  to  the  Island        .        .        .        .        .        .    757 

Notes  to  Manfred 761 

Notes  and  Appendix  to  Marino  Faliero  .  .  761 
Appendix  to  the  Two  Foscari  ....  765 
Notes  to  Sardanapalos 771 


Note  to  the  Deformed  Transformed 
Note  to  the  Lament  of  Tasso 
Notes  to  the  Prophecy  of  Dante  . 
Notes  to  the  Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte 
Notes  to  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers 
Notes  to  the  Curse  of  Minerva 
Notes  to  the  Age  of  Bronze  . 
Notes  to  the  Vision  of  Judgment  . 
Notes  to  the  Miscellaneous  Poems 
Notes  to  the  Waltz 
Notes  to  the  Hours  of  Idleness 
Extract  from  the  Edinburgh-Review,  Nro.  22,  for 
January  1808  .  .  ^  .  .  . 
Note  to  the  Letter  on  Bowles'  Strictures  on  Pope 


771 
771 
771 
773 
773 
777 
7W 
778 
778 
779 
780 

780 
782 


LAKE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BTRON. 


XXV 


L  BMcb  better  himself  tliim  I  caovld.  To  this 
mj  oHUrter  replied,  *NOy  it  ia  now  nearly  over;'  and  tbea 
added,  *I  muat  tell  you  all  without  losing'  a  moment  1'  I 
dwn  said,  'Shall  I  go,  my  lord,  and  fetch  pen,  ink  and 
paper?'  —  *Oh,  my  Godl  no;  yon  will  lose  too  much 
tiflK^and  I  havc  it  not  to  spare,  for  my  time  is  now  short,' 
laid  Us  lordship ,  and  immediately  after ,  *Now  pay 
atteadon!'  His  lordship  commenced  by  saying,  'You 
viU  be  provided  for.'  I  begged  him,  however,  to  proceed 
with  dmigs  of  more  consequence.  He  then  continued, 
S)h,  my  poor  dear  child !  my  dear  Ada !  my  God !  could 
I  bat  have  seen  her!  Give  her  my  blessing  —  and  my 
dear  sister  Augusta  and  her  children ;  and  you  will  go  to 
Lady  Byron,  and  say  —  tell  her  every  thing,  —  you  are 
friends  with  her.'  His  lordship  seemed  to  be  greatly 
aCected  at  this  moment  Here  my  master's  voice  &iled 
hiai,  so  that  I  oonld  only  catch  a  word  at  intervals ;  but 
be  kept  mattering  something  very  seriously  for  some 
fioK^  and  would  <^en  raise  hU  voice,  and  said,  'Fletcher, 
BOW  if  you  do  not  execute  every  order  which  I  have  given 
yoa,I  will  torment  you  hereafter  if  possible.'-  Here  I  told 
.  his  lordship  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  perplexity,  that  i 
had  not  understood  a  word  of  what  he  said ;  to  which  he 
rqified,  K)h,  my  Godl  then  all  is  lost,  for  it  is  now  too 
lata!  Can  it  be  possible  you  have  not  understood  me  ?'— 
%^  my  lord,'  said  I,  'but  I  pray  you  to  try  and  inform 
tm  onee  more.'  'How  can  I?'  rejoined  my  master,  'it  is 
BOW  too  late,  and  all  is  over!'  I  said,  'Not  our  wilt,  but 
God's  be  ctone !'  —  and  he  answered,  'Yes,  not  mine  be 
dsae!  —  but  I  will  try."  His  lordship  did  indeed  make 
seven]  efforts  to  speak,  but  could  only  speak  two  or  three 
words  at  a  time,  —  such  as  'Hy  wife!  my  child!  my 
aster!  —  you  know  all  —  you  most  say  all  —  you  know 
■y  wishes' — the  rest  was  quite  nniutelli^ble,  A  consul- 
Wkm  was  now  held  (about  noon),  when  it  was  deter- 
sdaed  to  administer  some  Peruvian  bark  and  wine.  My 
■BSterhad  now  been  nine  days  without  any  sustenance 
whatever,  except  what  I  have  already  mentioned.  With 
Ae  exception  of  a  few  words,  which  can  only  interest 
Aoseto  whom  they  were  addressed,  and  which  if  required 
likaUoommanieate  to  themselves,  it  was  impossible  to 
«derstand  any  thing  his  lordship  said  after  takmg  the 
bariL  He  expressed  a  wish  to  sleep.  I  at  one  time  asked 
whelber  I  should  call  Mr.  Parry,  to  which  he  replied, 
Tea,  yon  may  call  him/  Mr.  Parry  desired  him  to  com- 
poae  bimselt  He  shed  tears,  and  apparently  sunk  into  a 
slmnfaer.  Mr.  Parry  went  away  expecting  to  And  him 
refreshed  on  his  return,  ^  but  it  was  the  commence- 
■ent  of  the  lethargy  preoeding  his  death.  The  last  words 
I  heoffd  my  master  utter  were  at  six  o'clock  on  the  evening 
of  Ike  18th,  when  he  said,  'I  must  sleep  now ;'  upon  which 
he  hod  down  never  to  rise  agnin  1  —  for  he  did  not  move 
hMd  or  foot  during  the  following  twenty-four  hours*  His 
loidship  appeared,  however,  to  be  in  a  state  of  suffocation 
atintervato,  and  had  a  frequent  rattiing  in  the  throat;  on 
ftsae  occasions  I  called  Tita  to  assist  me  in  raising  his 
Ind,  and  I  thought  he  seemed  to  get  quite  stiff.  The 
mttSqg  and  ehoalung  in  the  throat  took  place  every  half- 
hov,  and  we  continued  to  raise  his  head  whenever  the  fit 
«Bie  on,  till  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  19th,  when 
laav  my  master  open  his  eyes  and  then  shut  them,  but 
widiont  showing  any  symptom  of  pain,  or  moving  hand 
tirlbot  'Oh!  my  God!'  I  exclaimed, 'I  fear  his  lordship 
isgone!'  the  doctors  then  felt  his  pulse,  and  said,  'You 
aie  right  —  he  is  gone !'" 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  a  description  of  the  uni- 
scnal  sorrow  that  ensued  at  Missolonghi.  Not  only  Man- 
lOeordato  and  his  immediate  circle,  but  the  whole  city 
and  all  its  inhabitants  were,  as  it  seemed,  stunned  by  this 
Mow;  it  had  been  so  sudden,  so  unexpected.  His  illness, 
kideed,  had  been  known,  and  for  the  last  three  days  none 
if  his  friends  oould  walk  in  the  streets  without  anxious 
iaquiries  from  every  one  of  "How  is  my  lord?" 

On  the  day  of  this  melancholy  event.  Prince- Mauro- 
caidato  issued  a  proclamation  expressive  of  the  deep 


and  unfeigned  grief  fdt  by  all  classes,  and  ordering  every 
public  demonstration  of  respect  and  sorrow  to  be  paid  to 
the  memory  of  the  illustrious  deceased,  by  firing  minute* 
guns,  closing  all  the  public  offices  and  shops,  suspending 
the  usual  Easter  festivities,  and  by  a  general  mourn- 
ing and  ftineral  prayers  in  all  the  churches.  It  was  resol- 
ved that  the  body  should  be  embalmed,  and  after  the 
suitable  funeral  honours  had  been  performed,  should  be 
embarked  forZante, — thence  to  be  conveyed  toBngland. 
Accordingly  the  medical  men  opened  the  body  and  em- 
balmed it,  and  having  enclosed  the  heart,  and  brain,  and 
intestines  in  separate  vessels,  they  placed  it  in  a  chest 
lined  with  tin,  as  there  were  no  means  of  procuring  a  leaden 
coffin  capable  of  holding  the  spirits  necessary  for  its  pre* 
servation  on  the  voyage.  Dr.  Bruno  drew  up  aa.aoooant 
of  the  examination  of  the  body,  by  which  it  appeared  his 
lordship's  death  had  been  caused  by  an  inflammatory 
fever.  Dr.  Meyer,  a  Swiss  physician,  who  was  present 
and  had  accidentally  seen  Madame  de  Stael  after  her 
death,  stated  that  the  formation  of  the  brain  in  both  these 
illustrious  persons  was  extremely  similar,  but  that  Lord 
Byron  had  a  much  greater  quantity. 

On  the  22d  of  April,  1624,  in  the  midst  of  his  own 
brigade,  of  the  troops  of  the  government,  and  of  the  whole 
population,  on  the  shoulders  of  the  officers  of  his  corps, 
relieved  occasionally  by  other  Greeks,  the  most  precious 
portion  of  his  honoured  remains  were  carried  to  the 
church,  where  lie  the  bodies  of  Marco  Botzaris  and  of 
Gfreneral  Normann.  There  they  were  laid  down :  the  coffin 
was  a  rude,  ill-constructed  chest  of  wood ;  a  black  mantie 
served  for  a  pall,  and  over  it  were  placed  a  helmet,  a 
sword,  and  a  crown  of  laurel.  But  no  funeral  pomp  could 
have  left  the  impression,  nor  spoken  the  feelings,  of  this 
simple  ceremony.  The  wretchedness  and  desolation  of 
the  place  itself;  the  wild  and  h€df-civilized  warriors  pre- 
sent; their  deep-felt,  unaffected  grief;  the  fond  recol- 
lections^ the  disappointed  hopes;  the  anxieties  and  sad 
presentiments  which  might  be  read  on  every  counte- 
nanee  -  all  contributed  to  form  a  scene  more  moving, 
more  truly  affecting  tiian  perhaps  was  ever  before  wit- 
nessed round  the  grave  of  a  great  man. 

When  the  funeral  service  was  over^  the  bier  was  left  In 
the  middle  of  the  church,  where  it  remained  until  the 
evening  of  the  next  day,  and  was  guarded  by  a  detach- 
ment of  his  own  brigade.  The  church  was  incessantly 
crowded  by  those  who  came  to  honour  and  to  regret  the 
benefactor  of  Greece.  In  the  evening  of  the  23d,  the  bier 
was  privately  carried  back  by  his  officers  to  his  own 
house.  Thecoffin  was  not  closed  tillthe29th  of  the  month. 

Immediately  after  his  death,  his  countenance  bad  an 
air  of  calmness,  mtngied  with  a  severity,  that  seemed 
gradually  to  soften,  and  the  whole  expression  was  truly 


!n  May  2d,  the  remains  of  Lord  Byron  were  embarked, 
under  a  salute  from  the  guns  of  the  fortress.  "How  differ- 
ent," exclaims.  Count  Ganiba,  "from  that  which  had 
welcomed  the  arrival  of  Byron  only  four  months  ago !" 
After  a  passage  of  three  days,  tlie  vessel  reached  Zante, 
and  the  precious  deposit  was  placed  in  the  quarantine 
house.  Here  some  additional  precautions  were  taken  to 
ensure  its  safe  arrival  in  England,  by  providing  another 
case  for  the  body.  On  May  the  10th,  Colonel  Stanhope 
arrived  at  Zante,  from  the  Morea,  and,  as  he  was  on  his 
way  back  to  England,  he  took  charge  of  Lord  Byron's 
remains,  and  embarked  with  them  on  board  the  Florida. 
On  tiie  26th  of  May  she  sailed  from  Zante,  on  tlie  29tii 
of  June  entered  the  Downs,  and  from  thence  proceeded 
to  Stangate  creek,  to  perform  quarantine ,  where  she 
arrived  on  Thursday,  July  1st 

John  Cam  Hobhouse,  esq.  and  John  Hanson,  esq., 
Lord  Byron's  executors,  after  having  proved  his  will, 
claimed  the  body  from  the  Florida,  and  under  their 
directions  it  was  removed  to  the  house  of  Sir  Edward 
Knatchbull,  No.  29,  Great  George-street,  Westminster. 

tt 


XXVI 


LAKK'S  LIFX  OP  LORD  BYRON. 


It  wM  aaaomioed  frolki  time  to  timo  tbat  the  body  of 
Lord  Byron  was  to  be  exhibited  in  state,  and  the  pro- 
gress of  the  embellishments  of  the  poet's  bier  was  re- 
corded in  the  pages  of  a  hundred  publications.  They 
were  at  length  oompletcd,  and  to  separate  the  cariosity 
of  the  poor  from  the  admiration  of  the  rich,  the  latter 
were  indulged  with  tickets  of  admission,  and  a  day  was 
set  apairt  for  them  to  go  and  wonder  ov^  the  decked 
room  and  the  emblazoned  bier.  Peers  and  peeresses, 

griests,  poets,  and  politicians,  came  in  gilded  chariots  and 
I  hired  hacks  to  gaee  upon  the  splendour  of  the  funeral 
preparations,  and  to  see  in  how  rich  and  how  vain  a 
shroud  the  body  of  the  immortal  bard  had  been  hid. 
Those  idte  trappings  in  which  rank  seems  to  mark  its 
altitude  above  the  vulgar  belonged  to  the  state  of  the  peer 
rather  than  to  the  state  of  the  poet;  genius  required  no 
such  attractions,  and  all  this  magnificence  served  only  to 
distract  our  regard  from  the  man  whose  inspired  tongue 
was  now  silenced  for  ever.  Who^sared  for  Lord  Byron 
the  peer  and  the  privy  counsellor,  with  his  coronet  and 
his  long  descent  from  princes  on  one  side,  and  from 
heroes  on  both?  and  who  did  not  care  for  George  Gordon 
Byron  the  poet,  who  has  charmed  us,  and  will  charm  our 
descendants  with  his  deep  and  impassioned  verse?  The 
homage  was  rendered  to  genius,  not  surely  to  rank  — 
for  lord  can  be  stamped  on  any  clay,  but  inspiration  can 
only  be  impressed  on  the  finest  metaU 

A  few  select  friends  and  admirers  followed  Lord  Byron 
to  the  grave  —  his  coronet  was  borne  before  him,  and 
there  were  many  indications  of  his  rank;  but,  save  the 
assembled  multitude,  no  indications  of  his  genius.  In 
conformity  with  a  singular  practice  of  the  great,  a  long 
train  of  their  empty  carriages  followed  the  mourning- 
coaches  —  mocking  the  dead  with  idle  state,  and  impe- 
ding with  barren  pageantry  the  honester  sympathy  of  the 
crowd.  Where  were  the  owners  of  thos<3  machines  of 
sloth  and  luxury  —  where  were  the  men  of  rank  among 
whose  dark  pedigrees  Lord  Byron  threw  the  light  of  his 
genius,  and  lent  the  brows  of  nobility  a  halo  to  which 


they  were  strangers?  Where  were  the  great  whigi? 
where  were  the  iUustrions  tories?  could  a  mere  difference 
in  matters  of  human  belief  keep  those  festidtous  persons 
away?  But,  above  all,  where  were  the  friends  with  whom 
wedlock  had  united  him  7  On  his  desolate  corpse  no  wife 
looked,  no  child  shed  a  tear.  We  have  no  wish  to  set  our- 
selves up  as  judges  in  domestic  infelicities,  and  we  aie 
willing  to  believe  they  were  separated  in  such  a  way  as 
to  render  oonciliatiou  hopeless;  but  who  could  stand  and 
look  on  his  pale  manly  lace,  and  his  dark  locks  whirh 
early  sorrows  were  making  thin  and  grey,  without  feeling 
that,  gifted  as  he  was,  with  a  soul  above  the  mark  of  other 
men,  his  domestic  misfortunes  caHed  for  our  pity  as 
surely  as  his  genius  called  for  our  admiration? 

As  the  cavalcade  proceeded  through  tiie  streets  of 
London,  a  fine-looking  honest  tar  was  observed  to  walk 
near  the  hearse  uncovered  throughout  the  morning,  and 
on  bring  asked  by  a  Strang^  whether  he  formed  part  of 
the  funeral  eorUpe,  he  replied  he  came  there  to  pay  bis 
respects  to  the  deceased,  with  whom  he  had  served  In  the 
Levant,  when  he  made  the  tour  of  the  Grecian  Islands. 
This  poor  fellow  was  kindly  offered  a  place  by  some  of 
the  servants  who  were  behmd  the  carriage,  but  be  said 
he  was  strong,  and  had  rather  walk  near  the  hearse. 

It  was  not  till  Friday,  July  I6th,  that  the  interment 
took  place.  Lord  Byron  was  buried  in  the  family-vault, 
at  the  villageof  Hucknall,  eight  miles  beyond  Nottingham, 
and  within  two  miles  of  the  venerable  abbey  ofNewstead. 
He  was  accompanied  to  the  grave  by  crowds  of  persons 
eager  to  show  this  last  testimony  of  respect  to  his  memory. 
In  one  of  his  earlier  poems  he  had  expressed  a  wish  that 
his.  dust  might  mingle  with  his  mother's,  and,  in  com- 
pliance with  this  wish,  his  coffin  was  placed  in  the  vault 
next  to  hers.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past  four  o'clock  on 
Friday,  July  16th,  1824,  when  the  ceremony  was  con- 
cluded, when  the  tomb  closed  for  ever  on  Byron,  and 
when  his  friends  were  relieved  from  every  care  concera- 
ing  him,  save  that  of  doing  justice  to  his  memory,  and 
of  cherishing  hb  fame. 


The  following  inscription  was  placed  on  the  coffin:  — 

George  Gordon  Noel  Byron^ 

Lord  Byron,  of  Rochdale, 
Born  in  London,  Jan.  22, 1788, 
died  at  Missolonghi,  in  Western  Greece,  April  19th,  1824. 
An  urn  accompanied  the  coffin,  and  on  it  was  inscribed : 

Within  this  urn  are  deposited  the  heart,  brain,  etc 
of  the  deceased  Lord  Byron. 
An  elegant  Grecian  tablet  of  white  marble  has  been  placed  in  the  chancel  of  the  Hucknall  church.  We  subjoin 
a  copy  of  the  insmption. 

IN  THB  VAULT  BENEATH, 

WHERE  HANT  OP  HIS  ANCESTORS  AND  HIS  MOTHER  ARE  BURIED, 

LIB  THE  REMAINS  OF 

GEORGE  GQUDON  NOEL  BYRON, 

LORD  BYRON,  OF  ROCHDALE,  IN  THE  COUNTY  OF  LANCASTER; 

THE  AUTHOR  OP  ''CHILDE  HAROLD's  PILGRIMAGE.'' 

HB  WAS  BORN  IN  LONDON,  ON  THE  22D  OP  JANUARY,    1788. 

HB  DIED  AT  MISSOLONGHI,  IN  WESTERN  GREECE,  ON   THE   19TH  OF  APRIL,    1824» 

ENGAGED  IN  THE  GLORIOUS  ATTEMPT  TO  RESTORE  THAT  COUNTRY 

TO  HER  ANCIENT  FREEDOM  AND  RENOWN. 


HIS  SISTER,  THE  HONOURABLE  AUGUSTA  MARIA  LEIGH, 
PLACED  THIS  TABLET  TO  HIS  MEMORY. 


CHDLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


A  ROMAUNT. 


L'«iiitert  est  one  «ip^  de  IWre  done  <m  a'a  la 
qiuud  oo  D'a  vn  qae  son  paya.  Poi  ai  fealllete  i 
qae  J*ai  tronv^  ^alement  maovalM*.  Get 
iuft-actaeox.  Je  haisaali  ma  patrie.  Toatet 
peoplcfl  diven,  panal  ieMiaeli  j'al  veca,  m'< 
Qnand  je  n'auraii  ttr^  d'aotre  Wneflce  de  mei 
Je  n'en  regretterals  ni  les  tadt,  ni  les  fatignei. 


M  la  premiere  page, 

aiaex  grand  nombre, 

ne  m-'a  point  etc 

les  Impertinences  des 

nt  r^ncilic  avec  elle. 

voyages  qne  celni-la. 

Lb  Coixopoliti. 


PREFACE. 


Trb  foUowing^  Poem  was  unitten,  fbr  the  most  part, 
anidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It  was 
bt^oD  ui  Albania  y  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain  and 
PDitii|;al  were  composed  from  the  author's  obserrations 
ia  those  ooantries.  Thus  much  it  may  be  necessary  to 
ilBte  for  the  correctness  of  the  descriptions.  The  scenes 
attempted  to  be  sketched  are  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus, 
Acamaniay  and  Greece.  There  fbr  the  present  the  poem 
flops:  its  reception  will  determine  whether  the  author 
■ay  Ycntare  to  conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the 
Bast,  through  Ionia  and  Phrygia:  these  two  Cantos  arc 
wrdy  experimental. 

^  A  lictitioiu  character  is  infroduced  for  the  sake  of 
ghriagsome  connexion  to  the  piece,  which,  however, 
■ikes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been  suggested 
to  ne  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  set  a  high 
nfaM^  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  <'Childe  Harold," 
Imayiiiear  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
penooage:  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim  — 
Harold  is  the  child  of  imagination ,  for  the  purpose  I 
kaveatatcd.  In  some  very  trivial  particulars ,  and  those 
■erely  local,  there  might  be  grounds  for  such  a  notion; 
hat  ia  the  main  points,  I  should  hope,  none  whatever. 

U  b  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appel- 
lation ^Childe,''  as  Childe  Waters,  ChildeChilders,  is 
■sed  as  more  consonant  with  the  old  structure  of  versi- 
feation  which  I  have  adopted.  The  <<Good  Night,''  in 
^beginning  of  the  first  Canto,  was  suggested  by  ''Lord 
Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the  Border  Minstrelsy, 
edited  by  Mr.  Scott 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  published 
9B Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight 
cQiDcidenoe  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the  Pen^n- 
■h,  but  it  can  only  be  casual ;  as,  with  the  exception  of 
ifew  oondudin^  stansas,  the  whole  of  this  poem  was 
tritten  In  the  Levant. 

The  stanxa  of  Spenser ,  according  to  one  of  our  most 
neeeaafiil  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  Beattie 
■akes  the  following  observation :  ''Not  long  ago  I  began 
a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of  Spenser,  in  which  I 


propose  to  give  foil  scope  to  my  inclination,  and  be 
either  droll  or  pathetic,  descriptive  or  sentimental, 
tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour  strikes  me;  for,  if  I 
mistake  not,  the  measure  which  I  have  adopted  admits 
equally  of  all  these  kinds  of  compositions."  Strength- 
ened in  my  opinion  by  such  authority,  and  by  the 
example  of  some  in  the  highest  order  of  Italian  poets ,  I 
shall  make  no  apology  for  attempts  at  similar  variations 
in  the  following  composition;  satisfied  that,  if  they  are 
unsuccessful ,  their  failure  must  be  in  the  execution , 
rather  than  in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of 
Ariosto,  Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I  have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  jour- 
nals have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criticism. 
To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criticisms  I  have 
nothing  to  object;  it  would  ill  become  me  to  quarrel 
with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure,  when,  perhaps, 
if  they  had  been  less  kind  they  had  been  more  candid. 
Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best  thanks  for 
their  liberality,  on  one  point  alone  shall  I  venture  an 
observation.  Amongst  the  many  objections  justly  urged 
to  the  very  indifferent  character  of  the  "vagrant  Childe" 
(whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints  to  the  contrary,  I 
still  maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage;)  it  has  been 
stated,  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  un- 
knightly,  as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of  love, 
honour,  and  so  forth.  Now  it  so  happens  that  the  good 
old  times,  when  "I'amour  du  bon  vieux  tems,  I'amour 
antique"  flourished,  were  the  most  profligate  of  all  pos- 
sible centuries.  Those  who  have  any  doubts  on  this 
subject  may  consult  St  Palaye,  passim,  and  more  par- 
ticularly vol.  IL  pag.  69.  The  vows  of  chivalry  were  no 
better  kept  than  any  other  vows  whatsoever,  and  the 
songs  of  the  Troubadours  were  not  more  decent,  and 
certainly  were  much  less  refined ,  than  those  of  Ovid.  — 
The^Cours  d'amour,  parlemens  d'amour  ou  de  oonr- 
toisic  et  de  gentilcsse,"  had  much  more  of  love  than  of 
courtesy  or  gentleness.  —  See  Roland  on  the  same 
1 


TO  lANTHE. 


:«iibj«et\SitbJ3t.*P»laye.  —  Whatever  other  objection 
may  be  urged  to  that  most  nnamiable  personag^c  Childe 
Harold,  he  waa  so  for  perfectly  knightly  in  his  attri-; 
bates — "No  waiter,  bat  a  knight  templar."  —  By  the  by, 
I  fear  that  Sir  Tristram  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better 
than  they  should  be,  although  yery  poetical  personages 
and  true  knights  "sans  pear,''  though  not  "sans 
reproche."— If  the  story  of  the  institution  of  the  "Garter" 
be  not  a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several 
centuries  Borne  the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury, 
of  indififerent  memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke 
need  not  have  regretted  that  its  days  are  oyer,  though 
Maria  Antoinette  was  quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in 
whose  honours  lances  were  shivered,  and  knights 
unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  ancient 
and  modern  times)^  few  exceptions  will  be  found  to  this 


statement,  and  I  fear  a  litde  inycstigation  will  teach  as 
not  to  regret  these  monstrous  mummeries  of  the  middle 
ages. 

I  now  leave  "Childe  Harold"  to  live  his  day,  audi  as 
he  is;  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly  more 
easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It  bad  been 
easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him  do  more  and 
express  less,  but  he  never  was  intended  as  an  example, 
further  than  to  show  that  early  perversion  of  mind  and 
morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and  disap- 
pointment in  new  ones,  and  that  even  the  beauties  of 
nature  and  the  stimulus  of  travel  (except  ambition,  the 
most  powerful  of  all  excitements)  are  lost  on  a  soul  so. 
constituted,  or  rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with 
the  Poem,  this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he 
drew  to  the  close;  for  the  outline  which  I  once  meant  to 
fill  up  for  him  was ,  with  some  exceptions ,  the  sketch  of 
a  modern  Timon,  periiaps  a  poetipal  Zeluoo. 


TO  lANTHB. 


Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying. 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless  deem'd; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd. 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd: 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd  — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak ;     [speak? 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 

Ah  I  mayst  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art. 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing. 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 


Young  Peri  of  the  West!  —  'tis  well  for  me 

My  years  already  doubly  number  thine; 

My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 

And  safely  ^ew  thy  ripening  beauties  shine ; 

Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline, 

Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 

Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 

To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed,         [decreed. 

But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  hours 

Oh!  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle's, 

Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy. 

Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells. 

Glance  o'er  this  page;  nor  to  my  verse  deny 

That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh. 

Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend : 

This  much,  dear  maid,  accord;  nor  question  why 

To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend. 

But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 


Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined ; 

And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 

On  Harold's  page,  lanthe's  here  enshrined 

Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last : 

My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 

Attract  thy  fairy-fingers  near  the  lyre 

Of  him  who  hailed  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast. 

Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire ;         [require? 

Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friendship  less 


^ 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


A  ROMAUNT. 


CANTO      I. 


1. 


Oh,  tluxi !  in  HcUas  dcem'd  of  heavenly  birth, 
Xvse!  form'd  or  fiibled  at  the  minstrel's  will! 
Sinoe  shamed  full  oft  by  Jater  lyres  on  earth, 
IGne  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill ; 
Tet  there  I've  wandcr'd  by  thy  yannted  rill ; 
Yes!  sighed  o'er  Delphi's  longHleserted  shrine, 
Where,  nye  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  —  this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

2. 
WhUome  in  Albion's  Isle  there  dwelt  a  yooth, 
Who  ne  in  Virtue's  ways  did'£ke  cfelight; 
Ika^peiniirt&ysui  not  mostimcouth,     ^ 
AaSTf^'S  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Night 
Ah,  me!  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  giren  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  oompanie, 
Awlihanting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

3. 
CtiMe  Harold  was  he  hight:  —  but  whence  his  name 
lad  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 
Sifice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
Aad  had  been  glorious  in  another  day : 
Bat  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye, 
Howerer  mighty  in  the  olden  time; 
Nor  an  that  heralds  rake  from  ooi&n'd  c|pgi^ 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhym^^ 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

4. 
(%ilde  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noon-tide  sun, 
Diiportbig^ere  like  any  other  fly ; 
Kor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  kwg  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
WoTM  than  adversity  the  Childe  befcU ; 
Befidt  flie  fulness  of  A^ety : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seon'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Bremito's  sad  oclL 

d. 

Fof  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
y^rnSk  atonemeni  when  he  did  amiss, 
n»f4gfa'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
Aad  that  loved  one,  alas !  could  ne'er  be  his.  V 
Ah,  happy  she !  to  'scape  from  him  whoseJu^s 
Bad  beeii4iQ9ntion  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 
.And  spoD'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 
Morcabn  domestic  peade  hamper  deign'd  to  taste. 


6. 


And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sor^sickjU  heart, 

And  from  his  fellow-bacchanals  would  flee; 

'Tis  saiA-,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 

Qut  Pride  congeal 'd  the  drop  within  his  ee : 

Apart  hi&i^^iPd  in  joyless  reverie, 

And  from  his  nativeland  resolved  to  go, 

And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 

With  pleasure  drugg'dhe  almost  longed  for  woe,  £bclow. 

And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades 

7. 
The  Childe  departed  from  his  ihther's  hall : 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile ; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall. 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome !  condemned  to  uses  vile  I 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  k];iown  to  sing  and  smile; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

8. 
Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's  brow. 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud    . 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below : 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  oared  to  know ; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  covnsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  control 

0. 
And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatt'rers  of  the  festal  hour; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Tea !  none  did  love  him  —  not  his  lemans  dear  — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare,      [spair. 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where'Seraplis  might  de- 

10. 
Childe  Harold  had  a  mother  —  not  forgot. 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  b^un : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel ; 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  doat  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO] 


II. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 

The  laaghing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 

Whose  lar^  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 

Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 

And  long:  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite  ; 

His  goblets  brimm*d  with  every  costly  win^, 

And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 

Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine,  [lint*. 

And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central 

r  . 

13. 

The  sails  were  fiird,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view. 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whihrt  others  sate  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

13. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 

He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 

And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 

When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening  : 

And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 

And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 

While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  sn6wy  wing, 

And  fleeting  shores  receded  f^om  his  sight, 

Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  Good  Niglit. 

Adieu,  adieu !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land  —  Good  Night ! 

A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

To  give  the  Morrow  birth; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies. 

But  not  my  mother  Earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall. 

Its  hearth  is  desolate; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow's  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  tliine  eye; 

Onf  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along.  — 


Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind ; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee  —  and  one  above. 

My  father  bless'd  me  fervently. 

Yet  did  not  much  complain ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again.  — 
Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman, 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman  ? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?  — 
Deemst  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wifb 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall. 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call. 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ?  — 
Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 

For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wif^v  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leayc 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

And  now  Fm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea : 
But  why  should  1  for  others  yoan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  !^  stranger  hands ; 
But  long  ere  T  come  back  again. 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 

With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bearst  mc  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark-blue  waves ! 

And  when  jou  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,^8nd  ye  caves ! 

My  native  Land— bbod  Night ! 


tA!ITO  L 


CHILBE  HAROLD'S  PILGRnCAOE. 


14. 


Oh,  Christ  litis  a 

WhstHeftTenhal 

What  fruits  ef 

What 

Bat 

Aadwheatiie 

'Gaiast  those 


tgoc|^pi 
DsniRIld 


Oa,  00  the  Teasel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 

Afld  winds  are  lude  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 

Foar  days  are  sped,  bat  with  the  ^fOk,  anon, 

New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay ; 

Aad  Ciotra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 

Aad  Tagns  dashing*  onward  to  the  deep. 

His  ftUed  golden  tribate  bent  to  pay ; 

And  soon  oo  board  the  Losian  pilots  leap, 

Aad  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics  reap. 

15. 
sight  to  see 

this  delicious  land! 

jttsh  on  every  tree! 

ir  the  hills  expand ! 
an  impious  hand ; 
his  fiercest  scourge 
(ss  his  high  command. 
With  treble  ▼engeancewill  his  hot  sliafis  urge 
Gaal's  loeost-liost,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge. 

16. 
Whst  bc«itiea  doth  Usboa  first  unfold! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide. 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold. 
Bat  BOW  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  BHgfaty'streDgth,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
Aad  to  the  Ijasians  did  her  aid  aflbrd : 
AaatioB  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  unsparing  lord. 

17. 
Bat  whoso  entereCh  within  this  town, 
That,  sheening  &r,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
IGd  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ce ; 
For  hat  and  palace  show  like  filthily : 
The  diagy  deniaens  are  reared  in  dirt ; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt,         [unhurt. 
Thoogh  sheat  with  Bgyp^s  plague,  unkempt,  unwash'd ; 

18. 
Poor,  paltry  alavea!  yet  bom  'midst  noblest  scenes  — 
Why,  Nature,  waale  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 
La!  (Antra's  glorio«s  Eden  intervenes 
la  fsricgated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me!  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen. 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Throogh  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Thaa  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates 
Who  to  the  aw-struck  world  unlock'd  Elysium's  gates? 

The  horrid  oMf  by  toppling  convent  crown'd. 
The  eork-tn.p|liar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep, 
'^mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd, 
Hesanken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep. 
The  orange  tints  that  gildrthe  greenest  bough, 
Thetommts  that  from  0110*  to  valley  leap. 
The  fine  on  high,  the  willow-branch  below, 
MijL'd  in  one  mighty  scene;  with  varied  beauty  glow. 


90. 


Then  slowly  climb  the  many- winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  our  **Lady's  house  of  woe ;" 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show, 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 
Here  impious  men  have  punish'd  been,  and  lo ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  Hell. 

21. 
And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  orags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosscji  near  the  path: 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  offering  — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath: 
For  wheresoc'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour'd  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life. 

22. 
On  sloping^  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath. 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair  t- 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only  breathie;   ' 
Yet  ndn'd  splendour  still  is  lingering  there. 
And  yonder  towers  the  Prince's  palace  fhir : 
There  thou  too,  Vathek !  England's  wealtlu^it  son. 
Once  form'd  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware  M  J 
When  wanton  Wealth  bor  mi^fatiest  deeAiliath  done, 
yCeck  Peace  voluptuous  Inrcs  was  ever  wontto  shun. 

23. 
Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow  : 
IMnow,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Mjin, 
Thy  fidry-dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunccs  on  earth  supplied ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide! 

24, 
Behold  the  hall  where  ohiefii  were  late  convened ! 
Oh!  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye! 
With  diadem  bight  foolscap,  lo!  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly. 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  arrayed,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll. 
Where  blazoned  glare  names  known  to  chivalry. 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points  and  laughs  with  all  his  souL 

26. 
Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turned  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume. 
And  Policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom! 
Woe  to  the  conquering,  not  the  conquered  host. 
Since  baflled Triumph  droops  on  LusitaniAi  coast! 


CHILDB  HABOIiD'S  PILGRIMAQB. 


CANTO  If 


2& 


And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 

Britannia  sickens,  Cintra !  at  thy  name ; 

And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret. 

And  fein  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 

How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  I 

Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 

To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  thdr  fame, 

By  foes  in  fig^ht  o'erthrown,  yet  victors  here,  [year  t 

Where  Soom  her  finger  points  through  many  a  coming 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 

Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise : 

Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 

More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies: 

Though  here  awhile  he  learned  to  moralize. 

For  Meditation  fix'd  at  times  on  him ; 

And  conscious  Reason  whisper'd  to  despise 

His  early  youth,  misspent  in  maddest  whim ; 

But  as  he  gased  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

2& 
To  horse!  to  horse  1  he  quits,  for  erer  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  firom  his  moping  fits, 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowL 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  skdl  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage; 
And  o'er  hiW  Bany  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Brc  toil  his  tlin  for  travel  can  assuage, 
Or  he  shall  cam  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

90. 
Tet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Losians'  luckless  queen; 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 
Lordlings  and  freres< —  ill  sorted  firy  I  ween ! 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen. 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt. 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  Guilt 

30. 
O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race!) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  i^aoe. 
Thougii  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase,  - 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace. 
Oh !  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain-air. 
And  life,  that  bloated  Base  can  never  hope  to  share. 

81. 
More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede. 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend : 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed  I 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 
Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader  knows  — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend: 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes. 
And  all  mosAbield  their  aU,  or  share  Snbjection's  woes. 


Where  Lusitania  and  her  sister  meet, 

Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide! 

Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 

Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide  ? 

Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  7 

Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall  ?  — 

Ne  barrier-wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 

Nc  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 

Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  from  Gaul 

33. 
But  these  between  a  silver  str< 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguish* 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press^ 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  wa^ 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitter< 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the 
'Twixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low< 

34 
But  ere  the  nungling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd 
Dark  Gfiadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows ,  murmuring  and  vast ,  I 

So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  knight,  in  mailed  splendour  drest: 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  nee ,  here  sunk  the  strong; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  oppressU 

35. 
Oh ,  lovely  Spain  1  renown'd ,  romantic  land! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  called  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain-streams  with  Gothic  gore? 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale. 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore? 
Red  gieam'd  the  o-oss,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale , 
While Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  moorish  matrons'  waiL 

36. 
Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale? 
Ah !  such ,  alas !  the  hero's  amplest  fate ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  r^oords  faQ, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate , 
See  how  the  Mi^ty  shrink  into  a  song! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue,    [wrong  t 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  omd  li^tory  does  thee 

37.  ;/ 

Awake ,  ye  sons  of  Spain !  a  wak«l  a4|4ite ! 
Lo  I  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess  y«n|Br 
But  wields  not,  as  ofold,  her  thirsty  lanloe,  ^ 
Nor  shaken  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  i)kies : , 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies. 
And  speaks  in  thunder  tlirongh  yon' engine's  roar : 
In  every  peal  she  calls  —  "Awake !  arise!" 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  ofyorc ,  *       ^ 
When  her  war-so(ig  was  heard  on  Andalasia's  shore? 


CAKTO  L 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGIUMAGE. 


'  36. 

Haik!  heard  you  not  those  hoo£i  of  dreadful  note  ? 

Socods  not  the  dang  of  conflict  on  the  heath? 

Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 
'    Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 

Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slayes?  —  the  fires  of  death , 

The  bale-fires  flash  on  high :  —  from  rock  to  rock 
^  Eidi  ToQey  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe; 

*  Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc , 

Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

Lo!  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountiun  stands , 

His  blood-red  tresses  deepening  in  the  sun , 

With deadi-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 

had  eye  that  scordieffih  it  glares  upon ; 

Bestleas  it  roUs,  no^AixM,  and  now  anon 

Fbriungafitfy  —  and  at  his  iron  feet 

Dcstraction  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done; 

For  on  this  mom  three  potent  nations  meet. 

To  shed  before  Ms  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet 

4a 
By  HcaTcn !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 

I    (Fotone  who  bath  no  friend,  no  brother  there") 

'    Their  riral  scarfii  of  mix'd  embroidery , 

'  Their  Tarioos  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air  I 
What  gallant  war-hoonds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
Aad  gnash  tfadr  fangs ,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey ! 
All  join  the  diase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 
The  Graye  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prise  away, 

I    Aid  HaToe  learoe  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

Three  hosts  eombine  to  offer  saerifioe; 

Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 

Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies ; 

•  The  dMMts  are  France,  Spain ,  Albion ,  Victory ! 
the  foe,  the  victim ,  and  the  fond  ally  ^ 

I   That  fighU  for  al],  but  ever  fights  In  Tain« 
Are  mA — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talayera*s  plain , 
And  feitiiiie  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

There  AaH  they  rot — Ambition's  honoured  fools  t 

Tea ,  Honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ! 

Yam  Sophistry  1  in  these  bdhold  the  tools, 

The  broken  tools ,  that  tyrants  cast  away 

By  Biyriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  thdr  way 

With  human  hearts— to  what?  ^  a  dream  alone. 

Can  despots  compass  anght  that  hails  their  sway? 

(kcaD  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 

Sanre  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone? 

4S. 
Oh,  Albuera!  glorious  field  of  griefl 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  pricked  his  steed , 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  seeae  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed ! 
Peace  to  the  perish'd !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong !  « 

TSI  others  laD  where  other  chieftains  lead 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng , 
Aod  shine  in  worthless  lays ,  the  theme  of  transient  song ! 


Enough  of  Battle's  minions  I  let  them  play 

Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame: 

Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay, 

Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 

In  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 

Who  strike,  blest  hirelings  I  for  their  country's  good , 

And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame; 

Perish'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud. 

Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued. 

45. 
Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued ; 
Yet  is  she  free  —  the  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey  1 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  ll[>ot  intrude. 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour!  'Gainst  fate  to  strive 
"Where  Desolation  plants  her  famished  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive, 
And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 

4a 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom. 

The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds ; 

Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 

Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds : 

Not  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  sounds: 

Here  Folly  stUl  his  votaries  enthralls; 

And  young-eyed  Lewdnes  walks  her  midnight-rounds : 

Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 

Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 

47. 
Not  so  the  rustic  —  with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar. 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate^ 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet : 
Ah,  monarchs !  could  ye  taste  th^.  J^irth  yo  injur. 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret ; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy  yet 

48; 
How  carols  now  flie  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay. 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer. 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No !  as  he  speeds,  he  chaunts :  ''Viva  el  Rey !" 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy. 
And  gore-feeed  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate  joy. 

49, 
On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest. 
Wide  scaUer'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  darkcn'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watc^i-flame,  and  the  host. 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast. 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost 


8 


CHILDK  HAHOLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


CANTO  L 


50. 
And  whomsoever  along  the  path  you  meet  ^ 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hae,  1^ 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet^' 
Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  Tiew  % 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true:  ^ 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  strol^;  ^ 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 
If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloke,  3      [smoke^ 
OHIJild  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,   or  clear  the  cannon's 

61. 
At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load; 
And,  for  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight , 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road. 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'er^ow'd. 
The  station'd  bands,  the  neyer-vacant  watch. 
The  magazine  in  rocky  du^nce  stowed. 
The  holstervd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch. 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  mateh^ 

62. 
Portend  the  deeds  to  come:  —  but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod; 
A  little  moment  deigncth  to  delay: 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way ; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah,  Spain !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd. 
And  thou  Shalt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  huri'd. 

63. 
And  must  they  fall?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave,  t 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chiefs  unwholesome  reign  ?^ 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ?^ 
The  rise  of  Rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain?  7-> 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain  ^ 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal?  ^ 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valour  acts  in  vain  ?  ^ 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal,  ^^  [of  steel  T 

The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart 

64. 
Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar. 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  Anlacc  hath  espoused, 
.  Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chiU'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bay 'net  jar, 
The  falchion  6ash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead      [tread. 
Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake  to 

66. 
Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  tiiat  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy-form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon-face, 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  fcarftil  chase. 


60. 
Her  lover  sinks  —  she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 
Her  chief  is  slain  —  she  fills  his  fiital  post; 
Her  fellows  flee  —  she  checks  their  base  career; 
The  foe  retires  ~  she  heads  the  sallying  host: 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fell  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost? 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall? 

67. 
Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  form'd  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love : 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dar(^%iove, 
'Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  th edove 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate: 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchanoe  as  great 

68. 
The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impressed  - 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch : 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Wiiich  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ?  [weak: 
How  poor  their  forms  appear!  how  languid,  wan,  and 

69. 
Match  me,  ye  climes,  which  poets  love  to  laud ; 
Match  me,  ye  harams  of  the  land,  where  now 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'n  a  cynic  must  avow; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters— d^gn  to  know. 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find, 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

€0. 
Oh,  thou  Parnassus !  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrenzy  of  a  dreamer's  eye. 
Not  in  the  fhbled  landscape  of  a  lay. 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky. 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain-majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  tliine  Echoes  with  his  string,    [wing. 
Though  from  thy  hdghts  no  more  one  Muse  vrill  wave  her 

61. 
Oft  have  I  drcam'd  of  Thee !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  treioble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar , 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  hist  I  look  on  Thee ! 


CABTO  L 


CHjLLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRI>DIG£. 


I  92. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  be^J^. 
Whose  fiiie  to  (fistant  homes  coDfined  their  ibt,  "•4. 
Siiall  I  Dmnoved  behold  the  haIlow'd.2£Sn6i^' 
Which  others  rare  of,  though  they  know  it  notOL 
Thongfa  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot,  '^ 
And  thou,  the  Muses' seat^  art  now  their  graye,  v^ 
Some  gentle  Spirit  Stiil  pervades  the  spot,^  f^*' . 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave,  '  >. 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave.  ;^ 

63. 
Of  diee  hereafter.  —  JSven  amidst  my  strain 
1  tnni'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain, 
Her  hte,  to  every  freebom  bosom  dear, 
And  hail'd  thee,  not  perchance  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme  —  but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear ; 
Yield  dm:  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant. 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt 

64. 
Bntne'er  didst  thou,  fidr  Mount !  when  Greece  was  young, 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir. 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  aoDg  of  love,  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Norst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire : 
Ah !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly  her  glades. 

65. 
Fair  is  proud  Seville ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days; 
Bst  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast, 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  tbough  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Tioe!  how  soft  arc  thy  voluptuous  ways! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape. 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

66. 
When  Faphos  fell  by  Time  —  accursed  Time !  ^ 
The  quceii  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee  -^ 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime;  \ 
And  Yenus,  constant  to  her  native  sea,  ^ 
Jto.Qoaght  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee;  7. 
Andfix'd  her  sErihe  within  these  walls  of  white  :^ 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she  '^ 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite,  "b 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright  ? 

67. 
From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  Morn 
Piecps  blushing  on  the  Revel's  laughing  crew. 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn, 
Derioea  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tlread  on  each  other's  kibes.  A  long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns : 
Nought  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 
And  Love  and  Prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 


68. 
The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  Messed  rest ; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore? 
Lo !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast : 
Hark !  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuffs  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'ertfarown  beneath  his  horn; 
The  throng'd  Arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  ev'n  affects  to  mourn. 

69. 
The  seventh  day  this;  the  jubilee  of  man* 
London !  right  well  thou  knowst  the  day  of  prayer : 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artizan. 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy  coach  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl. 
To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow  make  repair; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl, 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churL 

70. 
Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribboned  fidr. 
Others  along  the  safer  Turnpike  fly ; 
Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware^ 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgatc  hie. 
Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades !  the  reason  why  ? 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasp'^in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  an(i  maids,  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance  tillmorn. 

71. 
AH  have  their  fooleries  —  not  alike  are  thine. 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea! 
Soon  as  the  matin-bell  proclaimcth  nine. 
Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary ; 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teazed  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well. do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there'> 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare, 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  share* 


73, 


The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd. 

Thousands  on  thousands  piled  arc  seated  round; 

Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 

Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found: 

Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 

Skill'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye, 

Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound; 

None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die, 

As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  archery. 

78. 
Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant  steeds. 
With  milk-white  crest, gold  spur,  and  light-poised  lanoe, 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds. 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chaigers  featly  prance : 
If  jn  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day. 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  aU  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

1* 


10 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMAGB. 


CANTO  L 


74. 
In  costly  sheen  and  gmndy  cloak  amy'd, 
But  all  afoot,  the  U^ht-limb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  inyadc 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds ;  bat  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er. 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed, 
Alas!  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

TA. 
Thrice  sounds  the  clarion;  lof  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  waUs. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe: 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  tto 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

70. 
Sudden  he  stops ;  his  eye  is  fixM :  away, 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear: 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer ; 
^    On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  cleaw 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ;       [woes. 
Dart  follows  dart;  lance,  lanoe;  loud  bellowings  speak  bis 

77. 
Again  he  comes;  nor  dart  nor  lanee  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse; 
Another,  hideous  sight!  unseam'd  appears, 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source; 
Though  death-struck  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he  bears. 

78, 
Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray: 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play. 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand: 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way  — 
Vain  rage !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand,      [sand  I 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye  —  'tis  past  —  be  sinks  upon  the 

79. 
Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  stops  —  he  starts  —  disdaining  to  decline : 
Slowly  he  &lls,  amidst  triumphant  cries, 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle,  dies. 
The  decollated  car  appears  —  on  high 
The  corse  is  piled  —  sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes  — 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  alon^,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 


8a 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 

The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 

Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 

In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 

What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain ! 

Though  now  one  phalanx'd  host  should  meet  the  foe. 

Enough,  alas !  in  humble  homes  remain. 

To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow,    [must  flow. 

For  some  sligfatcauseof  wrath,  whence  life's  warm  stream 

81. 
But  Jealousy  has  fled :  his  bars,  his  bolts. 
His  wither'd  centinel,  Duenna  sage ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Wliich  the  stem  dotard  decm'd  he  could  encage, 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish'd  age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen 
(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage). 
With  braided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
Whileon  the  gay  danceshoncNighf  s  lover.lovingQueen  ? 


i 


Oh  1  many  a  time,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved,  ] 

Or  dream'd  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dreank) 

But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved. 

For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream; 

And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 

Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 

How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'cr  he  seem, 

Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 

Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. 

8d. 
Tet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind. 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely>awful  eyes: 
But  Passion  raves  herself  to  rest,  or  flies ; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise: 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim!  life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom. 

84. 
Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng; 
But  vicw'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate: 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  song; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway. 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier  day. 

TO  INEZ. 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, 

Alas !  1  cannot  smile  again ; 
Yet  heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 

I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth? 
And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  even  thou  must  fail  to  sootlie  ? 


CAirro  L 


CHILDE  H^iROLB'S  PILGRIMA6B. 


11 


It  is  not  lore,  it  is  not  hate, 

Tfor  low  ambition's  honours  lost. 
That  bids  me  loathe  i^jr  present  state, 

And  fly  from  aU  I  pri£ed  the  most: 

B  is  that  weannesswhich  springs 

Tiroin  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see: 
To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings; 

"lliine  cyeiThaYC  scarce  a  cBdrm  for  me. 

It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

'^at  wiUn^Jook  beyond  the  tomb, 
Bntcannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  sones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where-e'er  I  be. 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon,  Thought 

Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake; 
Oh!  may  they  still  of  transport  dream. 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

Through  many  a  dime  'tis  mine  to  go, 

With  many  a  retrospection  curst; 
And  aQ  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whatever  betides,  Tyc  known  the  worst. 

'        What  is  that  worst?  Nay  do  not  ask  — 
la  pity  from  the  search  forbear: 
Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 
'  Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there* 

Afieu,  fiur  Cadis,  yea,  a  long  adieu! 

Who  may  forget  bow  well  thy  walls  have  stood? 

When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true, 

Pint  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued: 

And  if  anudst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 

Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  die; 

A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud : 

Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility ; 

None  hogg'd  a  Conqueror's  chain,  save  fidlen  Chivalry  t 

86. 
Soch  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fhte ! 
They  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free ; 
A  kisgless  people  for  a  nerveless  state, 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee, 
Time  Co  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery : 
fopd  of  a  land  which  gave  them,  nought  but  life^ 
Pnde  poinU  the  path  that  leads  to  Liberty ; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife, 
War,  war  is  stm  the  cry,  ''War  even  to  the  knife!" 

87. 
Te,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 
Co,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
,  Whate'er  keen  Ycngeanoe  urged  on  fweign  foe 
Gtt  aet,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life ; 
^nm  ftifhttig-  soimitar  to  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need  — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
Soiny  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed ! 


Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 

Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain; 

Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red; 

Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain. 

Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain; 

Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw. 

Let  their  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching  stain. 

Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe: 

Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw ! 

89. 
Nor  yet,  alas !  the  dreadful  work  is  done. 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees; 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun. 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fallen  nations  gaec  on  Spain ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pisarros  once  enohain'd : 
Strange  retribution!  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustained, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  nnrestnuned 

9a 
Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed. 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight, 
Not  Albuera,  lavish  of  the  dead, 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well  asserted  right 
When  shall  her  olive-branch  be  free  from  blight? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil? 
How  many  a  doubtftil  day  shall  sink  in  night. 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil. 
And  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil  I 

91. 
And  thou,aiy  friend!  —  since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain  ^ 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid  even  Friendship  to  complain : 
But  thus  unlaurel'd  to  descend  in  vain. 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast. 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain, 
WhUe  Glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest ! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest? 

93. 
Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem'd  the  most ! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dear ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost. 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here ! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes. 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose. 
And  moum'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

93. 
Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pi^rimage : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page. 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribUe  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stem  Critic!  say  not  so : 
Patience !  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld        • 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld,  [quell'd. 

Ere  Gieeoe  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were 


12 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PII^GRIUAGB. 


CiLMTO  n 


CANTO     IL 


Come,  blae-cyed  maid  of  heaven!  —  but  thooyalasl 

Didst  DCTcr  yet  one  mortal  song:  inspire  — 

Goddess  of  Wisdom  1  here  thy  temple  was, 

And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire. 

And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire: 

Bat  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  agpes  slow. 

Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 

Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 

That  thoughts  of  tbeeand  thineon  polish'd  breasts  bestow. 

2. 
Ancient  of  days!  angnst  Athena!  where, 
Where  arc  thy  men  of  might?  thy  grand  in  soul?  [were: 
Gone  —  glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things  that 
First  in  the  fttce  that  led. to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away  —  is  this  the  whole? 
A  school-boy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower. 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 

3. 
Son  of  the  morning,  rise !  approach  you  here  I 
Come  •>-  but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn: 
Look  on  this  spot  —  a  nation's  sepulchre ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  bum. 
Even  gods  must  yield  —  religions  take  their  turn : 
'Twas  Jove's  —  'tis  Mahomet's  —  and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ;  [reeds. 

Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built  on 

4. 
Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven  — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art  7   Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  knowst  not,  reckst  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies: 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homiliet. 

5. 
Or  burst  the  vanished  Hero's  lofty  mound; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps: 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  moum'd  around; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  fh)m  out  the  scatter'd  heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell? 
Why  even  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell ! 


Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall. 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold,  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all,  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ. 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit? 

7, 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son! 
411  that  wc  know  isyjiotlunjg  can  be  known. 
Why  should  wc  shrink  from  what  wc  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan  j 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own.  ^ 
Pursue  wliat  Chance  or  Pate  proclaimetli  best; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  ef  ever  welcome  rest. 

8. 
Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  dcem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore. 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fcar'd  to  hear  no  more! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight. 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the  right! 

9. 
There,  thou!  —  whose  love  and  life  together  fled 
Have  left  me  hereto  love  and  live  in  vain  — 
Twined  with  my  heart  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead. 
When  busy  Memory  flashes  on  my  brain? 
Well  —  I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 
A  nd  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest. 
For  me  'twere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest ! 

10. 
Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn!  was  thy  fev'rite  throne; 
Mightiest  of  many  such !  Hence  let  me  trace 
That  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be:  nor  even  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labonr'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh ; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 


CiKTO  n. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMA6B. 


13 


11. 

Bat  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  feme 

On  higti,  where  Pallas  Iing;er'd,  loth  to  ilee 

The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign ; 

The  hst,  the  worst,  dall  spoiler,  who  was  he? 

Blush,  Caledonia!  such  ihy  son  could  be! 

EoiiaDd !  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine : 

Thy  free-bom  men  shonid  spare  what  once  was  free; 

Tet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine. 

And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  lonj^-relnctant  brine. 

12. 
Bat  most  the  modem  Piet's  ig^noble  boast. 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared : 
Cold  as  tlie  crags  npon  his  native  coasts 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 
Is  he  whose  head  oonceiyed,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains : 
Her  soas,too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Tet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains, 
And  neYer  knew,  till  then,  the  weig^ht  of  Despof  s  chains. 

\  '^ 

What !  sfaaQ  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 

^    Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears  ? 

Thoagh  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wnmg^ 

Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears; 
1    The  ocean-queen,  the  free  Britanniaybears 
^    The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land : 

Tes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears, 

Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  Harpy's  Jiand, 

Which  envious  Bid  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand. 
14. 

Where  was  thine  Aegis,  Pallas  I  that  appall'd 

Stem  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way? 

Where  Peleus'  son?  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthrali'd, 

His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day, 

Borsting  to  light  in  tenrible  array ! 

What!  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 

To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey? 

Idly  he  wandered  on  the  Stygian  shore, 

Nor  now  pres^ved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 
15. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fhir  Greece !  that  looks  on  thee, . 

Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved; 

Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 

Thy  walls  de&oed,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 

By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 

To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
I    Carst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
^    And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored,       [abhorr'd ! 

Aad  snatch' d  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes 

'  16. 

\   But  where  is  Harold?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave? 
I^le  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  r^rct; 
Ko Iov6d-one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave; 
Ko  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave, 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  pass'd  to  other  ellmes : 
Hird  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave; 
Bat  Harohi  felt  not  as  in  other  times, 
Aad  fell  without  a  ngfa  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 


17. 
He  that  has  saiPd  upon  the  dark  blue  sea. 
Has  vlew'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  frdl  frur  sight, 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be. 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  In  their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now. 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 

18. 
And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy, 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  mann'd  on  high : 
Hark  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry ! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides; 
Or  school-boy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by, 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilftd  urchin  guides. 

19. 
White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain. 
Where  on  the  watch  the  stai^  Lieutenant  walks : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  dotti  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all  —  not  oft  he  talks,  . 
With  aught  bcneatli  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame:  but  Britons  rarely  swerve  [nerve. 
From  Law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strength  to 

20. 
Blow !  svriftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale ! 
Tin  thehroad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail, 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah !  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay , 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze ! 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas. 
The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like  these! 

21. 
The  moon  is  up;  by  Heaven  a  lovely  eve ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe: 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land  1 
Meantime  some  rade  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand. 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  firee  to  rove.     « 

22. 
Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase; 
But  Mauritania's  giant  shadows  frown, 
From  mountain-cliff  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 


14 


CHILBB  HAROLD'S  PILGROIAGE. 


CANTO  n. 


23. 
'Tis  uight,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  Jovcd,  tbough  love  is  at  an  end : 
The  heart,  lone  mcurn^  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy? 
Alas !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy ! 
Ah !  happy  years !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ? 

34. 
Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere ; 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang!  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 

To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 

Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell. 

And  mortal  foot  hatli  ne'er  or  rarely  been ; 

To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 

With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold; 

Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  fells  to  lean : 

This  is  not  solitude ;  'tis  but  to  hold  [unroll'd. 

Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 

26. 
But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shodc  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless; 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress! 
None  tbat»  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  sinile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  folio w*d,  sought  and  sued: 
This  is  to  be  alone;  this,  this  is  solitude! 

27. 
More  blest  the  life  of  godly  Bremlte, 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen. 
Watching  at  £ve  upon  the  giant  height. 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  'witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot. 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot 

28. 
Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
And  each  well  known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind; 
Pass  wc  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find. 
Cooped  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
TTic  foul,  the  ftur,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swdt, 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn  —  lo,  land!  and  all  is  welt 


29. 
But  not  in  silenoe  pass  Calypso's  isles. 
The  sister-tenants  of  the  middle  deep; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  liaven  smiles, 
Though  the  fiilr  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep. 
And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride: 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essayed  the  dreadfid  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  ydndcr  tide;     [sigh'd 
While  thus  of  both  bereft  the  nymph-queen  doubly 

30. 
Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 
But  trust  not  this ;  too  easy  youth,  beware! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne. 
And  thou  mayst  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence  I  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine : 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine 

31. 
Thus  Harold  deem'd  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  without  a  thought 
Save  admiration  glancing  harmless  by: 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote. 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more. 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sougfit: 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore. 
Well  deem'd  the  little  God  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

32. 
Fair  Florence  found,  in  sooth  with  some  amaze. 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw. 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze. 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real,  or  mimic  awe. 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims: 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames,  [dames. 
Which,  thougli  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  anger 

33. 
Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble-heart, 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride. 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art. 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  tum'd  aside. 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue: 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied; 
And  had  he  doated  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 

34. 
Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd  ? 
Do  proper  homage  to  tliine  idol's  eyes ; 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit  though  told  in  moving  tropes. 
Disguise  even  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes ;     [hopes. 
PicLue  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns  thy 


CAHTOIL 


OmLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIIUGJB. 


15 


86. 
Tk  tti  old  lesson ;  Tioie  ftpproves  it  true, 
Aad  tlMMe  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltiy  prise  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Yooth  wasted, jBJpds  de|;ntded,  honour  lost,       / 
Thea^aie  thy  .frnita,  sucoessftd  Passion  1  these! 
U,  kindly  cmel,  early  Hope  is  crost, 
Slill  tD  the  last  it  nmfcles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cored  when  Lo¥e  itself  forgets  to  please. 

aa. 

iwty  1  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song. 

For  we  hare  many  a  monntain-path  to  tread, 

And  many  a  Taried  diore  to  sail  along, 

By  pensiTe  Sadness,  not  by  Pietion,  led  — 

CSmcs,  fidr  withal  as  erer  mortal  head 

IiBgined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought; 

Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  arcd. 

To  leaeh  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought, 

tf  Aat  oorrapted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taaght 

»7. 
Dev  NrtnreistbjgJJndfiStmgther  still, 

alway  dianging,  in  her  aspect  mild; 
ProB  her  bare  bosom  let  me  takemy^fiU, 
Her  nevcr-wean'd,  though  not  her  favour'd  child.        V 
Ob !  the  is  fairertjn  her  features  wil<^ 
Wliere  nothiiigpoljsh'd  dares  pollutejigr  path : 
To  nely  day  or  night  she  erer  smiled, 
Tfcoogh  I  have  mark'd  her  when  none  other  hath,  [wrath. 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  in 

8& 
land  of  Albanial  where  Iskander  rose. 
Thane  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise. 
And  he,  his  name*sake,  whose  oft-balHed  foes 
Slrank  from  his  deeds  of  diivalrous  emprise: 
land  of  Albanial  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  menl 
Tic  cnsB  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  die  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen. 
Through  nmiiy  a  cypress-grove  within  each  city's  ken. 

39. 
!  Ghihle  Harold  saii'd  and  pass'd  the  barren  spot, 
Where  sad  Pendope  o'erlookM  the  wave ; 
And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  relbgc,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
I>arfc  S^ipho !  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire? 
Coukl  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
tf  fife  eternal  may  await  the  lyre. 
That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may  aspire. 

40. 
Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe Harold  hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  afar; 
1  spot  he  long'd  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave : 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanished  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  &tal  Trafidgar; 
Mvk  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Bom  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 

of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  figlit,  [wight 

katbed  the  biavo's  trade,  and  laogh'd  at  martial 


41. 
But  when  he  saw  the  evening-star  above 
Leucadia's  fiur-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love, 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid  front 

42. 
Mom  dawns ;  and  with  it  stem  Albania's  hills 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak, 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak. 
Arise;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer  : 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak, 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear. 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

43. 
Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone. 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown, 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view : 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few; 
'^eril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet. 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet,  [beat. 

Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's 

44. 
Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here. 
Though  sadly  scofTd  at  by  the  circumcised. 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper'd  Priesthood  dear  ; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Superstition !  howsoe'er  disguised. 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross. 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prised. 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss! 
Who  from  trae  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 

46. 
Ambracia's  gulph  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring: 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose ! 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  reared  them,  withering : 
Imperial  Anarchs,  doubling  human  woes ! 
Goo !  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose  ? 

40. 
From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Even  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen :  nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Tho'  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most, 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering  coast 


16 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMA6B. 


CAMTOn 


S;^pa3fl'(i  bleak  Pindas,  Achcrusia's  lake, 
nd  left  thepriiAal  city  of  tlie  land, 
^  And  onwards  did  liiB  farther  journey  tske 
To  greet  Albania's  chref,  whose  dread  oommand 
Is  lawless  law ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  for,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold. 

48. 
Monastic  2itza!  irom  thy  shady  brow, 
Thou  small,  but  favoured  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below. 
What  ralybow-tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll  [soul. 

Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shpck  yet  please  the 

49. 
Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity, 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high: 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,  nor  rude  is  he, 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer;  the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  see. 

50. 
Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees : 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze: 
The  plain  is  far  beneath  -*  oh !  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease: 
.     Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 

And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

61. 
Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre, 
Chimsera's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right: 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir  ; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain-fir 
Nodding  above:  behold  black  Acheron! 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon,  [none! 

Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for 

62. 
Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
Veil'd  by  tlie  screen  of  hills :  here  men  are  few. 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot; 
But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth ;  and,  pensive  o'er  his  scatter'd  flock, 
The  little  shepherd  in  his  wite  capote 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock, 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 


63. 
Oh!  where,  Dodonal  tathioe aged  grove, 
Prophetio  fooiit,  and  oracle  divine? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove? 
W  hat  trace  remaineth  of  the  thnnderer's  shrine  ? 
All,  all  forgotten  —  and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fhte  of  gods  may  well  be  thine: 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ?      [stroke 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  moat  sink  beneath  the 

64. 
Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mpontains  fidi ; 
Tired  of  np-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye: 
Ev'n  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie, 
^Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse. 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high. 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance, 
Or  with  the  moon-beam  sleepin  midnight's  solemn  trance. 

66. 
The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit, 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by ; 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily; 
Childc  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'crlook  the  stream ;  and,  drawing  nigh. 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior  men 
Swelling  the  breeze  thatsigh'd  alongtbe  lengthening glesr 

66. 
He  pass'd  the  sacred  Haram's  silent  tower. 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Survey 'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power. 
Where  all  around  proclaim'd  his  high  estate. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 
While  busy  preparations  shook  the  court. 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait; 
Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort 

67. 
Richly  eaparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store, 
Circled  the  wide  extending  court  below; 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridor ; 
And  oft-times  through  the  Area's  echoing  door 
Some  high-capp'd  Tartar  spurred  his  steed  away : 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  i  n  their  many-hucd  array,  [of  day. 

While  the  deep  war-dmm's  sound  announced  the  close 

68. 
The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold-embroider'd  garments,  foir  to  see; 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on. 
And  crooked  glaive;  the  lively,  supple  Greek: 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son ; 
The  bearded  Turk,that  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek. 


euno  0. 


CHILDfi  HASOLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


17 


>0 


6e. 

Aie  wax'd  coaapioi|8flis :  aome  recline  in  gronps, 

Scumingr  the  motley  scene  that  ywnes  round; 

There  some  giaTe  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops. 

And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found ; 

Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground; 

Hidf  whispering  there  the  GreelL  is  heard  to  prate ; 

Hsrk !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 

The  MueaaEin's  ca]l,doth  shake  the  minaret,        [great  I'' 

fThere  is  no  god  but  God!  —  to  prayer  —  lo !  God  is 

eo. 

Just  at  this  season  Kamasani's  fest 

Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain: 

Bot  when  the  lingering  twiUght-honr  was  past, 

Berd  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again : 

Now  all  wad  bustle,  and  the  menial  train    ^^^^  . 

Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  witmn  f*  v 

The  vacant  gallery  now  seemed  made  in  vain. 

But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingli ng  din, 

ii  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 

61. 
Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard :  apart. 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  vcil'd,  to  move. 
She  yidds  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart. 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove: 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  nqaster's  love, 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
Blest  carea !  all  other  feelings  fieur  above ! 
Heneif  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears. 
Who  nefer  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  shares. 

62. 
b  nnrble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  fiving  water  firom  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling, 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Au  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes ; 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face. 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  disgrace , 

«3.  ^ 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
in  BQitB  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth; 
Lore  conquers  age  —  so  Ha£z  hath  averr'd, 
So  Shiga  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth  — 
Bat  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth, 
BeKenung  all  men  ill,  but  most- the  man 
la  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tyger's  tooth ; 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  their  mortal  span, 
la  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  J>egan. 

64. 
'Hid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
Thepilgranrcstedherehis  weary  feet,  -^ 
And  gased  around  on  Moslem  luxury,, 
no  quickly  wearied  with  that  spadous  seat 
Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice-retreat 
Of sitoi  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise : 
Aad  were  it  humbler  it  in  .sooth  were  sweet; 
Bat  Pcaoe  abhorreth  artificial  joys,  [destroys, 

Aad  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both 


6& 
Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need: 
Their  wrath  how  deadly!  but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  Gratitude  or  Valour  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  thdr  chief  may  lead. 

66. 
Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  success; 
And  after  vicw'd  them,  when,  w^in  their  power. 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress ; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  pi^  r 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstaDd  the  proof! 

67. 
It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore, 
When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more; 
Yet  for  awhile  the  mariners  forbore, 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk ; 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore   *" 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher>work. 

68. 
Vain  fear  1  the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand, 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp, 
Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland. 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments  damp, 
And  fiird  the  bowl,  and  trimm'd  the  cheerftil  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fiire;  though  homely,  all  they  had : 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare  stamp  — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad. 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 

60. 
It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land. 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress. 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide. 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labours  tann'd, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide, 
And  from  his  further  bank  ^Gtolia's  wolds  espied. 

70. 
Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  bill's  grovo. 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast. 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  from  the  west. 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene: 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest, 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene. 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence  glean. 
2 


18 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMA6B. 


OAMTO  n 


71. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 

The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast. 

And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 

With  gaping  wonderment  bad  stared  aghast ; 

For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past 

The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began; 

Bach  t^likar  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 

And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man. 

Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled  clan. 

72. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie. 
Nor  hate4  harmless  mirth,  however  rude : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee, 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  fkoes  gleam'd, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  streamed. 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half 
screamed: 

Taxbouroi  !  Tambourgi!  thy  'lamm  a&r 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Ulyrian,  and  dark  Suliote ! 

Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 

In  his  snowy  camcse  and  his  shaggy  capote? 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 

And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  roek. 

Shall  the  soiks  of  Ohimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  osemy  live?    • 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breaat  of  a  foe  ? 

Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  tlie  chase : 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-rcd  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves. 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  iowiag  bair. 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

I  love  the  fair  fkce  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  soothe; 
Let  her  bring  from  her  diamber  her  many-toned  lyre. 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  foil  of  her  sire. 

Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell. 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquered,  the  conquerors'  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared. 
The  wealthy  we  slaughtered,  the  lorely  we  spared 


I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  must  know  who  wovrid  serve  the  YlKicr : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorioiis  like  Ali  P&shaw. 

Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped,  [dread; 
Let  the  ycllow-hair'd  Giaours  view  his  horsetail  with 
When  his  Delhis  come  dashing  in  blood  o*cr  the  banks, 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks ! 

Selictar !  unsheathe  then  our  chiefs  scimitar : 
Tambourgi !  thy  'larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore. 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more! 

^V^V*  78. 

Fair  Greece!  sad  relic  of  departed  worth ! 

Immortal,  though  no  more;  though  fallen,  great! 

Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth. 

And  long  accustomed  bondage  uncrcate  ? 

Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilomc  (fid  await. 

The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 

In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulehral  strait  — - 

Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume. 

Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  i^om  the  tomb! 

74. 

Spirit  of  freedom!  when  on  Phyle's  brow 

Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 

Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  nhich  now 

Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 

Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chian, 

But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land; 

Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain. 

Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkisli  hand  J  manned. 

From  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed  an- 

76. 

In  all,  save  form  alone,  how  changed !  and  who 

That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in.each  eye. 

Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burned  anew 

With  thy  unqtienchcd  beam,  lost  Liberty! 

And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 

That  gives  them  back  tlieir  fathers'  heritage : 

For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh. 

Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 

Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful  page. 

76. 

Hereditary  bondsmen!  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?  no! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  dcspoilcrs  low. 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots !  triumph  o'er  your  foe ! 
Greece!  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same : 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 


CAVio  n. 


GHIU)£  HAROLD'S  PILGRIJI£A6£. 


19 


77. 


The  citf  won  lor  AUah  from  tlie  Giaoar, 

The  Giaour  from  Otlmum's  race  again  may  wresti 

Aad  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 

ReceiTe  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  gwest; 

Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 

The  prc^hefs  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 

Hftj  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West ; 

Bat  nc*er  will  freedom  seek  this  foted  soil. 

Bat  slave  snocoed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toiL 

7& 
Yet  Biark  their  mirth  —  ere  lenten  days  begin, 
That  penanee  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shihe  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 
Bj  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Ropentance  wear, 
SoDie  days  of  joymanoe  are  decreed  to  aQ, 
To  take  of  pleasaonoe  each  his  secret  share, 
la  motlej  robe  to  danee  at  masking  ball, 
lad  job  the  mimic  train  of  merry  CarnivaL 

79, 
Aad  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine, 
Oh  Stambonl !  once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  torbansBOw  poilnte  Sophia's  shrine, 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain : 
(Ahtti  her  woes  will  atili  pervade  my  strain!) 
Gajr  were  her  minstrels  onee,  for  free  her  throng, 
Hi  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign. 
Nor  oft  Fve  seen  sodi  sight,  nor  heard  sneh  song, 
is  wooed  the  eye,  and  thrilled  the  Bosphoms  along. 

80. 
Umd  was  the  Iigfatsome  tumult  of  the  shore. 
Oft  Mnsic  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone, 
And  timely  edboed  back  the  measured  oar, 
Aad  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan : 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone, 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
Twas,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  gianoc  her  form  reflected  gave. 
Tin  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  bankfl  they  lave. 

81. 
Gbaoed  many  a  iigiil  caiqoe  along  the  foam, 
Buieed  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thooght  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home. 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Bxchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  prcst,  return 'd  the  pressure  still : 
OkLovef  young  Love!  bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
I^  sage  or  eynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
Ihese  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years  of  ill ! 

82. 
fiat,  midst  the  throng  In  merry  masquerade, 
I«rk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Bvea  through  the  closest  searmcnt  half  betrayed? 
To  soch  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seean  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  soorce  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 
Aad  long  to  cshange  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud  1 


This  must  be  feel,  the  true-bom  son  of  Greece^ 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast: 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  acoost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword: 
Ah !  Greece !  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most ; 
Their  birth,  thctr  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero-aires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde! 

84. 
When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epaitiinondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  cbUdren  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men. 
Then  mayst  thou  be  restored;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state ; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust:  and  when 
Can  man  its  shattered  splendour  renovate, 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate  ? 

85u 
And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men !  art  thou  I 
Thy  vales  of  ever-green,  thy  hills  of  snow, 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  fevonrlte  now : 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surfeoe  bow. 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough: 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth ; 

86. 
Save  where  some  solitary  oolnmn  mooms 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave: 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgottoi  grave, 
Where  the  g^y  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only^  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  ipe,  perchance,  to  gase,  and  sigh  "Alas !" 

87. 
Yet  arc  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled. 
And  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields; 
There  the  Uithc  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  free-born  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendcli's  marbles  glare; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  foil,  but  Nature  still  is  fidr. 


Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground ; 

No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 

But  one  vast  realm  of  Wonder  spreads  around. 

And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 

The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 

Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 

Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy  temples  gone: 

Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 


20 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMAGQ5. 


CAHtOH 


The  son,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slayc,  the  same; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  furejj^  lord  — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  feme 
The  battle-field,  where  Persia's  yictim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magio  word; 
Which  uttered,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career, 

90. 
The  flying  A£ede,  his  shafUess  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear; 
Mountains  above.  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear  I 
Such  was  the  scene  —  what  now  remainetli  here? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground. 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound,  [around. 

The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger  i   spurns 

01. 
Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendour  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast, 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore; 
Boast  of  the  aged !  lesson  of  the  young ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

02. 
The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  homi;, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth ; 
He  that  is  lonely  hither  let  him  roam. 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth ; 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootbeth  may  abide. 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth. 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  «acred  side. 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian  died. 

03. 
Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste: 
But  spare  its  relics  —  let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed : 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered: 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 
So  mayst  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear'd, 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd  I 


04. 
For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlessc  with  inglorious  lays^ 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days: 
To  slich  resign  the  strife  for  Aiding  bays  — 
HI  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise; 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve, 
And  none  are  left  to  please  When  none  arc  left  to  love. 

Oft. 
Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  afiections  bound  to  me;   . 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done. 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee.  y 

What  is  my  being?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be ! 
Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wandcrtr  home. 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more  shaU  see  -- 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  eome ! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  returned  to  find  fresh  cause  to  roam ! 

06, 
Oh !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved  1 
How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past, 
And  clings  to  thou^ts  now  better  fiu:  removed ! 
But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last 
All  thou  oouldst  have  of  mine,  stem  Death!  thou  hast; 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  fiew  so  fast, 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend. 
Hath  snaitchcd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

07. 
Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd. 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek  ? 
Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique, 
Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear. 
Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

08. 
What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 
To  view  eadi  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page. 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  1  am  now. 
Before  the  Chasteuer  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destr<^'d: 
Roll  on,  vain  days !  full  reckless  may  yeJow, 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoyed, 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alloyed. 


Quno  m. 


CRILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


21 


...    ,  >..L\i^ 


-i    y.   "^ 


.'J   ■ 


C  A  N  T   O      HL  4--  ^"^ 

Ata  qae  cctte  applicatloo  tou  tor^t  de  penier  1^  autre  cbOM ;  il  a'y  a  ^^  I 

CO  verite  d«  remede  qnc  celoi-ia  et  le  temp*. 

Lettre  du  Hoi  dm  Pfumse  d  ttAkmhert^  Sept.  J,  ijy€. 


Itth;  fiice  like  thy  mother^s,  my  fiur  child ! 
Ada!  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  but  I  saw  Ay  young  bhie  eyes  they  smiled. 
And  then  we  parted,  —  not  as  now  wc  part, 

But  with  a  hope.  —  Awaking  with  a  start,  

The  waters  heave  aronnd  me ;  and  onliigh 

The  winds  fift  up  their  Toioes :  I  depart, 

Whitlier  I  know  not ;  bat  the  hour's  gone  by,  [mine  eye. 

When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 

% 
Onee  more  upon  the  waters  \  yet  once  more  1 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
Thd  knows  his  rider.  Welcome,  to  their  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead ! 
Thoogh  the  strained  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
Aad  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Stfflmastlon;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Fhing  from  ttie  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail     [prevail. 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 


h  ay  j[oath'sjBiilllil£r  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind ; 
kpan  I  seise  the  theme  then  but  begum 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind« 
Ban  the  cloud  onwards :  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  fanrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
'  Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
0*er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 
4.  .        ' 

Snoe  ay  young  days  of  passion  — '■  joy,  or  pain, 
Pcrehance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
Aid  both  may  jar:  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  woald  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Tel,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling  ; 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  —  so  it  fling 

Eess  around  me  —  it  shall  seem 
»ugh  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 
.,  mrn  aged  in  this  world  of  woe, 
I  h  dcefi,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life, 
,^ that  no  wonder  watts  him;  nor  below 
ttrtve,  or  sbribW;  Ifenne,  ambition,  strife, 
;  C^  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Ofalent,  sharp  endurance:  he  can  tell 
Why  diooght  seeks  refuge  In  lone  caves,  >et  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Mammpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 


6. 
'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  liVe 
A  being  more  intense,  tliat  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gainijig  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I?  Nothing;  but  not  so  art  thou, 
Soul  of  my  thought!  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gasing,  as  I  glow 
^Ox'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings'  dearth. 

7. 
Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly :  —  I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became. 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwronght, 
A  whirlinggttlf  of  phatitasy  and  flame: 
And  thus,  untanght  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.  'Tis  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I  changed;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  abate. 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

Something  too  mudi  of  this :  —  but  now  'tis  past,     r>  ^^^^^ 

And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 

Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at* last;  v'^ 

^He  of^hfi  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 

vl^ogwith  the  wounds,  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er  heal; 

Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him 

lo  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age:  ycgjca-sleai 

Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigourm^m  llie  llBib; 

And  life's  enclianted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 
9. 
Jf  His  had  been  quafTd  too  4«ickly,juidhc  found 

The  dregs  were  wormwood;  but  he  fill'd  again. 

And  from  a  purer  fbunt,  on  holier  ground, 

And  decm'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in  vain  ! 

Still  r^UuidJiiin  clung  invisibly  a  chain 

Which  gaird  for  ever,  fettering  though  unseen, 

And  lieavy  though  it  clank'd  not;  worn  with  pain. 

Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen. 

Entering  with  every  step  he  took,  through  many  a  scene. 

1^ 
\  Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 

Again  in  fhncied  safety  with  his  kind, 

And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  w6  firmly  fix'd 
•And  sheathed  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 

That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind; 
I,  And  he,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
I  Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
{  Fit  speculation ;  such  as  in  strange  land 
\  i  He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 


('■ 


22 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMA^ 


CANTO  I 


11. 


y 


n 


Bat  who  can  Tiew  the  ripcn'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it?  who  can  cnriouily  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  hea^  cfin  never  all  grow  old  ? 
t/  Who  can  contempftite'Faine  throngli  clouds  unfold 
^  The  star  which  ris^  <^'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  ? 
'^  Harold,  once  more  withm  ^e  Yortex,  rollM 
y  On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 

Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fondprime. 

^- _.  '   '-  12.    '^' 

But  soon  he  knew  biRm^f  the^most  unfit 

Of  men  to  herd  witlLM^an ;  with  whom  he  held 

Littleln  common;  untaught  to  siiBmli' 

His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 

In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts ;  still  uncompell'd, 

He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 

To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebelled  ; 

'  Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  Itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

13. 
Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends ; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends^ 

,> He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam; 

\  The  desert,  forest,  oaTcrn,  breaker's  foam, 

I .  Were  unto  him  oopopanionship ;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

14. 
Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watoh  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams;  and  earth, and carth-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite; 
Could  he  haye  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight    '   '' 
He  bad  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  tiic1%ht 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos 

15. 
But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild>born  falcon  with  dipt  wing. 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home: 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr*d-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  throngh  his  bosom  eat 

M. 

Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 

With  nought  of  hop.c  Jeft,  but  with  less  of  gloom; 

The  very  knowledge  tliat  he  lived  in  vain,  <;^ 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb,  V^ 

Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 

Which,  though  'twere  wild, — as  on  the  plnnder'd  wrec^ 

When  mariners  would  madly  meet  thdr  doom 

With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck,  ^ 

Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  cheek. 


[brink. 
IS  to  its 


17. 


V. 


stop !  —  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dost! 
An  Earthquakes  spoil  is  sepulchred  below! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be;  — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gaid'd  by  thee, , 
Thou  first  and  faist  of  fields !  king-making  Victory  \ 

18. 
And  Harold  stands  upon  this  plac  ofskoila. 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annnls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fiune  as  fleotiog  too ! 
In  **pridc  of  place"  here  last  the  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  witE^EIoody  talon  tiie  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken  < 

19. 
Fit  retribution!  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fctteiji ;  —  but  iB  Earth  more  firee  ? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  Oim  submit; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty  7 
What!  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlightea'd  days  ? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage?  proffering  lowly  gase 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  7  No;  pr^w  before  ye  praise  I 


If  not,  o'er  one  ihllen  despot  boast  no  more ! 
In  vain  fiedr  cheeks  were  furrow'd  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  trampler  of  ffer  vineyards;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears. 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions:  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodivs  drew  on  Athens'  tyimnt  lord, 

21. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
nd  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
cr  Beauty  and  her  Chivahry,  and  hn^t 
he  lamps  shone  o'er  ftur  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriagc-bell; 
^  lut  hush !  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  kneUl'' 

22. 
Did  ye  not  hear  it?  —  No ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy, he.  anconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But,  hark!  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  onoe  more* 
As  if  the  clouds  its  edio  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  .than  before ! 
Aim!  Arm!  itis  •-  it  is  —  die  cannon's  opening  roar! 


GAKTO  m. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIKAGE. 


23 


as. 


Wtthitt  a  wiadow'd  niche  of  ttet  higli  hall 

SMe  Bninswielc's  fhted  clueflaiii ;  he  did  hear 

Thatjoand  the  first  anudsf  the  fe«tral, 

Aad  caaght  Hb  tone  whh  Death's  prophetic  ear : 

And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  n^r. 

His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 

Which  streteh'd  bis  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 

And  roused  the  Teogeanoe  blood  alone  could  quell : 

Heruh'd  mto  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  MlJ 

34. 
Ahftten  and  there  was  hnnying  to  and  firo, 
Asd  gathcriag.tears,  and  tremblings  of  di^ess, 

rtahM  at  the  praise  ^^  *^\r  fty«  in^^^iin^^ » 

Adihere  were  sadden  partings,  soch  as  press 

Tk  life  from  oat  yoang  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 

Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  coald  guess 

If  erer  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 

Sfaee  iqpoB  nigbts  so  sweet  such  awfti]  mom  ooald  rise? 

25. 
And  Acre  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the  steed. 
The  mnstering  squadroo,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  pooring  forward  with  irapetnous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
Aad  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
RoBsed  Qp  the  soldier  ere  the  morning-star ; 
While  throng'd  the  oitisens  with  terror  dumb. 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips  —  "Ttie  foe !  They  oome ! 

38.  they  come  !** 

Aid  wild  and  high  the  **C9menM'n  gathering"  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiei,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Hire  heard,  and  heard,  too,  hare  her  Saxon  foes  :  -> 
How  in  the  nooo  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Smge  aad  shrill !  Bui  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  Dicuntain<^pe,  so  fiH  the  mountaineers 
Widi  the  fieroe  native  daring  which  instils 
The  sdiring  memory  of  a  tiiousand  years, 
Aad  Evan's,  DomM'sfiuneringa  ineaohclansBMn'sears ! 

27. 
And  Ardennes  wsres  .above  them  her  green  lt«Tes, 
Dewy  wkh  naltnre's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
,  Gneving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  nnreturning  brave,  —  alas ! 
freerening  to  he  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
hits  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  firing  valour,  roUiog  on  the  foe 
Aad  boning  witb  Ugh  hope,  sbatt  OMutderccrfdand  low. 

98. 
I«t  noon  bebM  them  ftdiofhistylife, 
latere  m  Beauty's  cirde  proudly  gay, 

Caddajght  bc^ogbt  the  sjgnalHSOund  of  stn^, 
mora  the  tnashaliing  in  am^  —  the  dayi 
.  litfe's  raagnifioentiy-stera  arsay ! 
Vkthaader-uloiids  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent. 
Asowth  is  uover'd  Oiiok  wkh  other  day:, 
^Kih  her  owa  clay  shali  eovcr,  heap'd  and  pent,  ^ 

2|^i>4  horsey*— Mead,fise,  —in  one  red  burial  blent ' 


29. 
Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  tiian  mine; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower  *d 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd. 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant  .   / 

31),  Howard!         ^ 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee. 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Wliich  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  arouad  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  tum'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring. 

I  tum'd  to  tiiee,  \a  thousands,  of  whom  each 

And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 

In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 

Forg^tfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 

The  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 

Those  whom  they  thirst  for;  though  the  sound  of  Fame 

May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 

Tlic  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 

So  honour'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

32. 
They  mourn,  but  snuie  at  length ;  aad  smiling,  mourn : 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fell ; 
The  hutt  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn  ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness ;  the  ruined  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind- worn  battlements  are  gone; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  Antral ; 
The  day  drags  tltf  ongh  though  storms  keep  out  tlie  sun; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on : 

33. 
Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes. 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold. 
And  bloodless,  with  its  steepiesa  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Shewing  no  vLnUe  sign,  for  sueh  tiiiags  are  untold, 

84. 
There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair. 
Vitality  of  poison,  —  a  quack  root 
Which  fc^ds  these  deadly  brancbes;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die;  but  Life  wiU  suk 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  appfes  on  the  Bead  Sea's  shore, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste:  ij^d  man  oompole 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er     [three-score  ? 
Such  hours  'gainst  yean  of  life  —  say,  would  he  name 


24 


1' 


3& 


^X  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRntAGE. 


CAMTOin. 


The  Psalmut  number *d  out  the  years  of  man: 
They  are  enough;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true. 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span, 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say  — 
''Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day !" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

3a 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  meii. 

Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 

One  moment  ot  the  mightiest,  and  again 

On  little  objects  with  like  finnness  fixt, 

Extreme  in  all  things !  hadst  thou  been  betwixt. 

Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  ncYcr  been; 

For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seekst 

Eyen  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien, 

And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the  scene! 

37. 
Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  tlic  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 

38. 
Oh,  more  or  less  than  man  —  in  high  or  low. 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field ; 
No^  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield; 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild) 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor. 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd. 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

39. 
Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye ;  —  V 

When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favourite  child,       ^ 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled.  "^ 

40. 
Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steol'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show  «  *  "> 

That  just  habitual  Bcom  which  could  contemn  *  ' 

Men  and  their  thoughts ;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so     iS^ 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow,  >.- 

And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use  ^ 

Till  they  were  tum'd  unto  thine  overthrow  : 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 


41. 


If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  roek, 

Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  foil  alone, 

Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock ; 

Bntmen's  thoughts  wcretbesteps  which  paved  thy  tbroae, 

neir  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone; 

The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 

(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 

Like  stem  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men ; 

For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  fiur  too  wide  a  den. 

42. 
But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell. 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane;  there  is  a  ^e 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narcpw  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore. 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

43. 
This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  tlungs 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  1  what  stings 
Are  theirs !  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  onteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule': 

44. 
Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  thdr  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last. 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigotted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past. 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supincness,  and  so  die; 
Even  as  a  flame  nnfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

45. 
He  who  ascends  to  monntaui-t(^s,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind. 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
,  Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head. 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

46. 
Away  with  these  I  true  wisdom's  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 
Maternal  Nature!  for  who  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhinf^ 
There  Harold  gases  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  corn-field,  mountain,  vine. 
And  chiefless  castles  breatiiing  stem  fisurcwells 
From  gray  but  leafjr  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 


<> 


''^-7 


CANTO  III. 


^' 


r  f  /   .^.^^-^*^  VhILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIKAGB. 


25 


47. 


And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind. 
Worn,  bat  iinstooping  to  the  baser  crowds 
All  tenanticss,  sa^e  to  the  cranny ing^  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cload* 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  yoang  and  proud, 
Banners  on  h^,  and  battles  passM  below ; 
Bat  they  who  foaght  arc  in  a  bloody  shroud,    ^ 
And  those  which  waved  are  sfaredless  dust  ere  now. 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

48. 
Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls, 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions ;  in  proud  state 
Badi  robber-ehief  upheld  his  armed  halls. 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have, 
Bot  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  I 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ?  [brave. 

Thdr  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as 

49. 
In  tbehr  baronial  fends  and  single  fields. 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron-hearts  would  glide- 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
Aid  maay  a  tower,  for  some  faur  mischief  won, 
Saw  the  discolour'd  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

60. 
But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Ihroogh  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever 
Conid  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Kor  its  fiiir  promise  from  the  surfooe  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conBict,  —  then  to  see 
Thy  Tallcy  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
£uth  paved  like  Heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me     [be 
Bfcn  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ?—  that  it  should  Lethe 

61. 
A  thousand  battles  have  assaii'd  thy  banks, 
Bnt  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away, 
And  Slaughter  heaped  on  high  his  weltering  ranks ; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  tide  washed  down  the  blood  of  yesterday. 
And  an  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Ciass'd  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray ; 
Bit  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all-sweeping  as  they  seem. 

62. 
Thus  Harold  mly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 
Tet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
lAvoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
^ fteat  wfcM*>  Flight  have  made  even  eyile  dear : 
Though  OP  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 
Aadtnugignqgemness  which  had  ta'en  the  plaoe 
Orfediiigs  fierier  fiir  bnt  less  severe, 
iey  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
ta  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  wouldstcal  with  transient  trace. 


63. 


Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  hirn^  though  his  days  ^ 

Of  passibnliad  consume^  themselves  to  dust 

It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 

On  such  as  smile  upon  us ;  the  heart  must  *") 

Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust      /lA'^^    ^ 

Hath  wea n'd  it  from  all  worldlings :  thus  he  felt,  ^J     | .» -  ^^JL^ 

For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust    */ 

In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  melt. 

And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bo4om  dwelt 

64. 
And  he  had  learn'd  to  love  —  I  know  not  why. 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood,  — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Bven  in  its  earliest  nurture ;  what  subdued, 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  fur  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know; 
But  thus  it  was;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp'd  aflections  have  to  grow, 
In  him  this  ^low'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  unto  hiii  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;  and,  though  unwed, 
Tliat  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, ' 
Had  stood  the  test  of  morial  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  pefil^ dreaded  most  in  female  eyes; 

this  was  flrm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore 
^ell  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings  pour ! 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachcnfcls 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 

W>ose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine; 

And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 

And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these. 

Whose  &r  white  walla  along  them  shine. 

Have  strcw'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 

With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me! 

And  peasant-girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers. 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray. 

And  many  a  rock  Which  steeply  lours. 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o*er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  —         ^  ' 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine !  •...*« 

I  send  the  lilies  ^ven  to  me ;  ^      \' 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 

I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 

For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear. 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 

And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

When  thou  beholdst  them  drooping  nigh. 

And  knowst  them  gather'd  by  the  Rhine, 

And  ofi'cr'd  from  my  heart  to  thine! 
2* 


26 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  JR. 


The  river  Dobly  foams  and  flows, 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  .turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round ; 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here; 
Nor  oould  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine ! 
56. 
By  Coblents,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid, 
Crowning  the  sunmiitt>f  the  verdant  mound; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's,  —  but  let  not  tliat  forbid 
Honour  to  Maroeau !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  docvm, 
Falling  fgr  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

67. 
Brief,  brave,  and  glorioiift  was  his  young  career,  ~ 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  fees; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  Knt^ering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose ; 
For  he  was  F^^ecdom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  nmnber,  wh»  had  not  o'erstcpt 
The  charter  to  chastise  whichshe  bestows 
On  sttdi  as  wield  her  weapons ;  lie  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept 

58. 
Here  Bhrenbreitstein,  with  her  shattered  wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  up<m  her  lieight 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light; 
A  tower  of  victory !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baiBed  foes  was  watch'd  akmg  the  plain: 
But  Peace  destroy'd  what  War  could  never  blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  rood  bare  to  Summer's  rain  — 
On  which  the  iron-shower  for  years  had  pour'd  in  vain* 

60. 
Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  I  How  long  deKghfed 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  I 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay. 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awfril  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  Barth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

6a 
Adieu  to  thee  again!  a  vain  adieut 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine ; 
The  mind  is  colour'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine ! 
'Tis  with  the  thankftil  glance  of  parting  praise; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise  —  more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  frdr,  and  soft,  — >  the  glories  of  old  days, 


61. 


The  negligently  grand,  the  finitful  bloom 

Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  shem, 

The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom. 

The  foresf  s  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 

The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 

In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 

A  race  effaces  happy  as  the  scene, 

Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all,  [iaIL 

Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near  them 

62.  J 

But  these  recede.  Above  me  are  the  Alps,  i 

The  palaces  ofNature,  whose  vast  walla  '    . 

Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  frills 
The  avalanche  —  the  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show  [below. 

How  Barth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man 

63. 
But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dareto  scan, 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain,  ~ 
Morat!  the  proud,  the  patriot  field!  where  man 
May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain. 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquered  on  that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  beqneath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themsdves  their  monument; — the  Stygian  coast  [ghost. 
Unsepnlchrcd  they  roam'd,and  shriek'd  eadivrandering 

64. 
While  Waterloo  wifli  OmasB's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin-names  shaD  stand. 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories. 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  dvic  band. 
All  unbought  champions  in  no  prinoely  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  Corruption ;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draoooic  daose. 

66. 
By  a  loue  wall  a  loneSer  column  roars 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  dajrs, 
'Tiji  the  last  renmant  of  the  wreck  of  years. 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness,  and  there  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
LeveU'd  Avcnticum,  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

66L 
And  there  —  oh !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name!  *• 
Julia  —  the  daughter,  the  devoted  —  gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven :  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim  « 

Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in ;  but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dozu 


GunoiiL 


CHILDE  HABOLD'S  PILORIMAGB. 


27 


^Ih^ 


07. 
But  these  are  deedB  which  should  not  paM  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  thoogh  the  earth 
FofgeCs  her  empires -with  a  jiut  decay, 
.  The  castevers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and  birth ; 

L  The  high,  the  moontain-majesty  of  worth 

f  SoaMbeyandshall^sanrivorofitswoe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  son's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow, 
bapcriihaUtj  pnre  beyond  all  things  below. 

|r  IdkeLeman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face,, 

'   The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains' rievf 

The  idlness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 

Its  dear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hne : 
I    There  is  too  much  of  man  hinre,  to  look  through 

With  a  fit  mind  the  ought  which  I  behold; 

But  toon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 

Thon^ts  hid,  but  not  less  cfaerish'd  than  of  old, 
I    Eie  mingKng  with  the  herd  had  p<»n'd  me  in  their  fold. 
i  69. 

!   To  fly  from,  need  nqtbe jo  hate,  naguikkid ; 
I  *2n  are  nOf  IfwHElhem  to jtir  and  toi). 

Nor  is  it  dtscontent  to  keep  the  mind 

Deep  m  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 

In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 

Of  oar  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 

We  may  deplore  and  straggle  with'  the  coil. 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong       [strong. 

IGdst  a  contentions  world,  striving  where  none  are 
70. 

There,  in  a  moment,  wo  may  plunge  oar  years 

In  btal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 

or  oar  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 

And  eoloor  things  to  come  with  hues  of  night ; 

The  race  of  life  becomes*  a  hopeless  flight 

To  those  that  walk  in  darkness :  on  the  sea. 

The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 

Bat  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 

WhoaebariL  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er  shall  be* 
71. 

Ii  k  not  better,  then^  to  be  alone. 

And  love  Earth  onlyfor  its  eatthlx^ke  ? 

Sj  the  blue  mshlnsr  of  the  arrowy  Rhone^ 

Urthe  pare  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 

Whidi  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 

A  fait  but  froward  infont  her  own  care, 

Gising  its  cries  away  as  these  awake ;  — 

UjLpoI  bettf  r  thus  onr  lives  in  gear. 

T^  J<Mn  yie  cmthiag  iTQwd^jtooBi^dto  inflict  or  bear? 

72. 
J^  "1^  In  mytrifj  but  T  jrmmif 

^rifoajtf^rtarfliiad^me;  and  to  me, 

_        are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 
^es  torture  :Tcan  see 
to  loaSie  in  Aature,  save  to  be 

A  fiak  relaetant  in  a  fle^ly  chain, 

QmsM  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
^  wift  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  hcavhig  plain 
or  tha  atars,  mingle,  and  not  In  vain. 


73. 

And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life: 

I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 

As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 

Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was  cast, 

Toilet  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 

With  a  fresh  pinion ;  which  I  feel  to  iSlpriag, 

Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigoM>us,  as  the  bhist 

Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing,       [cling. 

Spuming  the  clay>cold  bonds  which  round  onr  being 

74. 
And  wbfitttJit  length,,  thfi  xaindshalLbiAU  free 
From  wb^it  hate^njthu  degraded^^         ^  * 
Reft  oiita  rarnal  life,  save  what  shall  be  <- 

Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm,  — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform,  ' 

And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not  >  i 

Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  imuM^tol  lot  ? 

Ni(         76. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 

Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 

Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 

With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  contemn 

All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and  stem 

A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 

Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 

Of  ^hose  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below,  [glow  ? 

Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not 

76. 
But  this  is  not  my  theme;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn. 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  hre^ 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while  —  a  passing  gucsty 
Where  he  became  a  being,  —  whose  desire     '^ 
Was  to  be  glorious;  'twas  a  foolish  quest,      > 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep  fie  sacrificed  all  rest 

77. 
Here  the  self-torturing  sophi/it,  wild  Ro^^ean^ 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  ^rew 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness^beantilul,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  whieh  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fast« 

78. 
His  love  was  passion's  essence  -^  as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning;  with  ethereal  fiamo 
Kindled  he  was  and  blasted ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existenee,  and  overflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 


28 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  in 


79. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julia,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet; 
This  hallow 'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 
Which  every  morn  Ids  fcver'd  lip  would  greet 
From  hers,  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch  through  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  the  thrill'd  spin's  love-devouring  heat ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  blest, 
Thi^p  v^l|gftr  nojjadsjnav^be  with  all  they  s^^jn^']!^- 

80. 
His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice  the  kind , 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  was  phrenzied,  —  wherefore,  who  may  know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find; 
But  he  was  phrenzied  by  disease  or  woe. 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  reasoning  show. 

81,  ^       ' 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  *  V^^!d  f "  *'f  r*^. 
Nor  ceased  to*  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more : 
Did  he  not  this  forJF'raace?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years. 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore. 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers,  [fears. 

RoDScdup  to  too  much  wrath  which  follows  o'ergrown 

82. 
They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions  —  things  which  grew 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time:  the  veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  al^g  overthrew,   v.**  vC->*''.  -  ^'\ 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  re-fiU'd, 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-will'd. 

83. 
But  this  win  not  endure,  nor  be  endured ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  streng^th,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.  But  tWey, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt. 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  the  day ; 
What  nuirvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their  prey  ? 

84. 
What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished,  bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission:  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  3'ears :  none  need  despair : 
'  It  came,  it  cometh,  and  wiU  come,  ->  the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive  —  in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 


85. 

Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  oontrasted  lake, 

With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 

Which  warns  me,  with  Its  stilncss,  to  forsake 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 

To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved  ' 

Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved,       [moved. 

That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 

8«.    /^ 
It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  dear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night-carol  more; 

87. 

He  is  an  evening-reveller,  who  makes 

His  life  an  infiuicy,  and  sings  his  fill; 

At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 

Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 

There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill. 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight-dews 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 

Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 

Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 
88. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 
I  If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 

Of  men  and  empires,  —  'tis  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 

Our  destinies  o'erieap  their  mortal  state. 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar,  [a  star. 

'  Thatfortiine,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves 
89.  ' 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not  in  sleep. 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 

And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep:  — 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  stiD:  from  the  high  host 

Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast. 

All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense. 

Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost. 

But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 

Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 
90. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 

In  solitude,  where  we  are  leatt  alone; 

A  truth,  which  through  our  being  theu  dotii  melt 

And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 

The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 

Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 

Like  to  the  fabled  Cy  therea's  zoue. 

Binding  all  things  with  beauty;  —  'twould  disarm 

The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 


A\ 


CIHTO  in. 


CHILD£  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


91. 


Not  TaiJily  did  the  eariy  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  biffa  places- and  the  peak 
Offaftjt-o^wyiir pfl^-^^lltt^"*,  *"^  ^'"■1  t*H? 
A  fit  and  anwaird  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  hononr  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprcar'd  of  human  hands.  Qome»  and  rampare 
C«lanuis  andjdol-dwcllinfs,  Goth  or  Greek, 
Wiili  Katttre's  realms  of  worship^  earth  and  ajr, 
iiorfixoafuida&QSei  to  clrcamscribc  thy  prayer! 


IhubLui 


less,  ye  are  wond'rons  strong, 


AAdftorm,aDd 

Tet  fovdy  in  yoor  strength,  as  is  the  light 
.Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !  Far  along, 
from  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
^^eaps  the  lire  thnnder !  Not  from  one  lone  dond, 
/Bat  every  oaoantain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
Aad  Jan  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  I 

93.  "* 

Aad  this  is  in  the  night:  ^  Most  glorious  night! 
Tiin^i  pj^  n^  i^ff*  foy  gjwmitAri  let  me  be  ^  / 

Aaharer  in  thy  fierce  and  for  delight,  —  -^  ^ 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee!         ^  \>^ 
w  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea,  y      t   ^ 
ad  the  big  f«in  comes  dancing  to  the  earth!    j^U  i    -, 
kSd  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee  jrff'^ 
the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain*mirth,  U 
iftbcy  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 
94. 
Kov,  where  the  swift  Rhone  deaves  bb  way  between 
Heights  whieh  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted  ^ 
la  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  interrene,  '' 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted, 
Thongh  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted. 
Lore  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  ragd 
Whieh  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed :  — 
Itelf  expired,  hut  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  yean  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

95. 
Kow,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  aiightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand: 
Per  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
AjkI  fling  (heir  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Fbshing  and  cast  around :  of  all  the  band. 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  ibrk'd 
HisliglUnings,  —  as  if  he  did  underatand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd. 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  Inrk'd. 

90. 
Shy,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye  I 
W^  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  sou] 
To  Make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoU 
Of  vhat  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  f  rest 
Bat  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
it  jrclike  those  within  the  human  breast? 
^  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 


vwitn 

-^ 

A  ^The  n 


,/9 


my       \ 

Could  I  CTibody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 

My  thoughts  upon  expressjion,  and  thus  throw 

Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 

Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  mu  word. 

And  that  one  word  were  Lightnfcg,  I  would  speak; 

But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  dieuoiiearo,^  j^ 

^ith  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword.  ^^"^ 

98.  V^.       «*^ 
mom  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morui 

With  breath  all  Incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 

Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn. 

And  living  as  if  eartli  oontain'd  no  tomb,  — 

And  glowing  into  day:  we  may  resume 

The  nwrch  of  our  existence:  and  thus  I, 

Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Lemanl  may  find  room 

And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 

Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly, 

99.  ^- 

Clarens !  sweet  Clarens,  birth-place  of  deep  Love! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought; 

Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love;  the  snows  above 

The  very  Giaci^ers  have  his  colours  caught, 

And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  setn  them  wrought 

By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly :  the  rocks. 

The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  sougfit 

In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks,  [mocks. 

Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woes,  then 

loa 

Clarens !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths^are  trod,  ^ 

Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne, 

To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where  the  god 

Is  a  pervading  life  and  light,  •—  so  shown 

Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 

In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flower 

His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 

His  soft  and  summer- breath,  whose  tender  power 

Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour. 

101. 
All  things  are  here  of  Arm;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  arc  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listcneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore. 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmura;  and  the  wood,.     . 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Oficring  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

'     102. 
A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds. 
And  fairy-form'd  and  many-colour'd  things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words. 
And  innocentiy  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :  the  gush  of  springs. 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 


30 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PlliGRIHAGB. 


CANTO  nit 


103. 


He  vf  ho  hath  loved  not,  here  woald  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  lovo  the  more. 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  blm  far  from  those, 
.  For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die; 
^  He  stands  not  still,  but#-  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity ! 

104. 
Twas  not  for  fiction  ohose  Rousseau  this  spot. 
Peopling  it  with  affections;  but  he  found 
It  was  tlie scene  which  pa^aiQamust  allot 
To  (he  mind's  purified  KeiugsptWffflhe  ground 
Where  early  Lotc  his  Psyche's  cone  unbound, 
And  hallow 'd  it  with  loveliness :  'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound. 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  havcrear'd  a  throne. 

10&. 

Lausanne!  andFerney!  ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  whieh  unto  you  bequeath'd  a  name; 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim. 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  tiie  flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assaii'd,  if  Heaven  the  w hile      [smile. 
On  man  and  man's  researcli  could  deign  do  more  than 

106. 
The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child. 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind, 
A  wit  as  various,  —  gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild,  -- 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher  combined; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents :  but  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule,  —  which  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone,  — 
Now  to  overthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 

107, 
The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 
In  meditation  dwelt  with  learning  wrought. 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe. 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer; 
The  lord  of  irony,  --<  that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  firom  fear. 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

108. 
Yet,  peaoe  be  with  theur  ashes,  —  for  by  them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  Judge,  —  far  less  condemn; 
The  hour  must  oome  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all,  —  or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow,  ^^  in  the  dust. 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  deoay'd ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just 


109. 
But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page^which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, . 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  picroe  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  r^ion,  where 
The  earth  of  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

110. 
Itolla!  too.  Italia!  looking  on  thee.       )/ 
Tull  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages. 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
Teethe  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages, 
W^o  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages; 
Thbu  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires:  still 
Thtf  fount  at  which  the  panting  naind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quafiing  there  her  fiU, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hiH 

'"'**^       TTfi. 
Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in' a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices:  —  to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  arc  not  what  we  should  be,  —  and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal. 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,  -^ 
Patefon  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief  or  zeal,  — 
Which  is  the  tyrant-spirit  of  our  thought. 
Is  a  stem  task  of  soul :  —  No  matter,  —  it  is  taught. 

11-Z 
And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song,  "^ 

It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile,  — 
The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seise,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,  —  but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile. 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone,  —  remembcr'd  or  forgot. 

113. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 
I  have  not  fiatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee,  — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, —  nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still  ooald, 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

114. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,  — 
But  let  us  part  Oiir  foes;  I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  whieh  are  things,— hopes  which  will  not  deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  mereifrii,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing:  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefli  that  some  sincerely  grieve ; 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem,  ~ 
That  goodness  is  no  name  and  happiness  no  dream. 


c\    -X 


cnno  rr. 


.'=\\'' 


IS. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PIL6RI1IA6B. 


31 


lift. 


Ky  daughter!  wiih  thy  name  this  song^  beg^n  — 
Mj  dingliter!  with  thy  name  thai  niach  shall  end  — 
Iseetheenot,  —  I  heartiiee  not,  —  bat  none 
CU  be  10  wrapt  in  thee ;  thou  art  the  friend 
i  To  wIioDi  tiie  shadows  of  for  years  extend : 
Albeit  my  brow  tbon  never  shonldst  behold, 
BIy  Toiec  shall  with  thy  fotnre  yislons  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  —  when  mine  is  cold,  -^ 
K  tokea  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  fother's  mould. 

lie. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  developement,  —  to  watch 

Thy  dawn  of  little  joys,  —  to  sit  and  see 

Almost  thy  very  growth,  —  to  view  thee  catch 

Knowledge  of  objects,  —  wonders  yet  to  thee  J 

To  hoM  thee  ligfatly  on  a  |pentle  knee. 

And  pnnt  on  thy  soft  ch^lc  a  parent's  kiss,  -^ 

This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me ; 

Tet  this  was  in  my  na^re:  —  as  if  is, 

I  know  not  whnt  is  tiiere,  yet  something  like  to  this/ 


117. 


Yet,  though  dull  hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 

I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;  though  my  name 

Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  speD  still  fraught 

M^th  desolation,  —  and  a  broken  claim: 

Thoa|:h  the  grave  closed  between  us,  —  'twere  the  same, 

I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;  though  to  drain 

iify  blood  from  out  thy  being,  were  an  aim, 

And  an  attainment,  —  all  would  be  in  vain,  —     [retain. 

Still  thou  wonldst  love  me,   still  that  more  than  life 

118. 
The  child  of  love,  —  though  born  in  bitterness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.  Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements,. —  and  thioc  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee,  —  but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers !  O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee. 
As,  wiOi  a  sigh,  I  deem  thon  mfghtst  have  been  to  me! 


tbon  mi] 


1 


CANTO     IV. 


Tiste  ho  Toscuia,  Lombardia,  Romagnt, 
Quel  mOBte  ehe  divide,  t  qnd  che  strra 
ItaUa,  e  uu  aura  «  TaUro,  eke  la  l»agM. 
Aniorro,  Satin  UL 


Vemee,  Jamtiuy  %  1818. 


JOHN  HOBHOUSB,  esq. 

Aftek  an  interval  of  dght  years  between  the  compo- 
litioa  of  the  fast  and  last  Cantos  of  Childe  Harold ,  the 
eonchuien  of  the  PcNin  is  about  to  be  submitted  to  the 
pablic;  in  parting  with  so  old  a  friend  it  is  not  extraor- 
Aiaiy  that  I  should  recur  to  one  still  older  and  better,  ^ 
to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  death  of  the  other, 
aad  to  whom  I  am  for  more  indebted  for  the  social 
idnntages  of  an  enlightened  friendship,  than  —  though 
•at  angrateliil  —  I  can ,  or  could  be ,  to  Childe  Harold, 
fa* any  poblie fovoor  reflected  throug;)b.the  poem  on  the 
fact,  ~  to  one,  whom  I  have  known  long,  and  accom- 
famed  for,  whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness 
IHlkind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity  and  firm 
jbiijr  adversity,  trae  in  counsel  and  tmsty  in  peril  —  to 
M  friend  often  tried  and  never  foond  wanting;  —  to 
iMvaeIC 
kisodoin^,  I  rector  from  fiction  to  troth,  and  in  dedi- 
to  yoo  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  concluded  state, 
work  whioh  is  the  longest,  the  most  thougphtful 
eompiebensive  of  my  compositions,  I  wish  to  do 
to  myself  by  the  reeord  of  many  years  intimacy 
aaanofleanus^,  of  talent,  of  steadiness,  and  of 


honour.  It  Is  not  for  minds  like  ours  to  give  or  to  receive 
flattery;  yet  the  praises  of  sincerity  have  ever  been 
permitted  to  the  voice  of  friendship,  and  it  is  not  for  you, 
nor  even  for  others ,  but  to  relieve  a  heart  which  has  not 
elsewhere,  or  lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the 
encounter  of  good-will  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly^ 
that  I  thus  att<Hnpt  to  commemorate  your  gt>od  qualities, 
or  rather  the  advantages  which  I  have  derived  from  their 
exertion.  Bven  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of  this  letter, 
the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past 
existence,  but  which  cannot  poison  my  future  while  I 
retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  own 
foculties,  will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable  recol* 
lection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  osof  this 
my  attempt  to  thank  you  for  an  indcfotigaUe  regard, 
such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could 
experience  without  thinking  better  of  Ids  species  and  of 
bimselt 

It  has  been  our  fortone  to  traverse  together,  at  various 
periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and  foble  — 
Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy :  and  what  Athens 
and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a  few  years  ai^o ,  Venice 
and  Rome  have  been  more  recently.  The  poem  also,  or 
the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have  accompanied  me  from  first  to 
last;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardonable  vanity  wliich 
induces  me  to  reflect  with  complacency  on  a  composition 
which  in  some  degree  connects  me  with  the  spot  where 


32 


CHILBS  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  IT, 


it  was  produced  and  the  objects  it  would  fain  describe; 
and  however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those  ma- 
^oal  and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of 
our  distant  conceptions  and  immediate  impressions,  yet 
as  a  marlc  cf  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and  a  feelinj^ 
for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a^soarce  of  plea- 
sure in  the  production ,  and  I  part  wH h  if  with  a  kind  of 
regret,  which  I  hardly  suspected  that  events  could  have 
left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  Canto  there  will 
be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the  preceding, 
and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated  from  the  author 
speaking  in  his  own  person.  The  fact  is,  that  I  had 
become  weary  of  drawing  a  )|iie.Mflu<Bh  everjriiiifc&Qcmed 
determined  not  to  perceive:  like  the  Chinese  in  Gold- 
smith's ^'Cltlgeu  of  thu  World,"  whom  nobody  would 
believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  ^as  in  vain  that  I  asserted, 
and  imagined ,  that  I  had  drawn  a  distinction  between 
\  the  author  and  the  pilgrim ;  and  the  very  anxiety  to 
preserve  this  difference,  and  disappointment  at  finding  it 
unavailing,  so  far  crushed  my  e|rorts  in  the  composition, 
that  I  determined  to  aban^^o  it  altogether  —  an^  have 
done  so.  The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  rany^  be, 
formed  on  that  subject,  are  now  a  matter  of  indifference ; 
the  work  b  to  depend  on  itself^  and  not  on  the  writer; 
and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own  mind 
beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  permanent,  which  is  to 
arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  tlie  following  Canto  it  was  my  intent- 
ion, either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have  touched 
upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  literature,  and  perhaps 
ofiiuoiners.  But  the  text,  within  the  limits  I  proposed, 
I  soon  found  hardly  sufiScicnt  for  the  labyrinth  of 
external  objects  and  the  consequent  reflections ;  and 
for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few  of  the  shortest, 
I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and  these  were  necessarily 
limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text 

It  is  abo  a  delicate ,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dis- 
sert upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
dissimilar;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us,— though  perhaps  no  inattentive 
observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs  of 
the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently  abode,  —  to 
distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more  nar- 
rowly examine  our  information.  The  state  of  literary, 
as  well  as  political  party ,  appears  to  run ,  or  to  have  run, 
so  high ,  that  for  a  stranger  to  steer  impartially  between 
them  is  next  to  impossible.  It  may  be  enough  then,  at 
least  for  my  purpose,  to  quote  from  their  own  beautifril 
language  —  "Mi  pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico,  che 
vanta  la  lingua  la  piiH  nobile  ed  insieme  la  piii  dolce, 
tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che  sinehe  la 
patria  di  Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  I'antico 
valore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima."  Italy 
has  great  names  still  —  Canova ,  Monti,  UgoFoscolo, 
Pindemonti,  Yisconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara,  Albrizzi, 
Mezzofanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglictti,  and  Vacca,  will 
secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honourable  place 
in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science,  and  BeUes 
Lettres;  and  in  some  the  very  highest;  —  Europe  ^— 
Jhc  Wprld  —  has  but  one  Canova, 


It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  ''La  pianfa 
uomo  nasce  plik  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualunquc  aMta 
terra — e  che  gli  stessi  atrod  delitti  chevi  si  oommettono 
ne  sono  una  prova.*'  Without  subscribing  to  the  latier 
part  of  his  proposition,  a  dangerous  doctrine,  the  tmtli  of 
which  may  be  disputed  on  better  grounds ,  namely,  that 
the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  ferocious  than  thdr 
neighbours,  that  man  must  be  wiUhlly  blind,  orignor- 
antly  heedless,  who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordinary 
capacity  of  this  people,  or,  if  such  a  word  be  admisnble, 
yieir  capahilitiei,  the  facility  of  their  acquisitions ,  the 
rapidity  of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius, 
their  sense  of  beauty,  and  amidst  all  the  disadvanti^es 
of  repeated  revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles  and 
the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched  "longing'  after 
immortality,"  —  the  immortality  of  independenoe.  And 
when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of  Rome, 
heard  the  simple  lament  of  the  labenrera'  chorus, 
"Roma!  Romal  Roma!  Roma  non  h  piikoome  era 
prima,"  it  was  difficult  not  to  contrast  this  melancbol; 
dirge  with  the  bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation 
still  yelled  from  the  London  taverns,  over  the  carnage 
of  Mont  St  Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of 
Prance,  and  of  the  worid,  by  men  whose  conduct  yoa 
yourself  have  exposed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better 
days  of  our  history.  Forme, 

Non  movero  mai  cords 

Ove  la  tnrbft  dl  sac  ciancc  assorda. 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  fate  transfer  of  nations, 
it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till  it  becomes 
ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  something  more 
than  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended  Habeas  Corposi 
it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at  home.  For  what  th^ 
have  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  South,  '*  Verily 
they  will  have  their  reward,"  and  at  no  very  diataot 
period. 

Wishing  yon,  my  dearHobhonse,a  safe  and  agrecabk 
return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfiire  can  be  dearer 
to  none  than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  tliis  poem  ii 
its  completed  state;  and  repeat  once  more  how  truly  1 
am  ever 


Your  obliged 


And  affectionate  friend , 


BTRON. 


1. 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighsj 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 

I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 

As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand : 

A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 

Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 

O'er  the  fkr  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 

Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles,  ^      __ 

Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundrei 


[Uca 


QMROIT. 


CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


33 


flit  looks  a  scft-Cybe)^  trcah  from  ooean, 

Shu;  with  her  tiara  of  proad  towera 

Aiaiiy  distance,  with  miyestie  motioD, 

Andcr  <tf  the  waters  and  their  powers: 

isd  Bach  she  was;  —  her  daughters  had  their  dowers 

Fram  yoils  of  natioos,  and  the  exiianstless  Bast 

Ptared  in  lier  lap  all,genis  in  sparkling  showers. 

hpwpie  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 

lioosrcfas  partooic,  and  deemed  their  dignity  inoreasec . 

& 
hi  Teoioe  Tasso's  eohoes  are  no  more, 
ind  nknt  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Bet  palseea  are  cmmbliag  to  the  shore, 
Aad  miuic  meets  not  always  now  the  ear ; 
Hose  days  are  gone  —  bat  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fidi,  arts  &de  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  jel  forget  bow  Yenioe  onoe  was  dear, 
The  pkaant  place  of  all  lestiyity, 
Ik  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  ( 

4. 
Bit  iBto  US  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  Bsme  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  Bughty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  desp^md 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanished  sway; 
Oars  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto;  Shy  lock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  can  not  be  swept  or  worn  away  -^ 
Hk  krystones  of  the  arch !  tho'  all  were  o'er, 
For  OB  rcpeoplfid  were  the  solitary  shore. 

5. 
lie  beogs  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 
&M]itialIy  immortal,  they  create 
And  moltiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
Aadmore  beloTed  existence:  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied, 
Ast  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died,  . 
Mad  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void.    C 

6. 
ftKh  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age. 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 
Aad  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page. 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye : 
Tct  there  arc  things  whose  strong  reality 
'  Oatskincs  our  feiry-land;  in  shape  and  hues 
i  Xorc  beautiful  than  our  £uitastic  sky, 
^JM  the  strange  constellations  which  the^Musc 
CKerher  wild  universe  is  sidlful  to  diffuse  ;r 
1  7.  ' 

nw  or  dreamed  of  such,  —  but  let  them  go  — 
[ Aey  came  like  truth,  and  disappeared  like  dreams ; 
whatso'er  they  were  —  are  ndw  but  so : 
aoafal  replace  them  if  I  would;  still  teems 
BDad  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
as  I  sought  for^and  at  moments  found; 
ttese  too  go  —  for  waking  Reason  deems 
'-Weening  phantasies  unsound, 
voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 


I've  taught  me  other  tongues  —  and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself  no  changes  bring  surprise; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with  —  ay,  or  without  mankind ; 
Yet  was  I  bom  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 
Not  without  cause ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea? 

0. 
Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
>Iy  spirit  shall  resume  it  —  if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.  I  twine 
IMy  hopes  of  being  remembered  in  my  line 
pVith  my  land's  language :  if  too  fond  and  fiu* 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline,  — . 
If  my  fiCme  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  QhliYiott  bar 

10. 
My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honoured  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  —; 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  headl 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me  —r 
"Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he.^ 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  arc  of  the  tree 
I  planted,  —  they  have  torn  me,  —  and  I  bleed :  [a  seed. 
1  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such 

IL 
The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  rcnewe(l» 
The  Buocntanr  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St  Mark  yet  geea  his  Lion  where  he  stood . 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Bmperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled  dower. 

12. 
The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns  — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Eaiperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's  belt: 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  0andolo! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantiumfs  conquering  foe. 

13. 
Before  St  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled?  —  Venice,  lost  and  wop. 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done. 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose! 
Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun. 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 
3 


34 


CHILDB  HAROJLD'S  PIL6RIMAGA 


C41iI0  IT. 


14. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  -— 
Her  very  by-word  «pnuig  from  viotory, 
The  ^'Planter  of  the  lion/'  which  through  fire      ^ 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  sobjeot  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite; 
Witness  Troy's  riyal,  Candial  Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight  I 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  ean  bUghi 

16b 
Statues  of  glass  —  all  shivered  —  the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  deoUacd  to  dust; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptwrna  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  mst. 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger:  empty  halls,  i 

Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

18. 
When  Athens'  amies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fettered  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 
See !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  ear 
Of  the  o'ermastered  victor  stops,  ibe  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt  —  he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedoni  and  his  strains. 

17. 
Thus,  Venice,  If  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  Ihe  nations,  —  most  of  all, 
Albion !  to  thee:  the  Ocean-queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venicclhink  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

IB. 
i  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy-city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Radclifie,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

19.  -^ 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past  —  and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chastened  down,  enough ; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  cjcistencc,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice!  have  their  colours  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb, 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 


But  from  their  nature  will  the  taniien  grow 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rocks. 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  whece  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms^  yet  spnaga  tJie  trunk,  and  moefci 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Arc  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak  gray  granite  into  life  it  eame, 
Andgrewagtaat-tree;— >themiiid  may  grow  the 

at. 

Bxistenee  inay  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufieraaoe  make  ils  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms:  mute 
The  camel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load. 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  sileiioe,  —  not  bestow' d 
In  vaiii  sTRraRTsuch  example  be;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood. 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear,  —  it  is  but  for  a  day. 

23. 
All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroyed, 
Bven  by  the  sufferer ;  and,  in  each  event, 
Bnds :  —  Some,  with  hope  replenished  and  rebuoy'd. 
Return  to  whence  they  came  —  with  like  Intent,      - 
And  weave  their  w^  again ;  some,  bow'd  and  beat, 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  witbermg  ere  their  time. 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  tbey  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  mime, 
According  as  their  souls  were  formed  to  sink  or  dimb: 

33.  ^*        V  ^ 

But  ever  and  anon  of  griefk  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting. 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever:  it  may  be  a  sound  «-^ 
A  tone  of  music,  —  summer's  eve  —  or  spring, 
A  flower  —  the  wind  —  the  ocean  —  which  shaH  wound, 
Striking  theeleotric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound; 

34. 
And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind. 
But  feci  the  shock  renewed,  nor  ean  efiacc 
The  blight  and  blac|:ening  which  it  leaves  behind. 
Which  out  of  things  fkmiliar,  undesigned, 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind. 
The  cold  —  the  changed  —  perchance  the  dead  —  anew 
Themourncd,Nihe  loved,  the  ]ost--too  many!~yet  bow  few 


35. 


But  my  soul  wanders;  I  demand  it  back 

To  mcdrtatc  amongst  decay,  and  stand 

A  ruin  amidst  ruins;  there  to  track 

Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 

Which  woi  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 

And  is  the  lovdiest,  and  must  ever  be 

The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand: 

Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 

The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea  ; 


CiffTO  IT 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


35 


98. 
IW  oonmonwealth  of  fcin^,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  nreii  ainoe,  and  now,  Ihtr  Italy !' 
TkoQ  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Ni^are  can  decree; 
Bven  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  Tciy  weeds  are  beanttfot,  thy  waste 
Blore  riefa  than  other  elimes'  fertility  ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
mth  an  iaanacniate  eham  which  cannot  be  deAioed. 

37, 
The  Moon  is  op,  and  yet  it  is  not  nigfit  — 
Saaset  divides  the  sky  with  her  ^  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine-height 
Of  bfaie  Friirii's  monntaios;  Heaven  irfree 
fnm  dondsy  b«t  of  all  eolonrs  seems  to  be 
Mdted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
FkMlsthnnigfa  the  aanre  ahr  —  an  island  of  tlie 


blcstf 


Annglestar  is  ather  side,  and  reigns 

With  her  o'er  half  the  lovdy  heaven ;  bnt  still 

Ton  mnny  aea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 

Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  ihr  Rhaetian  bill, 

As  Day  and  Night  contending  were,  nntil 

Nature  redairaed  her  order:  —  gently  flows 

The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 

The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-bom  rose,  [glows, 

WU^  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it 

nUed  with  the  fiux  of  heaven,  which,  from  afhr, 

CoHcs  down  upon  the  waters;  all  its  hues, 

Aon  the  ri«^  sonset  to  the  rising  star, 

Their  auigical  variety  diflnsc: 

And  now  they  change;  a  paler  shadow  strews 

its  anntie  o'er  tlie  mountains ;  parting  day 

Dies  like  die  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 

Witha  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 

TheUtftstiUloveiiest,tiU  — 'tis  gcme  — and  idl  is  gray. 

80. 
There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqna;  —reared  in  air 
PSbr'd  in  their  sarcophagns,  repose 
The  bones  of  J^nca^alova':  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sang  woes^ 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genins.  He  arose 
To  raise  a  langnage,  and  his  hind  rechiim 
Fhan  the  doll  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Watering  ibk  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
Wldi  his  mdodioos  tears,  he  gave  hinoself  to  fiune. 

81. 
they  keep  his  dost  id  Arqna,  where  he  died ; 
The  monntain-village  where  his  later  days 
Weat  down  the  vale  of  years ;  and  'tis  their  pride  — 
Aa  hoaest  pride  —  and  let  it  be  their  p raise, 
T^  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
Biiaaniionandhissepalohre;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  sadi  as  raise 
AiBcfiag  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
^Im  if  a  pmanid  fona'd  his  tnoniunental  fhne. 


And  the  soft  qniet  haaalet  where  Im  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  eomplexion  whioii  teems  made 
For  those  uriio  their  mortality  have  felt. 
And  sought  a  reAige  from  their  hopes  deeay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospcot  fiir  away 
Of  busy  dties,  now  in  vain  display'd, 
For  they  can  Inre  no  further;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  br^fat  SUB  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

93. 
Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  aad  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  iMawUng  brook,  whereby. 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die; 
It  hath  no  flatterers;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid;  aione  —  man  with  his  God  most  sirive: 

34. 
Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  tfadr  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  thdr  earliest  day. 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay. 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb. 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  nrarkier  gloom* 

86. 
Ferrara !  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streots^ 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  s<^itude, 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Bste,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

36. 
And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  tiieir  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  bow  dearly  carn'd  Torquato*s  fame. 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  qneU 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plung'd  it   Glory  without  end 
Scatter'd  the  douds  away  —  and  on  that  name  attend 

87. 
The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion  —  in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn  — 
Alfonso !  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee !  if  in  another  station  bom. 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  hun  thou  mad'st  to  mourn : 


{j^ ,   WOt^'-^o  4    i-M^-^' 


36 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMA6B. 


OANTorr. 


38. 
J%aui  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die. 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadsta  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  akjz 
He  /  with  a  glory  ronnd  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  cihanated  then,  and  dazzles  now 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cmscan  qnire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre. 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth  —  monotony  in  wire! 

Peace  to  Torqaato's  injured  shade!  'twas  his 

In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 

Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows ;  but  to  miss. 

Oh,  yictor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song! 

Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions;  but  how  long 

The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 

And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 

Compose  a  mind  like  thine  ?  though  all  in  one  [sun. 

Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would  not  form  a 

40. 
Great  as  thou  art,  yet  paralleled  by  those. 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shrnc, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chiralry :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  fiither's  comedy  divine; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  sonthem  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  oall'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang  la4ye-l0Te  and  war,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 

41. 
The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto^s  bust 
The  iron-crown  of  laurel's  mimio'd  leaves: 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 
For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves. 
And  the  fklse  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow; 
Tet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  grieves, 
Know,  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below 
Whate'er  it  strikes;  —  yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now, 

Italia !  oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast 

The  fotal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 

A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 

On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 

And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 

Oh  God !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 

Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 

Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back  who  press 

To  shed  thy  blood,  and^drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

48. 
Then  mightst  thou  more  appal;  or,  less  desired, 
Be  hontely  and  be  peaceftil,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms;  then,  still  untircd. 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation 'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Yictor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 


44. 
Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him, 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal  mind. 
The  friend  of  Tully :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind. 
Came  Megan  before  me,  and  betdod 
JEgintL  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right. 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  mia,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

For  Hme  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  bat  nprear'd 

Barbaric  dwellings  on  tbdr  shatter'd  site. 

Which  only  make  more  monrn'd  and  more  endear'd 

The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light. 

And  the  crushed  relics  of  their  vanished  might* 

The  Roman  saw  these  tmnbs  in  his  own  age. 

These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which'excite 

Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  pag<B 

The  montl  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage^ 

48. 
That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
Hit  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  dedine, 
And  I  in  desolation :  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  f«;  and  now,  alas! 
Rome  —  Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  wo  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form. 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

47. 
Yet,  Italy!  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side; 
Mother  of  Arts!  as  once  of  arms;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Parent  of  our  Religion!  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  i)arrioide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven. 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

48. 
But  Amo  wbs  us  to  the  fiur  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy-halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  Life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Amo  sweeps 
Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born, 
And  buried  Learning  irose,  redeemed  to  a  new  morn, 

49. 
Th^e,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  wc  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn;  witliin  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  &ce  behold 
What  Mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would  fail; 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould : 


ttKTO  IT. 


CHUiDB  HAROLD'S  P1L6RIMME. 


37 


60. 
We  gaae  aad  tarn  majr,  and  know  not  where, 
Danled  and  dmak  with  beaofy,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fnlneas;  there  ^  for  ever  there  — 
Cbain'd  to  the  ohariot  of  trinmphal  Art, 
We  Hand  as  captiyes^  and  would  not  depart 
Airaj!  —  there  need  no. words,  nor  terms  predse, 
The  paltrj  jargon  of  the  marble-mart. 
Where  Pedantry  golls  Folly  —  we  have  eyes:       [prize. 
Blood~polse-and  breast  confirm  the  Dardan  Shepherd's 

61. 
Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises?  or, 
la  ail  thy  perfect  goddeasship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanqnishM  Lord  of  Wart 
Aad  gasing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Ijidon  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn. 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  dieek  t  while  thy  lips  are 
Whh  bva-klsses  melting  while  they  bum, 
Shoveredon  his  eyelids,  brow,  andmouth,  as  from  an  urn  ? 

63. 
Gtovingand  drcnmftised  in  speechless  Iotc, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  fiecling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  andman's  late 
His  BMMnents  fikc  their  brightest;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us ;  —  let  it  go ! 
Wc  ean  recal  such  visaons,  and  create. 
Prom  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

6a 
I  leave  to  learned  fingers  and  wise  hands, 
Thetrtist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  gracetui  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell: 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable: 
1  tvoold  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell; 
Tfaeanmflled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
Tkat  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

54. 
la  Santa  Croee's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Btcq  id  itself  an  immortality,  * 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this. 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relaps'd  to  chaos:  —  here  repose 
Aogclo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his. 
The  starry  Galileo^s,  with  his  woes; 
Hoe  Hachiavelli's  earth,  return'd  to  whence  it  rose. 

66. 
These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  famish  forth  creation :  —  Italy  I 
Tiotcwhich  hath  wronged  thee  with  ten  thousand  rents 
*  Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
8|iirits  which  soar  from  ruin :  ^  thy  decay, 
bstlQ  impregnate  with  divinity. 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray; 
tMi  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 


66. 
But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 

and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  oC  prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love  —  where  dic|  thejr  lay 
Their  lK>nes,  distinguished  from  our  commoii  clay 
In  death  as  life?  Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  fortii  one  bust? 
Old  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 

67. 
^  I  Uncfrateful  Florence!  Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate-brow  supremely  wore. 
Upon  a  for  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled'-not thine  own. 

68. 
Boceaccioto  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 

IS  dust, ^  and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among. 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  Requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  formed  the  Tuscan's  siren-tongue  ? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  arc  soag, 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?  No;  —  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom  ! 

69. 
And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
^  '  \  til  tbf  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
Xhe  Caesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust. 
Did  but  of  Roinc*s  best  Son  remind  her  more: 
^^Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
fortress  of  falling  empire !  honoured  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile;  —  Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banished  dead  and  weeps. 

60. 
What  is  her  pjrramid  of  precious  stones  ? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight-stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse,  ^ 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 

61. 
There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Arno's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine, 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow-sister  vies; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet  —  but  not  for  mine; 
For  I  have  been  accustomed  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  Art  in  galleries:  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
hen%  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields, 


38 


CaSLDE  HAROLD'S  POiGlUXAGJB. 


Is  of  aaother  temper,  tmd  I  roftm 

Bj  Thrasunene's  lake,  in  the  defiJes 

Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home; 

For  there  the  Cartfaaginiaa's  warlike  wiles 

Come  hack  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 

The  host  between  the  movntains  and  the  shore, 

Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 

And  torrents,  swoln  to  riyers  with  their  gore, 

Reek  through  the  sultrypiain,  withlf^ofissotttteredo'^r, 

aa. 

lake  to  a  forest  feHed  by  moantaui-ivi«ds ; 

And  such  a  storm  of  battle  on  this  day. 

And  snch  the  phrenzy,  whose  oonvulsion  bilnds 

To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  firay. 

An  earthquake  reeled  unheededJy  away  ! 

None  felt  stern  Nature  rooking  at  his  feet. 

And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 

Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding-sheet; 

Snch  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations  meet ! 

04. 
The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 
Which  bore  them  to  £tcrnity;  they  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel;  Nature's  law,  /   < 

In  them  suspended,  recked  not  of  the  awe  /^ 


Pass  not  unhleBt  the  Genus  of  the  place! 
If  through  the  air  a  scfphyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'tis  his;  and  if  ye  traee 
Along  his  margin  a  more  elo^pient  groeii. 
If  on  the  heart  the  fincshaess  of  the  soene 
Sprinkle  its  cooIacss,  and  from  the  dry  dost 
Of  weary  life  a  moDie&t  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism,  —  'tis  to  him  ye  most 
Pay  orisom  for  this  su^penmon  of  disgust 

The  roar  of  waters  1  ^  from  the  headlong  height 
Vclino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 
The  ihll  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss; 
The  hell  of  waters !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrnng  out  from  this 
Their  Phlcgethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  id  pitiless  horror  set, 

d  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
turns  in  an  unceasing  sliower,  which  round, 
V  I  With  its.unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
^1^  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 

Making  it  all  one  emerald:  —  how  profound 
,  The  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element 


Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds  ^ 

Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw  ^r^  /  From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound. 

From  their  down-toppling  nests ;  and  bellowing  herds      ,  "Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hatli  no,    With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  terful  vent 


(/ 


?^ 


fl^  words. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their  roots  are;  but  a  brook  hath  ta'en  — 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed  — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain ; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turned  the  unwilling  waters  red. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus !  in  thy  sweetest  wave 

Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 

The  haunt  of  river-nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 

Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 

Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 

Grazes;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters  I 

And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 

Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters  — 

A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters ! 

67. 
And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  temple  still. 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps,    . 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 
Its  memory  of  thee;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales. 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps: 
While,  chance,  some  scattered  water-lily  sails        [tales. 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 


POiGf 


OAMTO  If. 


71, 
To  the  broad  eolmnn  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  inlant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throeti 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  whidi  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windinigs,  through  the  vale :  —  Look  back  ! 
Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity. 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track,  • 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread,  —  a  matchless  cataract, 

72. 
Horribly  beautiful!  but  on  the  verge. 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  mom. 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

7a. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apenninc, 

The  infont  Alps,  which  —  had  I  not  before 

Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 

Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 

The  thundering  lauwine  —might  be  worshipped  more; 

But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 

Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 

Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont-Blanc  both  far  and  near. 

And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear. 


CAHtO  IV. 


CHILDfi  HAROLiyS  PILGHtMAGB. 


39 


74. 
Tk'  Acrooemmiaa  aonntaiitf  of  old  mum; 
Aadoo  Punassiu  Men  the  esii^leff  iiy 
lib  ipirits  of  the  spot,  as 'twere  for  fiune, 
For  sdU  tiMy  soar'd  vaiittciBbly  bigrh ; 
l*ve  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye; 
A)th08»  Olympus,  iStna,  Attes,  made 
These  hLls  seem  things  of  lesser  digrnity, 
AH,  nve  the  loae  Soraote's  height,  display'd 
Not  asw  in  snow,  which  asics  the  lyrio  Roman's  aid 

1/7^ 
For  oar  renembfanoJ;  and  from  o«t  the  plain 
HcsTcs  like  a  long-«wept  wave  abont  to  break, 
And  on  the  earl  hangs  pausing:  not  in  rain 
Hay  be,  who  will,  his  reooHeetions  rake 
Aad  qaote  in  clanie  raptnres,  and  awake 
The  hOte  with  Latianeehoes;  I  abhorred 
Too  BQch,  to  eomiaer  for  the  poefs  sake^ 
The  drilled  doll  lesson^  forced  down  word  by  word 
h  Biy  repugnant  yoath,  with  pleasure  to  reoord 

m 

Aagbt  that  recals  the  daily  drag  whieh  tamed 

My  ackening  memory;  and,  thoagh  Time  hath  tangfat 

lly  Bund  to  meditate  what  then  it  learned. 

Yet  mch  the  fixed  inveteracy  wrought 

By  the  impatienee  of  my  early  thought. 

That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 

lly  nund  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought. 

If  free  to  ehoose,  I  cannot  now  restore 

Us  health;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

77. 
Then fiuewcU,  Horace;  whom  I  hated  so, 
Kotfor  thy  fiiults,  bat  mine ;  it JajijnCfe 
To  nadergand,  not  feel  tfiy  lyric  flow, 
17eoDiprg|£CS|i(l!at  nerer  love  thy  verse, 
AHEoo^^o  deeper  Moralist  rehearse ' 
Oar  little  life^  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art, 
Nor  livdier  Satirist  the  consdenoe  pierce, 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touched  heart, 
Tct  ftre  thee  well  —  upon  Soraote's  ridge  we  part. 

78. 
OhSmae!  my  country!  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  1  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?  Come  and  see 
The  cjpr^,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  woffht  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

79. 
The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
CMdkss  and  c^wuless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 
An  empty  um  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 
fV  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
the  very  sepulchres  He  tenantless 
Oftheir  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Mi  Tiber !  through  a  marble-wilderness  ? 
■he,  with  thy  yeUow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress ! 


80. 
The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  deal  t  npon  the  seven- hilled  city's  pride ; 
She  saw  h  er  glories  star  by  star  expire. 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say:  <*here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

8t. 
The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her. 
Night's  daughter.  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  tlic  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands  and  cry  "Eureka !"  it  is  clear  *- 
Whco  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

89. 
Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and  alas! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs!  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  ihme  away! 
Alas,  for  Tally's  voice,  and  Yirgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page!  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside  —  decay. 
Alas,  for  Barth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free ! 

83: 
Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  rolled  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla !  Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  prostrate  Asia;  —  thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates  —  Roman,  too, 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  more  than  earthly  crown  — 

84. 
The  dictatorial  wreath,  —  eouldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  ivhich  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer  —  she  who  veiled 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  display'd, 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fhiled, 
Her  rushing  wings^Oh !  she  who  was  Almighty  hailed ! 

85. 
Sylla  was  first  of  victors ;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  the  throne 
Down  to  a  block  —  Immortal  rebel!  See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages !  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  hirks  of  destiny ; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death  [breath. 

Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his 


40 


CHILD0  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CAHf^ 


.1 


M. 


The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 

Had  all  but  crowa'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 

Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 

And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay. 

And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 

And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 

Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  wny, 

Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb? 

Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his  doom! 

87. 
And  thon,  dread  statue  1  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  bcheldcst,  'mid  tlje  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie. 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity. 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis!  did  he  die. 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ?  haTe  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene? 

68. 
And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome! 
She-wolf!  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art, 
Thou  standest :  —  Mother  of  the  mighty  heart. 
Which  the  great  founder  sucked  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorched  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ctherial  dart. 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning  —  dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  imn^rtal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge  forget? 

89. 
Thou  dost;  —  but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead  — 
The  men  of  iron;  and  the  world  hath  reared 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  feared 
And  fought  and  conquered,  and  the  same  course  steered. 
At  apish  distance;  but  as  yet  none  have. 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  neared, 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave, 
But,  vanquished  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave  — 

90. 
The  fool  of  false  dominion  —  and  a  kind 
Of  bastard-Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modeUed  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould. 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold. 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeemed 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold, 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seemed 
At  Cleopatra's  feet,  —  and  now  himself  het  beamed, 

91. 
And  came  —  and  saw  —  and  conquered !  But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  trained  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory. 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seemed  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness  —  vanity. 
Coquettish  in  ambition  —  stilt  he  aimed — 
At  what?  can  he  avouch  —  or  answer  what  he  claimed? 


And  would  be  ail  or  noCliing  ^  nor  oonld  wait  j 

For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him;  few  years  \ 

Had  fixed  him  with  the  Ceasars  in  bis  fate,  ) 

On  whom  we  tread :  for  tkii  the  conqueror  rears  | 

The  arch  of  triumph!  and  for  this  the  tears  j 

And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd,  | 

An  universal  deluge,  whieh  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode^ 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow  I  —  Renew  thy  rainbow,  God ! 

03. 
What  fit>m  this  barren  being  do  weLreap? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail. 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
And  all  things  weighed  in  custom's  &lsest  scale; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence,  —  whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  aooidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright,  [light. 
A  nd  their  free  thoughts  bccrimes,  and  earth  have  too  much 

94. 
And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age. 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die. 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and,  rather  than  be  free, 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  tiie  same  tree. 

96. 
I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds  —  they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker  —  but  of  things  allow'd. 
Averred,  and  known,  —  and  daily,  hourly  seen  — > 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow'd. 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd, 
The  Edict  of  Barth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud. 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty^  arm  had  do4ie. 

96.  '< 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquered  be,- 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  armed  and  undefiled? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the  wild. 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infhnt  Washington  ?  Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  sncli  shore  i 

97. 
But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been     #  # 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen. 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall. 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall   [second  fmll. 
Which  nips  life's  tree ,  and  dooms  man's  wOrst  -*^  liig 


C4]fT0  !▼. 


CHIUIE  HAROLD'S  PILGBaiAGE. 


41 


88. 
Td,Fj;SSllyip!  yet  tiiy  tMamer^  toni,  but  flyinf , 
Sdcims  like  the  thnnder-sionii  a^anut  the  wiod ; 
Thfftiimpet-¥oioe,  though  broken  now  and  dying, 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind. 
Chopped  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth, 
But  the  sap  lasts,  —  and  still  the^seed  weAid 
Sown  deep,  eren  in  the  bosom  of  the  North ; 
dnSaD  a  better  springless  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 
_       ^^^— ..-^-    - 

IVre  is  a  stern  ronnd  tower  of  other  days, 

Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 

Sach  ss  an  army's  baiBed  strength  delays, 

SluidiDg  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 

Aad  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 

Thegariand  of  eternity,  where  wave 

The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  overthrown ;  — 

What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 

Whattreaswelayso  looked,  so  hid?  — - Awoman's  grave. 

100. 
Bat  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead. 
Tombed  in  a  palace?  Was  she  chaste  and  fiur? 
Worthy  a  king's  —  or  more  ^  a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  ohiefii  and  heroes  did  she  bear ! 
What  daoghter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heur  ? 
How  IiTcd  —  how  loved  —  how  died  she?  Was  she  not 
So  hoBoored  —  and  conspicuously  there. 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot. 
Placed  to  commemoralc  a  more  than  mortal  lot? 

101.  J^^-^-^/^-. 

Was  dw  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they  ^  v-'j-' 
WhqloiftlhfiiQcdS-oratbers?  such  have  been, 
Ef  en  in  the  olden  time  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien. 
Or  the  tight  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Ptofttse  of  joy  —  or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inreterate  in  virtue?  Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  <y[^wiscly  bar  [are. 

Love  from  amongst  her  griefr  ?  —  for~snch  the  affections 

103. 
she  died  in  youth:  itmaybe,bow'd 
With  woes  fiaur  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
that  weighed  upon  her  gentle  dust ;  a  cloud 
Kgfat  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
bher  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Eeaven  gives  its  fovourites  —  early  death ;  yet  shed 
A  iuuet-charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 
Of  her  coosaming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

103. 
te^dnace  she  died  in  age  —  surviving  all, 
Qarms,  kindred,  children  ^  with  the  silver-gray 
Ua  her  k>ng  tresses,  which  might  yet  recal, 
Amay  he,  stOl  a  something  of  the  day 

they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovdy  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
%  Rome  —  But  whither  would  Conjecture  stray? 
i  mneh  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
wfalthieat  Roman-'s  wife;  behold  his  love  or  pride! 


104. 
I  know  not  why  -—  but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known. 
Thou  tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Tin  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves  behind; 

10&  V 

And  from  the  planks,  for  shattered  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  foundered  that  was  ever  dear: 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave*wom  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer  ? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 

100. 
Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  I  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlef  s  cry. 
As  I  now  hear  them.  In  the  fiuting  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site^ 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright. 
And  sailing  pinions.  —  Upon  such  a  shrine 
Wliat  are  opr  petty  griefii  ?  —  let  me  not  |»nmber  mine- 

107. 
Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  waU-flower  grown 
Matted  and  massed  ti^gether,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crushed,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked-up  vaults,  and  frescos  steep'd 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peep'd. 
Deeming  it  midnight:  —  Temples,  baths^  or  halls ? 
Pronounce  who  can ;  for  all  that  Learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath>been,  that  these  are  walls  — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount !  'tis  thus  the  mighty  fiUls. 

10& 
There  is  the  moral  of  all  humaQi»les ; 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past : 
First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory  —  when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  wiruptiuu,  =^_  barbarism  at  last. 
AndjEIistory,  wiih  all  her  volumes  vast. 
Hath  but  oiie  page,  —  '/is  better  written  here. 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  had  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear,      [draw  near, 
Heart,soul,eoQldseek,tongueask ^Away  with  words! 

100. 
Adnure,  exult  —  despise  —  laugh,  weep,  -  -  for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling:  —  Man ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ag^iand  reakns  are  crowded  In  this  span. 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fili'd !   Cbnild  ? 
Where  are  its  golden  roofr  ?  where  those  who  dared  to 

8* 


42 


Cmum  HAROLD'S  PILORIMA6B. 


OAmoir. 


110. 


ToUy  was  not  so  eloquent  as  tbon, 

Thou  nameless  oolnmn  with  the  bniied  base ! 

What  are  the  laarels  of  the  Caosar's  brow? 

Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-plaoe. 

Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  fecc, 

Titos  or  Trajan's?  No  —  'tis  that  of  Time: 

Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 

Scoffing;  and  apostolic  statues  elimb 

To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime, 

U  111. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep-blue  sky  of  Home, 
And  looking  to  the  stars :  they  had  confain'd 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reign'd, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustained, 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests :  —  he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain'd 
With  household-blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sorereign  Tirtues  —  still  we  Trajan's  name  adore. 
112. 
.    Where  is  the  rook  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 

/     Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?  where  the  steep 

^       Tarpdan?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  raoe, 
The  promontory  whence  the  Tmitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.  Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here?  Yes ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  fiu^ions  sleep  — 
The  Forum,  where  the  (mmortal  accents  glow, 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes  —  bums  with  Cicero! 

The  field  of  freedom,  fhction,  feme,  and  blood : 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  oonqner  failed ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  ikoe  been  veiled, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assailed 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  urates. 
Or  ndsed  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

114. 
Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee. 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame  — 
The  friend  of  Petiarch  —  hope  of  Italy  — 
Rienii!  last  of  Romans!  While  the  tree 
Of  Freedom's  withered  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Bven  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be  — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
Her  new-bom  Nnma  thou  —  with  reign,  alas !  too  brief. 

11&. 
Egerial  sweet  oreation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  flur 
As  thine  ideal  breast;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert,  —  a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  tiiought,  and  softly  bodied  fortii. 


11€L 


The  mosses  of  the  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 

With  thine  Elysian  water-drops;  the  fiioe 

Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled. 

Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 

Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 

Art's  works ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep. 

Prisoned  in  marble;  bubbling  from  the  base  ^ 

Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentie  leap 

The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy,  crtcp 

117. 
Fantastically  tangled;  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lisard  rustics,  and  the  IhUs 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  brecie  in  a  ftdry-mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violef  s  deep4diie  eyes,         [skies. 
Kissed  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  ooloured  by  iH 

118. 
Here  didst  thou  dwdl,  In  this  aiehanted  cover, 
Egeria!  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The  purple  midnight  veiled  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy;  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befcl? 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamoured  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love  —  the  earliestoraole  I 

-5  119.  y 

Jmd  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  ms  replying, 

Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart? 

And  Love,  which  dies,  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing. 

Share  with  immortal  transports  ?  Could  thine  art 

Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 

The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 

Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 

The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys  — 

And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  doys! 

120. 
Alas!  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyes. 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  breathe  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison ;  such  the  plants 
Wbioh  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flics 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

121. 
Oh  Love !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  fiuth  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart. 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
Tlie  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be ; 
The  mind  has  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven. 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy. 
And  to  a  thought  such  shi^ieand  imagegiven,  [—andriTesi 
As  haunts  thennqnenoh'd  soul—paroh'd^wearied— wnaoi 


CiKTO  lY. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


43 


123. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  ndnd  diaeaaed. 

And  fevers  into  false  creation :  —  where, 

Where  are  the  lorms  the  sonlptor's  souJ  bath  seised  ? 

In  him  alone.  Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ? 

Where  are  the  eharms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 

Coooehre  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 

The  unreached  Paradise  of  our  despair, 

WIddi  o'er-informs  the  peneil  and  the  pen, 

Aftdorcr-powers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again? 

isa 

Wlio  Iwes,  raves  —  'tis  youth's  firensy  —  but  the  cure 
Ii  bitterer  still;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Meal  Aape  of  such ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fiital  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Scaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun,  [done. 

SeeBBS  ever  near  tho  prize,  —  wealthiest  when  most  un- 
124. 
e  wither  from  oorjonth,  we  gasp  away—  -x 

Sick  —  sick ;  unfound  the  boon  —  unslaked  the  thirst,  \ 
Though  to  the  bat,  in  verge  of  our  decay,  f 

Some  phantom  lures,  sueh  as  we  sought  at  first  —  ( 

But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst.  \ 

Lore,  fame,  ambition,  avarice  —  'tis  the  same,  I 

Each  idle — and  all  ill  —  and  none  the  worst  —  \ 

For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
Aad  l>eath  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame,    f 

^  m, 

!  Few  —  none  —  find  what  they  love  or  could  have  loved, 
Though  aecMent,  blind  eoutac^  ondtfae^^itMHig- 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Aatipathies —  but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
BaveDomcd  with  irrevocable  wrong ; 
Ajid  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  misereator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Oar  oomhig  evils  with  a  cmtch-likc  rod,  [trod. 

Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust,-^tbe  dust  we  all  have 

laa 

Oarfifeis  a  fidse  nature  — 'tis  not  in  y^ 

I  The  harmony  of  things,  — ifais^iard  decree, 
[  This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin, 
Thb  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree. 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew  ~- 
Disease,  death,  bondage  —  all  the  woes  we  see  — 
Aad  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not  —  which  throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

127. 
Tet  let  us  ponder  boldly  —  'tb  a  base 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Oar  right  of  thought  —  our  last  and  only  place 
Ofrefiq^;  this,  at  least,  shaU  sUB  be  mine : 
Though  from  our  bicth^he  £icaltyjU¥lnc 
li  chained  and  tortured  —  cabined,  cribbed,  confined, 
lad  bred  In  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
.HO brightly  on  the  unprcparcd^mlndy 
pebeam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skUl  will  coucli  the  blind. 


126. 
Arches  on  arches !  as  it  were  that  Ron^e, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line. 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  hs  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  miae 
Of  contemplation;  and  the  asure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume  ^ 

120. 
Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument. 
And  shadowji  forth  its  glory.  There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yieldits  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 

130. 
OhTjme!  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter  _  — * 

And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err. 
The  test  of  truth,  love,  —  sole  philosopher. 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift. 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger  I  unto  thee  1  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift : 

131.      ^' 
Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  sbrme 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years  —  though  few,  yet  full  of  fitter  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not;  but  if  calmly  1  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain  ->  shall  t/i«y  not  mourn  ? 

132. 
And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Lost  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis ! 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long  — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss. 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution  —just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near  —  in  this 
Thy  former  realm  I  call  thee  from  the  dust !  [must , 

Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ?  —  Awake !  thou  slialt  and 

133. 
It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurred 
For  my  ancestral  &ults  or  mine  the  wound 
I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferred 
With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  fiow'd  unbound; 
But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground; 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it  —  thou  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found. 

Which  if  I  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 


44 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRDCA6B. 


CANTO  IT. 


134. 


And  if  my  roicc  br^k  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 

I  shrink  from  what  is  suffered ;  let  him  speak 

Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow. 

Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak; 

But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 

Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 

Though  I  be  ashes;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 

The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 

And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  corse ! 

135. 
That  corse  shall  be  Forgiveness.  —  Have  I  not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth !  behold  it,  Heaven !  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot? 
Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  scared,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapped,  name  blighted.  Life's  life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven. 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

136. 
From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew. 
The  Janus-glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  teem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 
DeaLcQiU^to  hap^fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  Jived  in  vain :     « 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire. 
And  my  fran^c  perish  even  in  conquering  pain. 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire  . 
Torture  and  TibM)  and  bieatlie  when  T  expire; 
Something  unearthly,  whicli  they  deem  not  of. 
Like-  the  i  Luicmbtred  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  softened  spirits  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love.^ 

138. 
The  seal  is  set  —  Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walkest  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight-hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  ftt>m  fear; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
.  That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  onto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

139. 
And  here  the  buss  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roarcd  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man ; 
And  wherefore  Slaughtered?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws. 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 


140. 
I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie: 
He  leans  opon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Ck>nsents  to  death,  but  conqoers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  -^ 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone,     [who  won. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhnman  shout  which  hailed  (fejv  wreteh 

141. 
He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prise, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay ; 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play , 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  —  he,  their  sire. 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood  —  Shall  be  expire 
And  unavenged?  —  Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire ! 

142. 
Bot  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  stream; 
And  here,  where  bussing  nations  choked  the  ways. 
And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain-stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  play-things  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
I  On  the  arena  void — seats  crushed — waUs  boi%'d —  [loud. 
.And  galleries ,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 

143. 
A  rum  —  yet  what  rain !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared? 
Alas !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  fs  neared : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day,  • 

Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft  avray. 

144. 
Bot  when  (he  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time. 
And  the  low  night-breese  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Cesar's  head ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot  —  'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

145. 
''While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 
When  fiills  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  foil ; 
Aud  when  Rome  falls — ^the  World."  From  our  own  Isuid 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all; 
Rome  and  her  ruin  past  redemption's  skill,  [win. 

The  world,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  yn 


ciKTO  rr. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


45 


146. 
SoDple,  erect,  levere,  Austere,  sabUme  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  ^ds, 
from  JoTe  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by  time; 
Lookiog  tranquillity,  while  M\m  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome! 
Sbalt  thou  not  last?  Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  rods 
Shircr  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon !  —  pride  of  Rom^ ! 

147. 
Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoiled  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  -^ 
To  art  a  model;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 
Aod  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose  [close. 

Their  eyes  on  honoured  forms,  whose  busts  around  them 

148. 
There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
Whatdolgaxeon?  Nothing:  Look  again  I 
Two  fonns  are  slowly  shadow 'd  on  my  sight  — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain : 
It  is  not  so;  I  see  them  full  and  plain  — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  lair. 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar:  —  but  what  doth  she  there. 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare  ? 

149. 
FqO  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  au  the  heart  andyrom  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  ereu  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  §eea  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves  —         [Eve's. 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet?  —  I  know  not  —  Cain  was 

150. 
Bat  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift:  —  it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Bom  with  her  birth.  No;  he  shall  not  expire 
Whde  in  those  warm  and  lovely  reins  the  fire 
Of  headth  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Kile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river : — from  that  gentle  side     [such  tide. 
Udnk,  drink  and  five,  old  man !  Heaven's  realm  holds  no 

151. 
The  starry  fiable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity ;  it  is 
AeoBstellfttioa  of  a  sweeter  ray 
.Aad  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Bevcfse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds :  —  Oh,  holiest  nurse ! 
|Xsdrop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
[l^thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
tntk  lifiB,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 


150. 
Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  reared  on  high, 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travelled  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model  doomed  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome. 'How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth. 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a  birth ! 

153. 
But  lo !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome, 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ; 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle  — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness ;  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade : 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofis  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survcy'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray 'd ; 

154. 
But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  stnictures,  in  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?  Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  arc  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  ondefiled. 

165. 
Enter:  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not ; 
And  why  ?  it  is  not  lessened;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot, 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abod^  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

156. 
Thou  movest  —  but  increasing  with  the  advance. 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise. 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance; 
Yastncss  which  grows  —  but  grows  to  harmonize  - 
All  musical  in  its  immensities; 

Rich  marbles  —  richer  painting  —  shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold  —  and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though  their  frame 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground  —  and  this  the  clouds  must 

157.  «'*^ 

Thou  secst  not  all ;  but  piece-meal  thou  must  break. 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye—  so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  olQects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
la  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart. 


46 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMA6B. 


CANTO  IV.    I 


168. 
Not  by  ita  fault  —  but  thine :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp  —  and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  funt  expression ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  overwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gazp,  and,  greatest  of  the  great, 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate^ 

159. 
Then  pause,  and  be  enlightened ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  w^orship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 

160. 
Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture-dignifying  pain  — 
A  blither's  love  and  mortal's  agon^ 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending:  —  Vain 
The  struggle;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  ^sp, 
The  old  man's  clench ;  the  long  envenomed  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links,  —  the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

161. 
Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow. 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light  — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  ^ght; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot—the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance ;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might. 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by. 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

162. 
But  in  his  delicate  form  —  a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Longed  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  maddened  in  that  vision  —  are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  blessed 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest  — 
A  ray  of  immortality  —  and  stood. 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gathered  to  a  god ! 

163. 
And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory  —  which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  time  himself  hath  hallow'd  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust  —  nor  hath  it  caught     [wrought 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which  'twas 


164. 
But  where  is  he ;  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song,' 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past? 
MethinkB  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
(He  is  no  more  —  these  breathings  are  his  last; 
JHis  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  ihst, 
I  And  he  himself  as  nothing:  —  if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  classed 
I  With  forms  which  live  and  suffer  —  let  that  pass  — 
blis  shadow  fhdes  away  into  Destruction's  mass ; 
'  165. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms ;  and  the  clocd 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow 'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze, 

166. 
And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence ;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear,  —  but  never  more, 
Ob,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same; 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore  [^re* 

These  fhrdels  of  the  heart  —  the  heart  whose  sweat  was 

167. 
Hark !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground. 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrowned, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief! 

168. 
Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  bo3% 
Death  hushed  that  pang  for  ever :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  filled  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seemed  to  cloy. 

169. 
Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be. 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;  for  she  had  poured  ^^ 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord,   ^ 
And  desolate  consort— vainly  wert  thou  we<J ; 
The  husband  of  a  year!  the  father  of  the  dead! 


CANTO  IT. 


gHIUM8-HAKOUrS  PILGRIMAGB. 


47 


170. 

Of  stekdoth  was  tby  weddiiig'^;wniieiit  made; 
Thy  bridarn  fruit  IB  aahei:  in  the  dust 
The  fiur^liaijred  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  lore  <tfiiuIJi0B8!  How  we  did  entrust 
Futurity  to  her!  aad,  though  it  most 
Darken  abore  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deemed 
Oar  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bicss'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seemed 
Uke  stars  to  shepherds'^es:— ^was  but  a  meteor  beamed. 

171. 
Woe  unto  us,  not  her;  for  she  sleeps  well: 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Iti  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nitions  ha?e  armed  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  bUnd  omnipotence^  weight 
Withitt  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late,— 

172. 
These  might  have  been  ber  destiny;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother  —  and  now  there  i 
How  nnay  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear  I 
Prom  thy  Sire's  to  bis  humblest  subject's  breast 
li  linked  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, . 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest  [best* 
The  land  whidi  lored  thee  so  that  none  could  love  thee 
173.  ,  rr"^ 

Lt^Neni!  nayelled  in  the  woody  hills 
So  fuy  that  the  uprooting  wi^d  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o*er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake ; 
And,  calm  as  dierished  hate,  its  sur&ce  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake. 
All  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 

174. 
And  near  Albano*s  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  frtun  a  sister-valley ;  ~  and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
''Aims  and  the  Man,"  whose  reaseending  star 
Base  o'er  an  empire :  —  but  beneath  thy  right 
TaBy  reposed  from  Rome ;  —  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  fium  was  tilled,  the  weary  bard's  delight, 

176. 
Mm  I  brgeL  —  My  pilgrim's  shrine  Is  won, 
Aadheand  I  must  part,  so  let  it  be,  — 
fib  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done ; 
iTctenee  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea; 
mmidlaiul  oeean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
tAad  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Or  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Meld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
■hssei 


17a  ^ 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades :  long  years  — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both :  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward  —  and  it  is  here; 
That  If  e  can  yet  feel  gladdened  by  the  sun. 
And  reap  frQm.earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  ther9  were  no  man  to  trouble  vtbatiaelear. 

177. 
Oh !  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  nuiiister. 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race. 
And,'  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 
"Ye  Elements  I  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
TTeel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
AccOrd  ine  such  a  being?  Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot 

178. 
There  is  a  pleasure  ij)  th 6  Jathlcs^  lUlodSr  | 

There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  uone  intnidf  s, 
l^  the  deep  Sea,  andjifiyafiiiui&ifiaK: 


JoygjaatMan  the  less,  but  Nature  more> 
Prom  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can  not  all  conceal 
^"^"^  179. 


i  wmves,  we  foUow'd  on  till  the  dark  Buxine  rolled 


•jtRoU  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean  —  roll! 
•^  Tap  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan,  \ 

Without  a  grave,  unkneUed,  uncoffined,  and  unknown.  J 

180. 
His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  sendst  him,  shivering  in  thy  plajrful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth:  —  there  let  him  lay. 

181. 
The  armaments  whidi  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarehs  tremble  in  thdr  capitals. 
The  oak-leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay-creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war: 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoiUi  of  Trafalgar. 


48 


CHILDE  lUROLD'S  PILGRnCAGE. 


CANTO  n. 


-    -  182. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greeoe,  Rome,  Carthagre,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  np  realms  to  deserts :  —  not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  -^ 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow, 
Snch  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

183. 
Thoa  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Ahnighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  cliine 
Dark-heaving;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 
The  image  of  eternity  —  the  throne  — 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fiithomless,  alone. 


184. 
And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight,  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 

18& 
M!y  task  is  done  —  my  song  hath  ceased  —  my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ,  is  writ.  — 
Would  it  were  worthier  1  ^"*  [  Mff  ^'^  fl^T 
That  which  I  have  been  —  and  my  visions  flit 
EesTpalpSWywrBeTBS —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt,  is  fluttering,  fieunty  and  low. 


186. 
Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger ;  —  yet  —  farewell ! 
Ye!  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were  —  with  vou,  the  moral  of  his  strain ! 


49 


THE  GIAOUR, 

A    FRAGMENT    OF    A    TURKISH    TALE. 


One  f)iUl  remembrance  —  one  lOrrow  that  throws 
In  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  Joys  and  oor  woes  — 
To  which  fife  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring. 
For  which  Joy  hath  no  bairn  —  and  affliction  no  sting. 

MOOBB. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS,  esq. 

AS  k  SLIGHT  BUT  MOST  SINCERE  TOKEN  OF  ADMIRATION 
OP H»  GENIUS,  RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER,  AND  GRA- 
TiTVOE  TOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP,  THIS  PRODUCTION  IS  IN- 
SCRIBED BY  mS  OBLIGED   AND   AFFECTIONATE  SERVANT, 

BYRON. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present, 

is  founded  open  drcmnstanGes  now  less  common  in  tlie 

But  than  formerly;  either  because  the  ladies  are  more 

dramispect  than  in  the  '<olden  time/'  or  because  the 


Christians  have  better  fortune ,  or  less  enterprise.  The 
story,  when  entire,  contained  the  adventures  of  a  fc^nale 
slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the  Mussulman  manner,  into 
the  sea  for  infidelity,  and  avenged  by  a  young  Venetian, 
her  lover ,  at  the  time  the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed 
by  the  Republic  of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Amauts 
were  beaten  back  from  the  Morca,  which  they  had 
ravaged  for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  inva-* 
sion.  The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused 
the  plunder  ofMisitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that 
enterprise ,  and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea,  during 
which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparalleled 
even  in  the  annals  of  the  fidtbfuL 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
Pirst  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
Higk  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain : 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again? 


Fair  elime!  where  eyery  season  smiles 
Beeignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  fer  Colonna's  height. 
Hake  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lead  to  loneliness  delight. 
There,  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 
Selects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Cwght  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave ; 
And  ifat  times  a  transient  breeze 
fiieik  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas. 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
Bov  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
Hit  wakes  and  wails  the  odours  there ! 
isr  there  —  the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
fisitami  of  the  Nightingale, 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
lb  fhoosaiid  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Bboois  btnshing  to  her  lover's  tale : 
Bh  queen,  the  garden-queen,  his  Rose, 
lUmt  by  winds,  unchilled  by  snows, 
Ito  fium  the  winters  of  the  west, 
%eTerf  breese  and  season  blest, 


Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given ' 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. . 
And  many  a  summer-flower  is  there. 
And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share. 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest. 
That  holds  the  pirate^br  a  guest; 
Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 
Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening-star; 
Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar. 
Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore. 
Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey. 
And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 
Strange  —  that  where  Nature  loved  to  traoe^ 
As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling-place. 
And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mixed 
Within  the  paradise  she  fixed, 
There  man,  enamoured  of  distress, 
Should  mar  it  into  wilderness. 
And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour. 
Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 
To  bloom  along  the  feiry-land, 
But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care. 
And  sweetly  woos  him  —  but  to  spare! 
Strange  —  that  where  all  is  peace  beside 
There  passion  riots  in  her  pride. 
And  lust  and  rapine  wildly.reign 
4 


50 


THE  GIAOUR 


To  darken  o^er  the  feir  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevailed 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assailed, 

And,  fixed  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  formed  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
fire  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingn ess. 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, . 
(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there,    • 
The  fixed,  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  be  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour. 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed ! 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 
'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb. 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished  earth  f 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-caye 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave : 
Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave. 
Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free  — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  y()pr  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 


That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fiime. 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame: 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun. 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  balBed  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page. 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command. 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  strang^'s  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die! 
'Twerc  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splendour  to  disgrace; 
Enough  —  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell ; 
Yes !  Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore? 
No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar. 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 
When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred. 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 
Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slaves  —  nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave. 
And  callous,  save  to  crime; 
Stained  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest. 
Without  one  firee  or  valiant  breast. 
Still  to  the  neighbouring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft ; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found, 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renowned. 
In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke, 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yoke: 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournftil  tale, 
And  they  who  listen  may  believe. 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 


Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing, 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique, 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek; 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 
And  cumbered  with  his  scaly  spoil, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  Jihore 


THE  GIAOmt. 


51 


BeeoTCS  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  eastern  night 


Who  thmidering  oomes  on  blackest  steed,  \/ 
With  shu:kened  bit  and  hoof  of  speed? 
Bcaeath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
Hie  caTemed  echoes  wake  around 
b  hub  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
Tke  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gathered  from  the  ooean-tide : 
Though  weary  waves  arc  sunk  to  rest, 
There's  none  within  his  rider's  breast; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 
lis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young.6uiOur!   | 
1  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race}  !  ^  7  «  /  •     • 
BnTin  uy  lineameni^iraMT" 
What  time  sHaJI  strengthen,  not  efface: 
Thongh  youngand  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Ii  Kathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt; 
Thongh  bent  on  earth  thine  eyil  eye, 
if  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Rigfat  well  I  yIcw  and  deem  thee  one 
WImmu  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On  —  on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
My  gase  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  passed  and  Tanished  from  my  sight. 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 
A  iroohled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear  / 

Rooghis  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear,  v 
Be  spurs  his  steed ;  he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deep; 
fie  winds  around;  he  hurries  by; 
The  rock  rclieres  him  from  mine  eye; 
Per  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fixed  on  those  that  flee. 
And  not  a  star  bat  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  snch  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along ;  but  ere  be  passed 
Oae  glance  he  snatched,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  checked  his  wheeliug  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  mom»t  on  his  stirrup  stood  — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive-wood  ? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill. 
The  llosqne's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
la  echoes  of  the  fiur  tophaike, 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun, 
To-n^t,  the  Bairam-fcasf  s  bqpin ; 
To-n%fat  —  but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee. 
That  thou  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee  ? 
Be  stood  —  some  dread  was  on  his  face, 
8ooB  hatred  settled  in  iU  place: 


It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 

Of  transient  anger's  hasty  blush, 

But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb,      V' 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 

His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed ; 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised,  * 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly : 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delay 'd, 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neighed  — 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasped  his  blade ; 

That  s<)und  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 

As  slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. 

The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides; 

Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides: 

Swift  as  the  hurled  on  high  jerreed 

Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed; 

The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 

Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more; 

The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 

His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. 

'Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrained 

That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  reined; 

Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood. 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued; 

But  jn  that  instant  o'er  his  soul       \ 

^inters  of  memory  seeiucd  to  roll, 

And  gather  in  tltat  drop  of  time  - 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years : 

What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 

By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast? 

That  pause,  which  pondered  o'er  his  flite. 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  Icngtli  shall  date ! 

Though  in  time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  eternity  to  thought ! 

For  infinite  as  boundless  space 

The  thought  that  conscience  must  embrace. 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 

Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone; 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall  alone  ? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went! 
The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent     - 
To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb : 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom, 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom. 
Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death  — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others'  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead! 

The  steed  is  vanished  from  the  stall ; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 
The  lonely  spider's  thin  grey  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall; 
The  bat  builds  in  his  haram-bower; 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower; 


32 


THE  GIAOCIL 


The  wild-dog:  howls  o'er  the  fonntain's  brim, 

With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine  grim : 

For  the  stream  has  shrank  from  its  marble  bed. 

Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 

'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  sec  it  play 

And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 

As,  springing  high,  the  silver-dew 

In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 

And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 

The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 

'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright. 

To  view  the  waves  of  watery  light. 

And  hear  its  melody  by  uight. 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  childhood  played 

Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade ;   , 

And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 

That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  youth  along 

Its  bank  been  soothed  by  beauty's  song ; 

And  softer  seemed  each  melting  tone 

Of  music  mingled  with  its  own. 

But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  age  repose 

Along  the  brink  at  twilight's  close; 

The  stream  that  filled  that  font  is  fled  — 

The  blood  that  warmed  his  heart  is  shed! 

And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 

Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 

The  last  sad  note  that  swelled  the  gale 

Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail :  j 

That  quenched  in  silence,  all  is  still, 

But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill : 

Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 

No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 

On  desert  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan 

The  rudest  steps  of  fellow-man : 

So  here  the  very  voice  of  grief 

Might  wake  an  echo  like  relief — 

At  least  'twould  say,  "all  are  not  gone; 

There  lingers  life,  though  but  in  one  — " 

For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there. 

Which  solitude  might  well  forbear; 

Within  that  dome  as  yet  decay 

Hath  slowly  worked  her  cankering  way  — 

But  gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate. 

Nor  there  the  fakir's  self  will  wait, 

Nor  there  will  wandering  dervise  stay. 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  ''bread  and  salt'' 

Alike  must  wealth  and  poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 

For  courtesy  and  pity  died 

With  Hassan  on  the  mountain-side. 

His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men. 

Is  desolation's  hungry  den. 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labour, 

Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre! 


I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet; 


If  ore  near  —  each  turban  I  can  scan. 

And  silver-sheathed  ataghan ; 

The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen. 

An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green: 

Ho!  who  art  thou?  •— tills  low  salam 

Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am. 

The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear. 

Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care. 

And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight. 

My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait 

Thou  speakest  sooth,  thy  skiff  unmoor. 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furled,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that's  scattered  by. 
And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channelled  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Rest  from  your  task  —  so  —  bravely  done, 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run; 
Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow. 
That  one  of—  *        *        * 


Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank. 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank; 
1  watched  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirred  it  more,  —  'twas  but  the  beam 
That  chequered  o'er  the  living  stream: 
I  gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view, . 
Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 
That  gemmed  the  tide,  then  mocked  the  sight; 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep. 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 


•    As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen  of  eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald-meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour. 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye : 
So  beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child. 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears. 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  bctray'd, 
Woe  wuts  the  insect  and  the  maid ; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infhnt'^play,  and  man's  caprice: 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught. 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brushed  its  brightest  hues  away. 
Till  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 


THE  GUOUR. 


53 


With  wounded  wing,  or  Ueedingr  breast, 
Ah!  where  shall  either  Tiotim  rest? 
Caa  this  with  &ded  pinion  soar 
Fron  rose  to  tnlip  as  before  ? 
Or  beauty,  blighted  in  an  hoar, 
Fmd  joy  within  her  broken  bower? 
No:  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o-er  those  that  die. 
And  lorelier  things  haye  mercy  shown 
To  crery  foiling  bat  their  own, 
And  crery  woe  a  tear  can  claim, 
Eieept  an  erring  sister's  shame. 


The  ndnd,  that  broods  o'er  goilty  woes, 
li  like  the  scorpion  girt  by  fire, 
lo  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 
The  flames  aroond  their  captive  close, 
nn  inly  searched  by  thoasand  throes, 
Aad  Biaddening  in  her  ire, 
Ose  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  stiag  she  nourished  for  her  foes. 
Whose  Tcnom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  hot  one  pang,  and  cares  all  pain. 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain : 
80  do  the  dark  in  sonl  expire, 
Or  live  like  scorpion  girt  by  fire; 
^  fio  writhes  the  mind  remorse  hath  riven, 

Uoit  finr  earth,  undoomcd  for  heaven, 
,   Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
I    Aroond  it  ifaime,  within  it  death ! 


Bbck  Hassan  from  the  haram  flies, 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes; 
The  anwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Tet  shares  he  not  the  banter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  serai. 
Both  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rnmonrs  in  oar  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away 
When  Rhamasan's  last  son  was  set, 
And  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaimed  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  throngh  the  boundless  Bast. 
Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  searched  in  wrath ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 
la  likeness  of  a  Georg^  page. 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Ead  wronged  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour. 
SooMwhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deemed ; 
BntstiO  so  fond,  so  fliir  sbe  seemed, 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave : 
And  oa  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
8aeh  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 


But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Pbingari's  trembling  light. 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steed 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore. 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  tell. 
But  gaac  on  that  of  the  gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well ; 
As  large,  as  languisbingly  dark. 
But  soul  beamed  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid. 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid. 
Yea,  $oul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  has  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  AUa !  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  arch  I  stood, 
Wliich  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood. 
With  Paradise  Within  my  view, 
And  all  his  houris  beckoning  through. 
Oh !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust? 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone ; 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 
The  young  pomegranate's  blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new ; 
Her  hair  in  hyaointhine>flow. 
When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below. 
As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 
Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain-slect 
Ere  fVom  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 
The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water ; 
80  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 
The  loveliest  bird  of  FrangncstanI 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  swan, 
And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride. 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 
Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide : 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  wbiter  neck ;  — 
Thus  armed  with  beauty  wpuld  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  folly's  gaae 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate ; 
Her  mate  —  stem  Hassan,  who  was  he? 
Alas  I  that  name  was  not  for  thee ! 


Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  armed,  as  best  becomes  a  man. 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan ; 
The  chief  before,  as  decked  for  war. 


54 


TH£   GIAOUa 


Bears  in' his  belt  the  scimitar 

Stained  with  the  beat  of  Aroant  blood, 

When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 

And  few  returned  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  what  befell  in  Parne's  vale. 

The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 

Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore, 

Which  still,  though  gemmed  and  bossed  with  gold. 

Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 

'Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 

Hore  true  than  her  who  left  his  side; 

The  foithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower. 

And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour  I 


The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain-rill, 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer ; 
Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  bis  lord. 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard  — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see. 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 


The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap  ; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile: 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak. 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak. 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-uiglit. 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light; 
Beneatli,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer-beam. 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there: 
Each  side  the  midway-path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray. 
By  time,  or  mountain-lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven ; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unvoii'd  ? 


They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last: 
BismiUah !  now  the  peril's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain : 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground! 
Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein. 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound; 
But  three  shall  never  mount  again : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 
The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 


With  steel  unsheathed  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  coursers'  liaraess  leant. 
Half  sheltered  by  the  steed; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock. 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 
Nor  tamely  stan  d  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  scroe^» 
Stern  Hassan  only  fkom  his  horse    t/ 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  coarse. 
Till  fiery  hashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-elaii 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avaii  the  promised  prey; 
Then  curled  his  very  beard  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire: 
Though  for  and  near  the  bulieta  hiss, 
I've  'scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this. 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit. 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit; 
But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword. 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resigned  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amann  1 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near. 
The  lately  ambushed  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-chaig'er  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand. 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  band  ? 
"Tislic!  'tis  he!  I  know  him  now; 
1  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery ; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb: 
Though  now  arrayed  in  Arnaut  garb. 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  fkith. 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death : 
'Tis  he !  well  met  in  any  hour! 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour!" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean. 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming; 
As  the  sea-tidc*s  opposing  motion. 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming. 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood, 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave. 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave ; 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thunderirfg  clash. 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore. 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar : 
Thus  —  as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, . 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet  — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong. 
And  fote,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar; 
And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 
Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear. 


THE  GUOUR. 


55 


The  deftdidiot  hissinsr  from  afiir ; 

The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war, 

Refcrberatc  along  that  yale, 

More  raited  to  the  shepherd's  tale : 

Though  few  the  nnmbers  —  theirs  the  strife, 

That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  I 

Ah!  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press, 

To  seiie  and  share  the  dear  caress; 

But  tore  itself  could  never  pant 

For  all  that  heanty  sighs  to  grant 

With  half  the  ferrour  hate  bestows 

Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes. 

When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fo)d 

Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold :     y 

Friends  meet  to  part;  love  laughs  at  ftdth:   • 

Tkue  fi>es,  once  met,  are  joined  till  death  I 


With  sabre  shivered  to  the  hilt. 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 
Yet  strained  within  the  severed  hand 
Whieh  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand; 
His  turban  for  behind  him  rolled. 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold; 
Bb  flowiiig  robe  by  falchion  torn. 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  mom 
That,  streaked  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 
A  slain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fragment  of  his  palamporc. 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnumbered  riven, 
His  back  to  earth,  his  fece  to  heaven, 
FUI'n  Hassan  lies  —  his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 
As  if  the  hour  that  scaled  his  fate 
Sarriving  left  his  quenchless  hate; 
And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. 


'^es,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave. 
Bat  his  shall  be  a  redder  g^ve ; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
He  called  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour: 
He  called  on  Alia  —  but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
Thou  Paynim  fool !  could  Leila's  prayer 
Be  passed,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 
I  watdied  my  time,  I  leagued  with  these, 
Tlie  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 
My  wrath  is  wreaked,  the  deed  is  done. 
And  now  I  go  —  but  go  alone." 


* 


The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling : 
His  mother  looked  firom  her  lattice  high  ^ 
She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pastures  green  beneath  her  eye, 


She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling :  • 

«'Tis  twilight  —  sure  his  train  is  nigh. 

She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower. 

But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower : 

Why  comes  he  not?  his  steeds  are  fleet. 

Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer-heat ; 

Why  sends  not  the  bridegroom  his  promised  gift? 

Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 

Oh,  fklse  reproach !  yon  Tartar  now 

Has  gained  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 

And  warily  the  steep  descends. 

And  now  within  the  valley  bends; 

And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddie-bow  «- 

How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 

Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 

His  velcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate. 

But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight : 

His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress. 

But  this  might  be  from  weariness; 

His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 

But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side ; 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest  — 

Angel  of  Death !  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 

His  calpac  rent  —  his  caftan  red  — 

*'Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  son  hath  wed : 

Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare. 

But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 

Peace  to  the  brave !  whose  blood  is  spilt : 

Woe  to  the  Giaour !  for  his  the  guilt" 


A  tnrbau  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown. 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran-verse  that  mourns  the  dead. 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e*er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee; 
As  ever  scorned  forbidden  wine. 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine. 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of ''Alia  Hu!" 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand. 
And  stranger  in  bis  native  land ! 
Yet  died  he  as  in. arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  paradise 
Impatient  to  their  halls  invite. 
And  the  dark  haiven  of  Houris'  eyes 
On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 
They  come  —  their  kerchiefs  green  they  wwe, 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave  I 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 


But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shaft  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  scythe; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 


56 


THB  6UOUR. 


To  wander  A>nod  lost  Bblis'  throne; 
And  fire  unqaenched,  anqnenchable, 
Aroand,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dweO; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Tampire  sent, 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent: 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place. 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse: 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  daemon  for  their  sire. 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 
Thy  flowers  are  withered  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  tby  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all. 
Shall  bless  thee  with  s^/ather't  name  — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame ! 
Yet  must  thou  end  (hy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark. 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue; 
Then  with  unhallowed  hand  shalt  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn ; 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memorial  of  thine  agony ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip. 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave. 
Go  —  and  with  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave ; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they ! 


"How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer  ? 
His  features  I  have  scanned  before 
In  mine  own  land :  'tis  many  a  year, 
Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  marked  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
As  death  were  stamped  upon  his  brow." 

• 

<*'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer-tide 
Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 
For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper-prayer. 
Nor  e'er  before  confession-chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone. 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 


The  sea  from  Pajmim-land  he  cros^ 
And  here  ascended  from  the  ooast; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  raoe^ 
But  only  Christian  in  his  fiioe : 
I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade. 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  made. 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  saored  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  Abbot's  favour  bought; 
But  were  I  Prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
Or  pent  within  our  penanoe-eell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  'whebned  beneath  the  sea; 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying. 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying ; 
On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  severed  from  its  parent  limb, 
Invisible  to  all  but  him, 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave^ 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  soowl 
That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  oowl: 
The  flash  of  thai  dilating  eye 
Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 
Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 
Oft  will  his  glance  the  gacer  rue. 
For  in  it  lurks  that  nambless  spell 
Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 
A  spirit  yet  unquelled  and  high. 
That  claims  and  keeps  ascendency; 
And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 
But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 
Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look. 
Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook. 
From  him  the  half-affrighted  friar 
When  met  alone  would  fain  retire. 
As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 
Transferred  to  others  fear  and  guile : 
Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he. 
And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 
That  he  but  mocks  at  misery. 
How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver ! 
Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever; 
As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 
Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 
Well  were  it  so  —  such  ghastly  mirth 
From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 
But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 
What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face: 
Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fixed. 
But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mixed; 
And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded. 
Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 
Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded : 


THB  GIAOUa 


57 


Tkeoommon  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 
Of  wajward  deeds,  and  fittiog  doom ; 
The  dose  obserrer  can  espy 
A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high :  >/ 
Alas!  though  both  bestowed  in  Tain^ 
Which  grief  could  change,  and  guilt  could  stain, 
It  was  n^  Tulgar  tenement 
To  which  sttdi  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 
Aod  still  with  litUc  less  than  dread 
Oa  fluch  the  sight  is  riveted. 
>  Theroolless  cot,  decayed  and  rent. 
Will  scarce  delay  the  passer  by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 
Denands  and  daunts  the  stanger's  eye ; 
Esch  iTied  arch  and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  I 

^YSa  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 
Sow  sweeps  he  through  the  columned  aisle; 
With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 
The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
Bnt  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 
By  yonder  lone  and  waTering  torch 
ffis  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ; 
There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done  — 
And  hear  the  pcayer,  but  utter  none, 
flee — by  the  half-illumined  wail 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
I   That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
Ai  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bc^und 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  stray'd : 
For  he  declines  the  convent-oath, 
Aad  leayes  those  locks  unhallowed  growth, 
But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside; 
And,  not  from  piety  but  pride,  y 

Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard  ^ 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo!  —  mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Pyls  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
TkU  Grid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mixed  defiance  and  despair ! 
Saiiit  Fiancis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine ! 
Bbe  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  angel  bore 
The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore : 
By  aD  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 
Socfa  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  V* 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
Bat  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  o  wn } 
\  Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 
'  Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair; 
Aad  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
Ihe  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 
Xnst  born  before  its  surfhoe  shine, 
Bol  pfainged  within  the  frumace-flame, 


It  bends  and  meUs  —  though  still  the 
Then  tempered  to  thy  want,  or  will, 
'Twill  serve  tliee  to  defend  or  kill; 
A  breast-plate  for  thine  hour  of  need. 
Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed; 
But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear. 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge  beware  1 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art. 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain. 
But  break  —  before  it  bend  again. 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief. 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  It  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share : 
Bven  bliss  —  'twere  woe  alone  to  bear; 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease  —  to  hate. 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, . 
And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep. 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird. 
Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 
To  still  her  famished  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferred. 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast, 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 
Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void. 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind. 
The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doomed  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more  — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay;  — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock  1 


'•Father  I  thy  days  have  passed  in  peace, 
'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer. 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease. 
Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care. 
Save  transient  ills  that  ail  must  bear, 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age; 
And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontrolled. 
Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 
Whnse  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
4# 


58 


THE  GIAOUR. 


My  days,  though  few,  have  passed  below 
LLBpnich  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe; 
Yet  stillin  hpnra  of  love  or  strife, 
Tve  'scaped  tbo  weariness  ofJid^: 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose, 
Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 
No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 
I'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o*er  a  dungeon's  walls. 
Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 
Condemned  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 
For  rest  —  but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest. 
Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 
And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 
Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem : 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead;  my  hope,  their  doom : 
Ttiough  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
3Iy  spurits  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modern  knave : 
.  Yet  death  I  have  not  feared  to  meet ; 
And  in  tlie  field  it  bad  been  sweet. 
Had  danger  woo*d  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
I've  braved  it  —  not  for  honour's  boast  : 
I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 
To  such  let  others  carve  their  way. 
For  high  renown,  or  hireling-pay: 
But  place  again  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  price : 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  bate. 
And  I  will  himt  the  steps  of  fate. 
To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require. 
Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire ; 
Nor  needst  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 
Who  would  but  do  —  what  he  kath  done. 
Heath  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave, 
The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave ; 
Then  let  life  go  te  him  who  gave: 
I  have  not  quailed  to  danger's  brow 
When  high  and  happy  ^  need  I  now? 


"I  loved  her,  friar!  nay,  adored  — 
But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use  — 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 
A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose: 
'Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me. 
It  warmed  the  heart  of  one  abhorred: 
Nay,  start  not  —  no  —  nor  bend  thy  knee, 
Nor  'midst  my  sins  such  act  record; 
Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed. 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed! 


The  very  name  of  Nasarene 

Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 

Ungrateful  fool !  since  but  for  brands 

Well  wielded  in  some  h^rdy  hands. 

And  wounds  by  Galileans  given. 

The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven. 

For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 

Impatient  at  the  prophet's  gate. 

I  loved  her  —  love  will  find  its  way 

Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey. 

And  if  it  dares  enough,  'twere  hard 

If  passion  met  not  some  reward  — 

No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 

I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh : 

Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 

I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 

She  died  —  I  dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 

But  look  —  'tis  written  on  my  brow ! 

There  read  of  Cain  tlie  curse  and  crime. 

In  characters  unworn  by  time: 

Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  pause; 

Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 

Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 

Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 

Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow; 

But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low : 

Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be. 

Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me; 

To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 

Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthrall ; 

And  I,  alas !  too  late  to  save! 

Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 

'Twas  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave. 

His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 

Has  made  me  —  what  thou  well  mayst  hate. 

His  doom  was  sealed  —  he  knew  it  well,  • 

Warned  by  the  voice  of  stem  Tahecr, 

Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear 

Ttie  deathshot  pealed  of  murder  near, 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 

He  died  too  in  the  battle-broil, 

A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil; 

One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 

One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made : 

He  knew  and  crossed  me  in  the  fray  — 

I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay. 

And  watched  his  spirit  ebb  away : 

Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 

He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 

I  searched,  but  vainly  searched,  to  find 

The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind; 

Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 

Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  given  to  trace 

Despair  upon  his  dying  face  I 

The  late  repentance  of  that  hour. 

When  penitence  hath  lost  her  power 

To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave. 

And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


59 


'*The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood. 
Their  love  can  scarce  dcserre  the  name; 
But  mine  was  like  the  laTa-flood 
That  boib  in  iGtna's  breast  of  fiame. 
IcaDDOt  prate  in  pnling  strain 
Of  hdye-loTC,  and  beauty's  chain : 
If  diBDging  cheek,  and  scorching:  vein, 
Lips  taoght  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bontingf  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain. 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel, 
And  ail  that  I  have  felt,  and  feel, 
Betoken  love  —  that  love  was  mine. 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign, 
tigtnie  I  coold  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
1  die  —  bat  first  I  have  possessed, 
And  come  what  may,  I  kmve  been  blest 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  songht  upbraid  ? 
}fo — reft  of  all,  yet  undismayed 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Ghre  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
1  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died ; 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave  — 
Ah !  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 
TUs  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light. 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
Aad  rose  where'er  I  turned  mine  eye. 
The  morning-star  of  memory ! 
Tes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven ; 
A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  aageis  shared,  by  Alia  given. 
To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
DcTotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
BiA  heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 
A  feeling  fi^om  the  Godhead  caught. 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought; 
A  ray  of  him  who  formed  the  whole ; 
A  glory  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  wuf  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt, 
Bat  say,  oh  say,  kert  was  not  guilt ! 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  light : 
That  qoenched,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night  ? 
Oh!  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
AfthoQgfa  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 
Ks  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 
I  Xo  BMrc  with  sorrow  meekly  cope ; 
|fe|Areiisy  then  their  fhte  accuse : 
\h  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 
sm  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ? 
■!  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

I  wmght  to  dread  from  outward  blow ; 

>  fells  from  all  he  knows  of  blisSi 

I  little  into  what  abyss. 


Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 
To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear: 
I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow. 
And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear ! 
'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
With  havock  have  I  marked  my  way : 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove, 
To  die  —  and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn. 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn : 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake. 
The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake. 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take: 
And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range. 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys ; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys. 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Less  than  yon  solitary  swan ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 
Su<di  shame  at  least  was  never  mine  — 
Leila !  each  thought  was  only  thine ! 
My  good,  my  gmlt,  my  weal,  my  woe. 
My  hope  on  high  ~  my  all  below. 
Barth  holds  no  other  like  to  tliee, 
Or  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me : 
For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth, 
This  bed  of  death  —  attest  my  truth ! 
'Tis  all  too  late  —  thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherished  madness  of  my  heart! 

''And  she  was  lost  —  and  yet  I  breathed. 
But  not  the  breath  of  human  life : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed. 
And  stung  my  very  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorred  all  place. 
Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  ftice. 
Where  every  hue  that  charmed  before 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 
The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 
And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe. 
But  talk  no  more  of  penitence ; 
Thou  seest  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true. 
The  deed  that's  done  canst  thou  undo  ? 
Think  me  not  thankless  —  but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relict 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess : 
But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live. 
Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive; 
Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young. 
And  calm  the  lonely  lioness : 
But  soothe  not  —  mock  not  my  distress ! 


60 


THB  GIAOUR. 


"In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 
When  heart  with  heart  delig^hts  to  blend. 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 
I  had  —  Ah !  have  I  now  ?  —  a  friend ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  oharg^e  thee  send, 
Memorial  of  a  yonthfal  vow  ; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end :     , 
Though  souls  absorbed  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
'Tis  strange  —  he  prophesied  my  doom, 
And  I  have  smiled  —  I  then  could  smile — 
When  prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 
And  warn  —  I  recked  not  what  —  the  while : 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  marked  before. 
Say  —  that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 
And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 
And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was. 
Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 
Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been. 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died; 
But  heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame. 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  feme? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn. 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn ; 
And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
Hay  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  ? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him  —  what  thou  dost  behold ! 
The  withered  frame,  the  ruined  mind. 
The  wrack  by  passion  lefl  behind, 
A  shrivelled  soroU,  a  scattered  leaf, 
Seared  by  the  autumn-blast  of  grief ! 


^Tcll  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream ; 
Alas!  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep. 
I  only  watched,  and  wished  to  weep ; 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbbed  to  the  very  brain  as  now  : 
I  wished  but  for  a  single  tear. 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear: 
I  wished  it  then,  I  wish  it  still, 
Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer : 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  fether  I  then 
I  saw  her;  yes,  she  lived  again; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar. 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  I  g^ze  on,  as  on  her. 
Who  looked  and  looks  fhr  lovelier ; 


Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark ; 
To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark ; 
And  I,  befbrc  its  rays  appear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wander,  father;  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  her,  friar !  and  I  rose 
Forgetfiil  of  our  former  woes; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart. 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 
I  clasp  —  what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp. 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine. 
Yet,  LcUa!  yet  the  form  is  thine ! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much. 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 
Ah !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not;  so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wished  to  hold. 
Alas!  around  a  shadow  prest. 
They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast; 
Yet  still  'tis  there !  In  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  I 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright  black  eye  - 
I  knew  'twas  false  —  she  could  not  die ! 
But  he  is  dead  I  within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fdl; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth;  why  then  art  thou  awake? 
They  told  me  wild  waves  rolled  above 
The  fece  I  view,  the  form  I  love; 
They  told  me  —  'twas  a  hideous  tale ! 
I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  comest  to  claim  a  calmer  grave ; 
Oh !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape,  or  shade !  whatever  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 
Or  fiEirther  with  thee  bear  my  soul. 
Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll ! 


^*Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 
Confessor!  to  thy  secret  ear, 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail. 
And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead. 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head. 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 
By  prying  stranger  to  be  read 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 

• 

He  passed  —  nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hatii  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  what  the  fether  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying>*<lay : 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew. 


61 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS, 

A     TURKISH     TALE. 


Had  we  never  loved  $o  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted. 
We  bad  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

BUBMS. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

LORD     HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE  IS  INSCRIBED,  WITH  EVERY  SBNTLMENT  OF  REGARD  AND  RESPECT,  BY  HIS  GRATEF0LLT 

OBLIGED  AND  SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


CANTO     L 


Know  Te  tire  land  whfte  tf  e  cypress  anS  myrtle 
kk  e^Uems  oide^  thA  are  don^th&r  clime,  f 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle. 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 
Where  the  Ughi  wings  of  Zephyr ,  oppressed  with  per- 
fume, 
Wax  feint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gnl  in  her  bloom ; 
Where  the  citron  and  oliv^  are  lairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute ; 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  edoar  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
Aad  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
Aad  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 
In  the  clime  of  the  east ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  sun  — 
Caa  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
Oh!  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell  [tell. 

Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  wliich  they 


--5S^ 


Begirt  with  many  a  gaUant  slave, 
ipparellcd  as  becomes  the  brave,  * 
Awaiting  each  his  Lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest 
OM  QtalBr  sate  in  his  Divan : 
Deep  thoogfat  was  in  his  aged  eye : 
Aid  though  the  fhce  of  Mussulman 
lot  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  miiid  within^  well  skilled  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
Va  pensive  check  and  pondering  brow 
IKd  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 


''Let  the  duanber  be  cleared  !"-The  train  disappeared  - 
^•w  can  me  the  chief  of  the  haram-gnard."   . 


With  Qjaflir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 
And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 
^'Haroun  —  when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 
Are  passed  beyond  the  outer  gate, 
(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 
My  child  Zuldka's  face  unveiled !) 
Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  towor  ; 
Her  fate  is  fixed  this  very  hour : 
Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought; 
By  me  alone  be  duty  taught!" 

*<Pacha  I  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say  — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way. 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 
First  lowly  rendering  reveri&nce  meet; 
And  downcast  looked,  and  gently  spake. 
Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

''Father !  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide. 
Know  —  for  the  fault,  if  ftiult  there  be. 
Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me — 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 
That  —  let  the  old  and  weary  sleep  — 
I  could  not;  and  to  view  alone 
The  fklrest  scenes  of  land  and  deep. 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome  —  for  whate'er  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 
And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 
Soon  turns  the  haram's  grating  key. 


62 


THB  BRLDE  OF  ABYDOa 


CANTO  I 


Before  the  gaardian  alavea  awoke 

We  to  the  cypress-groves  had  flown. 

And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  oor  own ! 

There  lingered  we,  beguiled  too  long 

With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song ; 

Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour 

Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  boiir, 

To  thee  and  to  my  duty  true, 

Warned  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew  : 

But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet  — 

Nay,  father,  rage  not  —  nor  forget 

That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 

But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower." 

"Son  of  a  slave  —  the  Pacha  said  — 
From  unbelieving  mother  bred. 
Vain  were  a  father's  hopes  to  sec 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Thou,  when  Ihine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Thou^Greck  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin-glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire,  *^^    v.. 

Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire!  .  \  V    ja."" 
Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement  /      \  y'  • 


menty 


By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  reni 

Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 

Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 

Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 

Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth !  • 

Go  —  let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 

Assume  the  distaff' —  not  the  brand. 

But,  Haroun !  —  to  my  daughter  speed : 

And  hark  —  of  thine  own  head  take  heed  — 

If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing  — 

Thou  seest  yon  bow  —  it  hath  a  string !" 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 
At  least  that  met  old  Giafiir^s  ear. 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 
"Son  of  a  slave !  —  reproached  with  fear ! 
Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dean 
Son  of  a  slaye!  —  and  who  my  sire?*' 
Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career. 
And  glances  even  of  more  than  ire 
Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giafiir  gazed  upon  his  son 
And  started;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun: 
"Come  hither,  boy  ^-  what,  no  reply  ? 
I  mark  thee  —  and  I  know  thee  too ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  darcst  not  do : 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length. 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance. 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 
As  snecringly  these  accents  fell. 


On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gased : 

That  eye  returned  him  glance  for  glance, 

And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quailed  and  shrunk  askance  — 

Ajid  why  —  he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 

"Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 

Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy ; 

I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth. 

And  —  but  his  arm  is  little  worth. 

And  scarcely  in  the  ohase  could  cope 

With  timid  fawn  or  antelope. 

Far  less  would  Tcnture  into  strife 

Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life  — 

I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone: 

No  —  nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 

That  blood  —  he  hath  not  heard  —  no  more  — 

ril  watch  him  closer  than  before. 

He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight. 

Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight » 

But  hark !  —  I  hear  Zuleika's  voices 

Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  car : 

She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice ; 

OI  more  than  even  her  mother  dear. 

With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear  — 

My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here! 

Sweet,  as  t he^eser t-fountain's  waTo       '   ^ 

To  lips  jusft  cooled  ia  time  to  save  — ^ 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou ; 

Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 

More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now." 

Faur,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 
When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling^ 
Whose  image  then  was  stamped  upon  her  mind  — 
But  once  beguiled  —  and  ever  more  beguiling; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh !  too  transcendent  vision 
To  sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given. 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Blysian, 
And  paints  the  lost  on  earth  revived  in  heaven ; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love; 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  childhood  wafts  above ; 
Was  she  —  the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears  —  but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hatli  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  beauty's  heavenly  ray  ? 
Who  doth  not  feel,  ^til  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight, 
ffis  cha^gijg  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
Ti^e^tf  l/r-  ^*^  iia|jl>^yr  f^f  f  nyelineasf 
luchwas  ZulenET— such  aroUnd  her  shone 
The  nameless  charm  unmarked  by  her  alone ; 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  tlie  music  breathing  from  her  face. 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole  — 
And,  oh!  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  soul!       ' 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 
Across  her  gently-budding  breast; 
At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 


CANTO  1 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


63 


To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  bleat 
fib  child  caressuig  and  careat, 
Zokikaoame  —  and  GialBr  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  a|;ainst  her  fancied  weaJ 
His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel ; 
Affection  chained  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

"Zuleika!  diild  of  gentleness! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell. 

When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 

b  losing  what  I  love  so  well. 

To  hid  thee  with  another  dwell : 

Anodier!  and  a  braver  man 

Was  nerer  seen  in  battle's  Tan. 

Wc  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood; 

Bat  jet  the  line  of  Carasman 

Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 

Rint  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 

That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 

Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 

Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou : 

Bia  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ : 

I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 

And  thou  ahalt  have  a  noble  dower : 

And  his  and  my  united  power 

Will  hugh  to  scorn  the  death>flrman, 

Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 

Aad  teach  the  messenger  what  fiite 
'  The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait 

Aad  DOW  thou  knowest  thy  father's  will ; 
.  AH  that  thy  sex.  hath  need  to  know : 
'  Twaa  mine  to  teach  obedience  still  — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 

In  silence  bowed  the  virgin's  head ; 
And  if  her  eye  was  filled  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  check  from  pale  to  red, 
;  And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  cars 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 
What  could  such  be  but  maiden-fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  beauty's  eye. 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  bashfulness. 
Even  pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot, 
Or tf  remembered,  marked  it  not! 
Thrice  dapped  his  hands,  and  called  bis  steed, 
Sarigned  his  gem-adorned  Chibouque, 
Aad  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 
With  Mangrabee  and  Mamaluke, 
I  way  arnKTbls  Delis  took, 
aitness  many  an  active  deed 

Tjlfa  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 

ha  Kislor  only  and  his  Moors 

'iatefa  well  the  haram's  massy  doors. 

fBs  bead  was  leant  upon  bis  hand, 
eye  looked  o'er, the  dark  blue  water 


That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turbaned  band 
Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt 
With  sabre-stroke  right  sharply  dealt; 
Nor  marked  the  javelin-darting  crowd, 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud  — 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter! 

No  word  from  Sellm's  bosom  broke; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice-grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfuUy  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turned. 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learned: 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same; 
Her  heart  confessed  a  gentler  flame: 
But  yet  that  heart  alarmed  or  weak. 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must  — -  but  when  essay? 
'*How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  awa}  I 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 
Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet" 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 
And  watched  his  eye  —  it  still  was  fixed: 
She  snatched  the  urn  wherein  was  mixed 
The  Persian  Atar-gul'vs  perfume, 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odours  o'er 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor : 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  addrest, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew. 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
"What,  sullen  yet?  it  must  not  be  — 
Oh!  gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee!" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 
The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land  — 
"He  loved  them  once ;  may  touch  them  yet, 
If  ofiered  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  rose  was  plucked  and  wreathed; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  scat 
Her  fairy-form  at  Selim*s  feet : 
"This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  bears ; 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song; 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad. 
He'll  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad, 
With  some  faint  hope  his  altered  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

"What!  not  receive  my  foolish  flower^ 
Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblcst : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 
And  knowest  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best? 
Oh!  Selimdear!  Oh,  more  than  dearest! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest  ? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 


64 


THB  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  L 


And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest. 

Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  most  foil, 

Even  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 

I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stem. 

Bat  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn : 

Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not; 

But  is  Zuleika's  love  forget  ? 

Ah!  deem  I  right?  the  Pacha's  plan — 

This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 

Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 

If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine, 

If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 

To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow. 

Without  thy  free  consent,  command. 

The  Saltan  should  not  have  my  hand ! 

Thinkst  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 

With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 

Ah!  were  I  severed  from  thy  side, 

Where  were  thy  friend  —  and  who  my  guide  ? 

Years  have  not  seen,  time  shall  not  see 

The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  tbcc : 

E  vefkfe  Aflffl  om  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 

That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!" 

He  lived  —  he  breathed  —  he  moved  —  he  felt; 

He  nused  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt: 

His  trance  was  gone  —  his  keen  eye  shone 

With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt; 

With  thoughts  that  burn  —  in  rays  that  melt. 

As  the  stream  late  concealed 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows; 

When  it  rushes  revealed 

In  the  light  of  its  billows; 

As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it. 

Flashed  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it 

A  warhorse  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 

A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound 

A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 

By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 

Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 

Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  displayed, 

And  all,  before  repressed,  betray'd : 

''Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 

With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign ; 

Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath. 

Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 

Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done; 

That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one : 
/  But  blench  not  thou  —  thy  simplest  tress 
I  Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness ; 
/  I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 
(  That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
\  For  aU  the  treasures  buried  far 
\Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lowered, 

Reproaches  on  my  head  were  showered, 

And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward ! 


Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave ; 

The  son  of  his  neglected  slave. 

Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  he  gave, 

May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

His  son,  indeed !  —  yet,  thanks  to  thee. 

Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  as  as  now. 

I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand;  *> 

More  Hi-got  weiilth,  a  meaner  soal 

Holds  not  a  Musselim's  control : 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo? 

A  viler  race  let  Israel  show ! 

But  let  that  pass  —  to  none  be  told 

Our  oath ;  the  rest  shall  time  unfold^ 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 

I've  partisans  for  peril's  day : 

Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear ; 

I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near.'' 

''Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 
My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed : 
This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest; 
But  now  thou'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knewst  before. 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  ftay, 
And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day ; 
With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 
I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss. 
Like  this  —  and  this  —  no  more  than  this; 
For,  Alia!  sure  thy  lips  are  flame : 
What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same. 
At  least  I  feel  my  check  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health. 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth. 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye. 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try ; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire: 
More  can  I  do?  or  thou  require? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  iior  tell, 
But  be  it,  since  thou  sayst  'tis  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mcanst  by  "arms"  and  "friends," 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 
The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word ; 
But  surely  be  would  leave  me  free. 
Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me, 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been? 
What  otlier  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 


1 


CANTO  11. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


65 


WliAt  Other  caa  she  seek  to  sec 

Thui  thee,  oompanion  of  tier  bower, 

"the  partner  of  her  iufii ncy  ? 

These  cherished  thoughts  with  life  began. 

Say,  why  mnst  I  no  more  avow  ? 

Wiwt  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  sliun 

The  truth;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now  ? 

To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 

Our  law,  oor  creed,  our  God  denies ; 

Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 

At  inch,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine : 

No!  happier  made  by  that  decree ! 

He  left  me  all  in  Icairing  thee. 

Deqi  were  my  anguish,  thus  compelled 

To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld  : 

This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal? 

Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 

I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 

To  thee  hath  never  boded  good ; 

And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 

Albh !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 

And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 

A(y  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 

If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime^ 

Aod  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here, 

OhySelim!  tell  me  yet  in  time. 

Nor  leave  me  thas  to  thoughts  of  fear. 

Ah!  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar, 

My  fiuher  leaves  the  mimic  war; 

I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye  —  ' 

Ssy,  Sclim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  V 


"Zulcika!  to  thy  tower's  retreat 
Betake  thee  —  Giaffir  I  can  greet : 
And  now  with  him  I  Mn  must  prate 
Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 
There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks; 
Our  Vixier  nobly  thins  his  ranks. 
For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks ! 
Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 
Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 
But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight-drum 
Hath  warned  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come: 
Then  softly  from  the  haram  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep : 
Our  garden-battlements  are  steep. 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time. 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before ; 
Trust  me,  Zulcika  —  fear  not  me ! 
Thou  knowst  I  hold  a  haram-key." 

'Fear  thee,  my  Selim!  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this  — " 

''Delay  not  thou ; 
I  keep  the  key  —  and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  tome,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear 
I  am  not,  love !  what  I  appear." 


CANTO     II. 


The  winds  are  high  on  Hello's  wave. 
As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  yoong,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 
The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh!  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  torret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
i  ThoQgfa  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
Aad  shrieking  sea-birds  warned  him  home, 
rJad  doads  aloft  and  tides  below, 
[With  Signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear 
sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear; 
eye  bat  saw  that  light  of  love, 
he  only  star  it  hailed  above; 
h  car  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
It  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long!"  — 
hat  talc  is  old,  but  love  ane.v 
kj  nerve  yoong  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Hcllc's  tide 
Bfii  darkly  heaving  to  the  main ; 


And  night's  descending  shadows  bide 

That  field  with  blood  bedewed  in  vain, 

The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride ; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 

AH  —  save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 

The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle! 

Oh!  yet  —  for  there  my  steps  have  been ; 
These  feet  have  pressed  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne  - 
l^Iinstrel !  with  thee  to  muse,  t6  mourn, 
To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore. 
Believing  every  hillock  green 
Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 
Thine  own  "broad  Hellespont"  still  dashes. 
Be  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  ho 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee ! 
■^ 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream. 
Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme  i 
5 


66 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYD08. 


CANTO  n. 


No  warrior  chides  her  peaoeftd  beam, 
Bat  oonscioos  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  gracing  on  the  mound 
Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow : 
That  mighty  heap  of  gathered  ground 
Which  Ammon*s  son  ran  proudly  round. 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarclis  crowned. 
Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow ! 
Within  —  thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow ! 
Without  —  can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone ; 
But  thou  ^  thy  very  dust  is  gone ! 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dtan  cheer 
The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear; 
Till  then  —  no  beacon  on  the  cliff 
May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skifl'; 
The  scattered  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 
All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away ; 
The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 
is  glimmering  in  Znleika's  tower. 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 
Aud  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber. 
O'er  which  her  fairy*fingers  ran; 
Near  these,  with  emerald-rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet. 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text. 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next; 
And  by  her  Comboloio  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazoned  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeemed  from  time ; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute. 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute; 
.And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould ; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom. 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perflime ; 
AH  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 
Are  gathered  in  that  goigeous  room.: 
But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloooa. 
She,  of  this  Peri-cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night  ? 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest. 
Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 
To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 
With  cautions  steps  the  thicket  threading. 
And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 
The  gust  its  hollOw.  moaninga  made, 
Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat. 
The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat. 
How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side? 
How  tbach  her  tender  lips  to  chide? 


They  reached  at  length  a  grotto,  he%vn 
By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art. 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune 
And  oft  her  Koran  conned  apart; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dreamed  what  Paradise  might  be : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdained  to  show ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure. 
Nor  deemed  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bqwer  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Without  ker,  most  beloved  in  this ! 
Oh !  wik>  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well? 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 
Some  change  seem'd  wrought  within  the  grot : 
It  might  be  only  that  the  night 
Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light : 
That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 
A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue; 
But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 
Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 
There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 
The  turbaned  Delis  in  the  field ; 
But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 
And  one  was  red  —  perchance  with  guilt ! 
Ah !  how  without  can  blood  be  spih? 
A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 
That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet 
What  may  this  mean?  she  turned  to  sec 
Her  Selim  —  "Oh!  can  this  be  he?" 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside. 
His  brow  no  high-crowned  turban  bore. 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red. 
Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore : 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem. 
No  longer  glittered  at  his  waist. 
Where  pistols  unadorned  were  braced ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung. 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiotc: 
Beneath  —  his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast; 
The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand. 
All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiongec. 

"I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seemed ; 
And  now  thou  seest  my  words  were  true : 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dreamed, 
If  sooth  —  its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 


cijno  ij. 


THB  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


67 


How  miicli  of  that  young  hesrt  I  ihared, 
I  could  not,  miut  not,  yet.haTe  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  JoTe ; 
TbU,  let  time,  trath,  and  peril  prove : 
Bot  first  —  Oh !  never  wed  another  — 
Zikika!  I  am  not  thy  brother^" 

'H)h!  not  my  brother !  —  yet  nnsay  — 
God!  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  moom  —  I  dare  not  corse  —  the  day 
That  saw  my  solitary  birth? 
Oh!  then  wilt  lore  me  now  no  more ! 
Mj  linking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
But  know  aie  all  I  was  before. 
Thy  sister  —  fiiend  —  Zoleika  still. 
Thoa  ledst  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 
If  thoQ  hast  caosc  for  vengeance,  see ! 
My  breast  is  offered  —  take  thy  fill! 
Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 
Than  live  thus  nothin^^  now  to  thee ! 
Perhaps  for  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaflir  always  seemed  thy  foe; 
And  I,  alas !  am  Giafiir's  child. 
For  whom  thon  wert  contemned,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister  —  wonldst  thon  save 
My  life,  oh!  bid  me  be  thy  slave!" 

''My  slave,  Zoleika !  —  nay,  I'm  thine: 
Bat,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  linked  with  mine ; 
I  swear  it  by  oor  Prophet's  shrine, 
And  be  that  thoogfat  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran-verse  display'd 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my 'blade, 
la  danger's  hoor  to  guard  os  both. 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 
Most  change ;  but,  my  Zoleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widened,  not  divided, 
AUMNigfa  thy  sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  fother  was  to  Giaffir  all 
That  Selim  late  was  deemed  to  thee; 

i  Tint  brother  wrought  a  broth^s  fail, 
Bot  spared,  at  least,  my  infhncy ; 
And  lulled  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
Tliat  yet  a  like  retorn  may  meet 
He  reared  me,  not  with  tender  help, 
Bot  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain ; 
He  watdied  me  like  a  lion's  whelp, 

;  That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

i  My  fiuho^s  blood  in  every  vein 
b  boiling;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
"Ho  present  vengeance  will  I  take ; 
Thoqgfa  here  I  most  no  more  remain. 
Bit  first,  beloved  Zoleika!  hear 
How  GtB&T  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

''How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew, 
Blove  or  envy  made  them  foes, 
Umattcn  little  if  I  knew; 


t 


J 


In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thooghtless,  will  disturb  repose. 

In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong. 

Remembered  yet  in  Bosniao  song, 

And  Paswan's  rebel-hordes  attest 

How  little  love  they  bore  such  goest: 

His  death  is  all  I  need  relate. 

The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate; 

And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 

Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  mc  free. 

"When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  last  for  power,  but  ^fX  for  life, 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proodly  sate, 
Our  Pachas  rallied  roond  the  state; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band ; 
They  gave  their  horsetails  to  the  wind, 
And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitched,  their  post  assigned; 
To  one,  alas!  assigned  in  vain ! 
What  need  of  words  ?  the  deadly  bowl. 
By  Giaffir's  oraer  drugged  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul. 
Dismissed  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 
He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up. 
But  little  deemed  a  brother's  wrath 
'o  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore; 
He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuieika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun  —  he  can  tell  it  out. 
The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppressed,  though  ne'er  subdued, 
Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gained :  — 
Thou  knowst  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man  — 
Abdallah's  honours  were  obtained 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stained; 
'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drained 
His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  rephiced. 
Wouldst  question  whence?  Survey  the  waste. 
And  ask  the  sqoalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  1  — 
Why  me  the  stern  usorper  spared, 
Why  thos  with  me  his  palace  shaf  ed, 
I  know  not  Shame,  regret,  remorse. 
And  little  fear  from  infant's  force ; 
Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 
Or  someonknown  cabal,  caprice. 
Preserved  me  thus ;  —  but  not  in  peace : 
He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 
NOr  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 

"Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes; 
Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true: 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 
His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few. 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead. 


68 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  It 


A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew 
This  talc,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh : 
He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew. 
And  held  that  post  in  Iiis  serai 
Which  holds  he  here  —  he  saw  hinvdie: 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  his  lord?  alas !  too  late: 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 
With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray 'd, 
Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  bis  gate, 
And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 
To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray'd. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 
From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me ; 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  ensured. 
Removed  he  too  from  Roamelic 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side. 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 
With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge  —  and  that  Nubian  feels 
A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals. 

And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals : 

FSuch  still  to  guilt  j  nst  Alia  sends 
I  Slaves,  tools,  accomplices  —  no  friends !  . 

'^All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds; 
But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be  : 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds. 
Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 
I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
Yet  it  is  one  1  oft  have  worn. 
And  long  must  wear:  this  Galiongcc, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 
Is  leader  of  those  pirate-hordes. 
Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  talc 
Would  make  thy  waning  check  more  pale  : 
Those  ^rms  thou  scest  my  band  have  brought. 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 
Is  filled  —  once  quaffed,  tliey  ne'er  repine  : 
Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves ; 
They're  only  infidels  inVinc. 

"What  could  I  be?  Proscribed  at  home. 
And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 
And  listless  left  —  for  Giaffir's  fear 
Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear  — 
Though  oft—  Oh,  Mahomet!  how  oft !  — 
In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoffed. 
As  if  my  weak  un  willing  hand 
Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand : 
He  ever  went  to  war  alone. 
And  pent  me  here  untried,  unknown ; 
To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left. 
By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft, 
While  thou  —  whose  softness  long  endeared. 


Though  it  unmanned  me,  still  had  clieered  — 

To  Bmsa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaitedst  there  the  field's  event 

Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke. 

His  captive,  though  with  dread,  resigning. 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 

On  promise  to  return  before 

The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'er. 

'Tis  vain  —  my  tongue  can  not  impart 

My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart. 

When  first  this  liberated  eye 

Snrvey'd  earth,  ocean,  8un,and  sky, 

As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 

And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew ! 

One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 

That  more  than  feeling  —  I  was  free ! 

Even  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine  ; 

The  woi  Id  —  nay  —  heaven  itself  was  mine ! 

<The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shore ; 
I  longed  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem : 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all ; 
But  when  and  where  I  joined  the  crew. 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 
When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'twill  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

"'Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood, 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood; 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 
With  them  hath  found  —  may  find  a  place  : 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 
Obedience  to  their  chiers  command, 
A  soul  for  every  enterprixe, 
That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all. 
And  vengeance  vowed  for  those  who  fall. 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  even  my  own  intents. 
And  some  —  and  I  have  studied  all 
Distinguished  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 
The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank  — 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 
The  last  of  Lambro's  patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern-fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fote. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  njslficJuiew  ; 
I  have  a  love T6t  freedom  too. 
Ay !  let  me'like  (he  ocean-patriarch  roam. 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home ! 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea. 
Are  more  than  cities  and  serais  to  me : 
Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail. 


CANTO  U. 


THB  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


69 


AcroM  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  whore  thou  wilt,  my  barb!  or  glide,  my  prow  ! 
Bat  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  thou ! 
Thoa,  my  Zoleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark; 
The  dore  of  peaoe  and  promise  to  mine  ark !         / 
Or,  lioce,  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife^ 
Be  thoa  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life ! 
The  ercnin^-beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  a%vay. 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  1 
Blest  —  as  the  Mneszin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wa{l 
To  (Mlgrims  pore  and  prostrate  at  his  call : 
Soft  ~  as  the  melody  of  youthfol  days, 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise'; 
Dear  —  as  his  native  song  to  exile's  ears. 
Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 
For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 
Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand. 
Wilt  —  wave  —  defend  —  destroy  —  at  thy  command ! 
Guft  by  my  band,  Zulcika  at  my  side. 
The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 
The  haiam's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 
Are  well  resigned  for  cares  —  for  joys  like  these: 
Kot  blind  to  fote,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
UsDumbered  perils  —  but  one  only  love! 
Tet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 
Though  fortune  frown,  or  fols^er  friendH  betray. 
How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill. 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 
Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown ; 
^To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own ; 
To  soothe  cacli  sorrow,  share  In  each  delight, 
Blood  every  thought,  do  all  —  but  disunite! 
Oooe  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guid^; 
Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside: 
Tet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assigned 
By  ftUal  nature  to  man's  warring  kind : 
Slark!  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  rcasc ! 
He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it  —  peace ! 
1,  like  the  rest,  must  use  my  skill  or  strength. 
But  ask  no  hind  beyond  my  sabre's  length  : 
.Power  sways  but  by  divisif>n  —  her  resource 
The  blest  ajternative  of  fraud  or  force ! 
Ours  be  the  last ;  in  time  deceit  may  come 
When  eifiescage us inTsocial home: 
There  even  thy  souT  inighi  err  —  how  oft  the  heart 
Corruption  shakes  which^eril  could  not  part ! 
And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe 
Or  even  disgrace  would  lay  her  lover  low, 
Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame  — 
Away  suspicion !  —  not  Zuleika's  name! 
Bat  life  is  hazard  at  the  best;  and  here 
No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear : 
Tes,  fear!  —  the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee. 
By  Osman's  power  and  Giaffir's  stern  decree. 
That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favouring  gale, 
Whidi  Love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail : 
Ko  danger  daunts  the  pair  bis  smile  hath  blest. 
Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 
With  tliee  all  toils  are  sweet,  eacli  clime  hath  charms ; 
Sarth  —  sea  alike  ^-  our  world  within  our  arms ! 


Ay  —  let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck. 
So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck : 
The  deepest  murmur  of  this^lip^  shall  be  ^ 

No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee ! 
The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  art: 
T^ere  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check ; 
Here  moments  menace  —  there  are  years  of  wreck ! 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  horror's  shape ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close ; 
Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes; 
Yea  —  foes  —  to  me  will  Giafiir's  hate  decline? 
And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine .' 

''His  head  and  feith  from  doubt  and  death 
Returned  in  time  my  guard  to  save; 
Few  heard,  none  t<Ad,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while : 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land. 
No  deed  they've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doomed  it  too : 
[  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'Tis  fit  I  oftcner  share  the  toil. 
But  now  too  long  I've  held  thine  ear ; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives  —  to-night  must  J>reak  thy  chain  : 
And  wouldst  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 
Perchance  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 
With  me  this  hour  away  —  away! 
But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wouldst  thou  reoallthy  willing  vow, 
Appalled  by  truths  imparted  now. 
Here  rest  I  —  not  to  see  thee  wed: 
But  be  tb^t  peril  on  my  head !" 

Znleika,  mute  and  motionless. 
Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 
When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone. 
The  mother  hardened  into  stone ; 
All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 
But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 
Essay'd  to  speak,  or  look  reply. 
Beneath  the  garden's  wicket-porch 
Far  flashed  on  high  a  biasing  torch  ! 
Another  —  and  another  —  and  another  — 
"Oh !  fly  —  no  more  —  yet  now  my  more  than  brother  V* 
Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread. 
The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red ; 
Nor  these  alone  —  for  each  right  hand 
Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 
They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel; 
And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving. 
Stem  Gia£Br  in  his  fury  raving: 
And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave  — 
Oh!  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 


70 


THE  BRIDB  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  II. 


DanntleM  be  stood  —  '''Tis  come  —  soon  pHst  - 
One  kiss,  Zuleika  — 'tis  my  last: 
Bat  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  bear  tbis  sig^nal,  sec  the  flash ; 
Yet  now  too  few  —  tbe  attempt  were  rash  : 
No  matter  —  yet  one  effort  more/' 
Forth  to  tbe  cavern-mouth  he  stcpt  ; 
His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 
Despair  benumbed  her  breast  and  eye !  — 
''They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father^s  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  bast  seen  less  equal  war ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika  !  —  Sweet!  retire: 
Yet  stay  within  —  here  linger  safe. 
At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chalc. 
Stir  not  —  lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  sbovld  glance. 
Fearst  thou  for  him?  —  may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire! 
No  —  though  by  him  that  poison  poorod ; 
No  —  though  again  he  call  me  coward ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  ? 
No  —  as  each  crest  save  hh  may  feel !" 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gained  the  sand : 
Already  at  his  feet  hath  sank 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 
A  gasping  bead,  a  quivering  trunk : 
Another  falls  —  but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  deft. 
And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave: 
His  boat  appears  —  not  ^e  oars'  length  — • 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength. 
Oh !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save? 
His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave ; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray; 
Wet  —  wild  —  unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle  —  now  they  touch  the  land ! 
They  come  —  'tis  but  to  add  to  slaagfiter  — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water ! 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharmed  by  steel. 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel. 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset, 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met: 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  band  — 
Ah !  wherefore  did  he  turn,  to  look 
For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaxe  he  took. 
Hath  doomed  his  death,  or  fixed  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  will  lover's  hope  remain ! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashuig  spray. 
Behind,  but  dose,  bis  comrades  lay, 
When,  at  the  instant,  hissed  the  ball  — 


"So  may  the  foes  of  Giafflr  fall  r 

Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang  ? 

Whose  ballet  through  the  night-air  sang , 

Too  nearly,  deadly  aimed  to  err  ? 

'Tis  thine  —  Abdallah's  murderer! 

The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate. 

The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fhte: 

Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling. 

The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling  — 

If  aught  his  lips  essay 'd  to  groan. 

The  rushing  billows  choaked  the  tone ! 

Mom  slowly  rolls  the  doads  away; 
Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there : 
Tbe  shouts  that  shook  the  mtdaight--bay 
Are  silent;  but  some  signs  of  fhiy 
That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shivered  brand: 
Steps  stamp'd ;  and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 
May  there  be  marked;  nor  far  remote 
A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat ; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 
There  lies  a  white  capote ! 
'Tis  rent  in  twain  —  one  dark -red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain : 
But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep 
60,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigaoam's  steep 
And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore: 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  tfie  prey. 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay. 
As,  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow,  ~ 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow; 
I'hat  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 
Then  levelled  with  the  wave  — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 
Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robbed  the  meaner  worm ; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed , 
And  mourned  above  his  turban-stone, 

A  That  heart  bath  burst  —  that  eye  was  closed  — 

k  Yea  —  closed  before  his  own ! 

By  Hclle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  waH ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet —  man's  cheek  is  pale : 
Zuleika!  last  of  Giaffir's  race. 
Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late ; 
He  sees  not  —  ne'er  shall  see  thy  &oe ! 
Can  he  not  hear 

The  loud  Wul-wolleh  warn  his  distant  car  ? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chanters  of  tbe  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait. 


CAKTO  n 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


71 


Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

TeU  him  thy  tale! 

Tboa  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  foil ! 

That  fearfiil  moment  when  he  left  the  care 

Thy  heart  grew  chill : 

He  was  thy  hope  —  thy  joy  —  thy  love  —  thine  all  — 

And  that  last  thought  on  him  thon  cooldst  not  save 

Soffioedtokill; 

Borst  forth  in  one  wild  cry  •«-  and  all  was  still.  . 

Petoe  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin-grave!/ 

Ah!  happy !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 

That  grief —  though  deep —  though  fatal — was  thy  first! 

Thriee  happy!  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 

Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse ! 

And,  oh !  that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies ! 

The  i(orm  that  wUl  not  sleep  —  and  never  dies ; 

ThongBHR  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night. 

That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 

That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart ! 

Ah !  wherefore  not  consume  it  —  and  depart  I 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting'  chief! 

Vaia^  thoQ  heapst  the  dust  upon  thy  head. 

Vainly  flie  8ackcl<rth  o'er  thy  limbs  dost  spread : 

By  that  same  hand  Abdallah  ^  Selim  bled. 

Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief : 

Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed. 

She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed. 

Thy  dai^ter's  dead ! 

Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam, 

The  star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 

What  qoenchM  its  rays?— the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed ! 

&rk !  to  the  hurried  question  of  despair : 

•Where  is  my  childf  an  echo  answers  —  "Wlicrc  ?" 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 
Thai  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  6yprcss  glooms 
And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp'd  with  an  eternal  grief, 
Like  early  unrequited  love,  ^ 

Oae  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 
Bfen  in  thai  deadly  grove  — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 
Us  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale : 
If  kMk4  as  planted  by  despair  — 
So  white  —  so  faint  —  the  slightest  gale 
Might  whiri  the  leaves  on  high ; 
And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
Aad  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 
May  wring  it  from  the  stem  —  in  vain  — 
To-morrow  sceyit  bloom  again ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears. 


And  waters  with  celestial  tears; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Hclle  deem 

That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 

Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 

And  buds  unsheltered  by  a  bower; 

Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer-beam : 

To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unse,en  —  but  not  remote : 

Invisible  his  airy  wings. 

But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note !  N 

It  were  the  bulbul;  but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain : 

For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 

The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain ! 

And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shcM, 

'Tis  sorrow  so  unmixed  with  dread. 

They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell. 

And  loug^  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 

But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 

Expires  that  magic  melody. 

And  some  have  been  who  could  beUcvc 

(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive. 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  Mame) 

That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 

Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name. 

'Tis  from  her  cypress'  summit  beard. 

That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word ; 

'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin-earth 

That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 

There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone ; 

Eve  saw  it  placed  —  the  morrow  gone ! 

'It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 

That  deep-fixed  pillar  to  the  shore; 

For  there,  as  Hello's  legcn<k  tell, 

Next  morn  Hwas  found  where  Selim  fell ; 

Lashed  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 

Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave : 

And  there,  by  night,  reclined,  'tis  said, 

Is  seen  a  ghastly  turbaned  bead : 

And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 

'Tis  named  the  ''Pirate-phantom's  pillow !" 

Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower  ^ 

Hath  flourished;  Hoarisheth  this  hour,  * 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 

As  weeping  beauty *s  check  at  sorrow's  tale! 


72 


THE  CORSAIR, 

A  TALE. 

-  »  ~  ]   taoi  peniterl  in  hii   doroilr  son  ponDOb 

TiSBO. 


TO 

TH03IAS  MOORB,  esq. 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  laiit  prodaction  with  whicli  I 
shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence, 
for  some  years;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail 
myself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning: 
my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  public 
principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents. 
TVhile  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her 
patriots;  while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in 
her  estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree, 
permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaintance, 
has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  commenced ,  to 
add  tbe  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of  friendship,  to  the 
voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least  prove  to 
you,  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification 
derived  from  your  society ,  nor  abandoned  the  prospect 
of  its  renewal ,  whenever  your  leisure  or  inclination 
allows  you  to  atone  to  your  friends  for  too  long  an  ab- 
sence. It  is  said  among  those  friends ,  I  trust  truly,  that 
you  are  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  poem  whose 
scene  will  be  laid  in  the  Bast;  none  can  do  those  seeoes 
so  much  justice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own  country ,  the 
magnificent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and 
feeling  of  her  daughters,  may  there  be  found;  and  Col- 
lins, when  he  denominated  his  Oriental  his  Irish  Bdo- 
gues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least ,  was  a  part  of  his 
parallel.  Your  imagination  will  create  a  warmer  sun, 
and  less  cloudy  sky;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and 
originality  are  part  of  your  national  claim  of  oriental 
descent,  to  which  you  have  already  thus  far  proved  your 
title  more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of  your  country's 
antiquarians. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men 
arc  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  %greeablc?  —  Self, 
I  have  written  much ,  and  published  more  than  enough 
to  demand  a  longer  silence  than  I  now  meditate ;  but  for 
some  years  to  come  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no  further 
the  award  of  Gods,  men,  nor  columns."  In  the  present 
composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most  difficult,  but, 
perhaps ,  the  best  adapted  measure  to  our  language ,  the 
good  old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet  The  stanza 
of  Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for  narra- 
tive; though,  I  confess,  it  is  the  measure  most  after  my 


own  heart.  Scott  alone,  of  the  present  generation,  has 
hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  iatal  fiudlity  of 
the  octo-syllabic  verse;  and  this  is  not  the  kast  victory 
of  bis  fertile  and  mighty  genius :  in  blank  verse,  Milton, 
Thomson,  and  our  dramatists^are  the  beacons  that  shine 
along  the  deep ,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough  and  barm 
rock  on  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is 
not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly ;  lint  as  I  did  not 
deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter  what  Is  called 
public  opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  without  further  apology, 
and  take  my  chance  once  more  with  that  versification,  in 
which  I  have  hitherto  published  nothing  but  composi- 
tions whose  former  circulation  is  part  of  my  present  and 
will  be  of  my  future  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general ,  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  personages 
more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I  have 
been  sometimes  criticised ,  and  considered  no  less  re- 
sponsible for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all  had 
been  pcrsonai.  Be  it  so  —  if  I  have  deviated  into  (he 
gloomy  vanity  of  Ifjjcawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are 
probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavourable;  and  if  not, 
those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do 
not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have  no 
particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should 
think  the  author  better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagining; 
but  I  cannot  help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amuse- 
ment, at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  present 
instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserving, 
I  allow)  in  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted 
from  all  participation  in  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who, 
nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more  morality 
than  **The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps — but  no — I  must  admit 
Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  personage;  and  as 
to  his  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give  him  whatever 
^^lias"  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  impres- 
sion, it  might  be  of  some  service  to  mc,  that  the  man  who 
is  alike  the  delight  of  his  readers  and  his  friends,  the  poet 
of  all  circles ,  and  tlie  idol  of  his  own,  permits  me  here 
and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself, 
most  truly  and  affectionately, 

his  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 

January  «,  1814. 


73 


CANTO    I. 

— neuan  maggior  dolon^ 

Che  ricordarfl  del  tempo  feUce 

NelU  miterle  ^ 

Dants. 


*H>'er  tlie  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  3ca, 
Ov  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 
Ftf  as  the  breese  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Surrey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home ! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway  — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  io  every  change. 
Ob,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o^er  the  heaving  wave; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  case ! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not  —  pleasure  cannot  please — 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hatli  tried. 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense  —  the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight. 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  seal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint  —  can  only  feel  — 
Feel  ^  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core. 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 
No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 
Come  when  it  will  —  we  snatch  the  life  oQifc  — 
When  lost  —  what  recks  it  —  by  disease  or  strife? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamoured  of  decay, 
Cling  to  his  conch,  and  sicken  years  away. 
Heave  his  th^k  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 
Ours  ~  the  fresh.turi;  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul. 
Oars  with  one  pang  —  one  bound  —  escapes  control, 
flii  oorse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  ca?c, 
'    And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave: 
Oars  an^the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed. 
When  ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 
Foaos  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 
h  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory; 
,   And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 
la^hen  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey. 
And  cry,  remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow. 
Bow  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  new/" 

Sueb  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle. 
Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while ; 
!  Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrillM  the  rocks  along. 
And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song! 
la  scattered  groups  up<y  the  golden  sand. 
They  game  —  carouse  —  converse — or  whet  the  brand; 
Select  the  arms  ^~  to  each  his  blade  assign. 
And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine; 


Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies. 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  enterprise; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil. 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where  —  their  chiefs  allotment  this ; 

Theirs,  to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  Chief?  his  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd  —  they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command ;   (   ,>  /  -5 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand.    ' 

Ne'er  seasons  be  with  mirth  their  jovial  mesa. 

But  they  forgive  Ills  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still  — 

And  for  his  fare  ~  the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  passed  untasted  too ; 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roots, 

And  scarce  the  summer-luxury  of  fruits, 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourished  by  that  abstinence. 

"Steer  to  that  shore!"— they  sail.  "Do  this !"— 'tis  done: 

"Now  form  and  follow  me!"  —  the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still. 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will; 

To  sucli,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

"A  sail !  —  a  sail !"  —  a  promised  prize  to  hope! 
Her  nation  —  flag  —  how  speaks  the  telescope? 
No  prize,  alas !  —  but  yet  a  welcome  sail: 
The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 
Yes  —  she  is  ours  —  a  home-returning  bark  — 
Blow  fair,  thou  breeze !  —  she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 
Already  doubled  is  the  cape  ^  our  bay 
Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 
How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes! 
Her  white  wing*  flying  —  never  from  her  foes  — 
She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life. 
And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 
Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire  —  the  wreck  — 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck? 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 
The  sails  are  furl'd ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings : 
And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 
5* 


74 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  I. 


Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 

'Tis  mann'd  —  the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand. 

Till  {prates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  t]ie  welcome  shout !  •—  the  friendly  speech ! 

When  hand  g^rasps  hand  uniting^  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply. 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity ! 

The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd : 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud,  ^ 

And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  Is  beard  — 
Friends' — husbands'— lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word : 
<<Oh!  are  they  safe?  we  ask  not  of  success — 
But  shall  we  see  them?  will  tbdr  accents  bless  ? 
From  where  the  battle  roars  —  the  billows  chafe  — 
They  doubtless  boldly  did  —  but  who  are  safe? 
Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise. 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes !"  — 

"Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report  — 
And  doubt  that  joy  —  which  hiuls  our  coming  —  short ; 
Yet  thus  sincere  —  '{is  cheering,  though  so  brief; 
But,  Juan !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 
Our  greeting  pcud,  we'll  feast  on  our  return. 
And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 
To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay. 
By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 
And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver-spring, 
Whose  scattered  streams  from  granite-basins  burst, 
Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst; 
From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount  —  Near  yonder  cave, 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave? 
In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 
Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand. 
*''Tis  he  —  'tis  Conrad  —  here  —  as  wont  —  alone; 
On  —  Juan !  on  —  and  make  our  purpose  known. 
The  bark  he  views  —  and  tell  him  we  would  greet 
His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 
We  dare  not  yet  approach  —  thou  knowst  his  mood. 
When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent  — 
He  spake  not  —  but  a  sign  express'd  assent 
These  Juan  calls  —  they  come  —  to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 
"These  letters.  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek  —  the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh : 
Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report,  [short 

Much  tliat"  —  "Peace,  peace  I"  —  He  cuts  tlieir  prating 
Wondering  they  turn,  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech : 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stedfing  look. 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took ; 
But,  this  as  if  he  guess'd,  with  head  aside. 
Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride. 
He  read  the  scroll  —  "My  tablets,  Juan,  hark  — 
Where  is  Gonsalvo?" 

"In  the  anchored  bark." 
"There  let  him  stay  —  to  him  this  order  bear. 
Back  to  your  duty  —  for  my  course  prepare  : 


Myself  this  enterprise  to-night  will  share.'' 
"To-night,  Lord  Conrad?" 

"Ay!  at  set  of  sun: 
The  breese  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corslet  —  cloak  —  one  hour  —  and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle  —  see  that  free  from  rust 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust; 
Be  the  edge  sharpened  of  my  boarding-brand. 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  armourer  with  speed  dispose; 
Last  time  it  more  ftttlgued  my  arm  than  foes  * 
Mark  that  the  signal-^gnn  be  duly  fired 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expired." 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste , 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 
Yet  they  repine  not  —  so  that  Conrad  guides ; 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  deddes! 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery,  / 

Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh ;  V 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew. 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain? 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  iaith  can  bind  ? 
The  power  of  thought  —  the  magic  of  the  mind ! 
Link'd  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill. 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown. 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 
Such  hath  it  been  —  shall  be  —  beneath  the  sun 
The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one! 
'Tis  Nature's  doom  —  but  let  the  wretch  who  toils 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  kirn  who  wears  the  spoils. 
Oh!  ifhe  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains,^  " 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  hnmbltir  pains !   ( 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race. 
Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  feoe. 
In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 
Though  his  dark  eye-brow  shades  a  glance  of  fire: 
Robust  but  not  Herculean  —  to  the  sight 
No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height; 
Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again,  y 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men ;  v  * 
They  gaze  and  marvel  how  —  and  still  confess 
That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 
Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 
The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil. 
And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals  / 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals./ 
Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien. 
Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen: 
His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view. 
As  if  within  that  murkincss  of  mind 
Work'd  feelings  fearfril,  and  yet  undefined; 
Such  might  it  be  —  that  none  could  truly  tell  — 
Too  close  inquiry  his  stem  glance  would  quell. 


eiHTO  1. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


75 


There  breathe  hot  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 

The  fall  eooovnter  of  his  searching  eye ; 

He  had  the  skill,  when  caimiog's  gaxfe  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek, 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 

And  oB  himself  roll  back  his  somtuiy, 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

SoBK  secret  thought,  than  diag  that  Ghiefs  to  day. 

There  was  a  famghing  devil  in  his  sneer,        1      .    / 

Thtt  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ;        1/ 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fiell , 

Hope  withering  fled  —  and  mercy  sigh'd  farewell ! 

SGght  are  the  oatward  signs  of  evil  thought. 
Within  —  within  —  'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought! 
Love  shows  all  changes  ~  Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile; 
The  iip*s  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  governed  aspect,  speak  alone 
Of  deeper  passions ;  and  to  judge  their  mien,' 
He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 
Then  ~  with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clcDched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony. 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear: 
Then—  with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart. 
With  fiBeliags  loosed  to  strengthen  —  not  depart : 
That  rise  —  convulse  —  oontend  —  that  freesc,  or  glow, 
Ffaish  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  bro  w ;  • 

Then  —  Stranger  I  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul  —  the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot! 
Hark  —  how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  seatfaiiig  tiionght  of  execrated  years ! 
Behold  —  but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Han  as  himself —  the  secret  spirit  fttet 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty  —  guilt's  worst  instrument  — 
His  soal  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 
Hhn  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven.  , 

Wvp'd  by  the  world  in  disappointment's  school,  \/^ 
In  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 

Tnft  firm  \^  Yi^^H,  «nd/'"'  *^  r'-^fid  tft  "^^^r ,  ^ 

Doom'd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe,  y/ 

Hecorscd  those  virtues  as  the  caase  of  ill. 

And  not  flie  traitors  who  betray'd  him  still; 

Nor  dcem'd  that  gifts  bestow'd  on  better  men 

Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  {pve  again. 

Fear'd—shunn'd— belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse,  %/ 

And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 

To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a  viliatn  —  but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd; 

And  soom'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  be  knew   \/ 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him,  croucli'd  and  dreaded  too. 

I^Mw,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt  / 

Fran  all  aflectjoajmrt  from  ail  .contempt :  / 

Rii  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise; 


But  they  that  fear'd  him  dimaUot  t»despiaet 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake: 
The  first  may  turn  —  but  not  avenge  the  blow ; 
The  last  expires  —  but  leaves  no  living  foe ; 
Fast  to  the  doom'd  offender's  form  it  dings, 
And  he  may  crush  —  not  conquer  —  still  it  stings ! 

None  are  all  evil  —  quickening  rolmd  his  heart. 
One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 
By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child; 
Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove. 
And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  love! 
Yes,  it  was  love  —  unchangeable  —  unchanged. 
Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged ;        y 
Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye,         *^ 
He  shunn'd,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass'd  them  by^ 
Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower, 
None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguarded  hour. 
Yes  —  it  was  love  —  if  thoughts  of  tenderness. 
Tried  in  temptation,  strengthened  by  distress, 
Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 
And  yet  —  oh  more  than  all !  —  nntired  by  time ;  i/ 
Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  bafiled  wile 
Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile. 
Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent; 
Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part. 
Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ;  - 
Which  nought  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove  — 
If  there  be  love  In  mortals  -*  this  was  love! 
He  was  a  villain  ~  ay  —  reproaches  shower 
On  him  —  but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 
Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone. 
Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one! 

He  paused  a  moment  —  till  his  hastening  nien 
Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 
**Strange  tidings!  —  many  a  peril  have  I  past. 
Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last! 
Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 
Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  fUter  here. 
'Tis  rash  to  meet,  but«urcr  death  to  wait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate ; 
And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  fortune  sndle. 
We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 
Ay — let  them  slumber  —  peaceful  be  their  dreams  I 
Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 
Ah  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 
To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 
Now  to  ACedora  ^  Oh !  my  sinking  heart. 
Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  tlian  thou  art ! 
Yet  was  I  brave  —  mean  boast  where  all  are  brave! 
Even  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save. 
This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  share. 
That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair. 
Small  merit  claims  —  but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 
To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope ; 
Long  have  I  led  them  —  not  to  vainly  bleed : 
No  medium  now  —  we  perish  or  succeed! 


76 


THE  CORSAIR 


CANTO] 


So  let  it  be -- it  iriu  not  me  to  die ; 
But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 
My  lot  hath  long^  had  little  of  my  care. 
Bat  chafes  my  pride  thus  hafflcd  in  the  snare : 
Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 
Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast? 
Oh,  fate !  —  accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate  — 
She  may  redeem  thee  still  —  nor  yet  too  late." 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  rcach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crowned  hill : 
There  at  the  portal  paused  —  for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  &r  yet  sweet  they  rung. 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sui^ : 

''Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore. 
Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells, 
Then  trembles  into  sUence  as  before. 

''There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal  —  but  unseen. 
Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 

"Remember  me  —  Oh  I  pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline : 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave. 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 

"My  fondest  —  faintest  —  latest  —  accents  hear : 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  virtue  can  reprove ; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked  —  a  tear. 
The  first  —  last  —  sole  reward  of  so  much  love !" 

He  passed  the  portal  —  crossed  the  corridorc. 
And  rcach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er : 
"My  own  Medora!  sure  thy  song  Is  sad — " 

"In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  ? 
Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 
Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 
Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit. 
My  heart  unhush'd  —  although  my  lips  were  mute ! 
Oh !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined. 
My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind, 
And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  lann'd  thy  sail 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale ; 
Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge. 
That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge : 
Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon-iSre, 
Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blase  expure ; 
And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star. 
And  morning  came  —  and  still  thou  wert  afar. 
Oh!  bow  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 
And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view. 
And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed  —  and  not  a  prow 
Was  granted  to  my  tears  —  my  truth  —  my  vow  ! 
At  length  —  'twas  noon  —  I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight  —  it  near'd  —  Alas  I  —  it  past! 


Another  came  —  O  God !  'twas  thine  at  last ! 
Would  that  those  days  were  over  I  wiJt  thou  ne'er. 
My  Conrad!  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam : 
Thou  knowst  it  is  not  peril  tliat  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here; 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life. 
Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife  — 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still. 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will !" 

"Yea,  strange  indeed  —  that  heart  hath  long  beeo 
changed; 
Worm-like  'twas  trampled  —  adder-like  avenged,  ^ 
Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love. 
And  acturee  a  glimpse  of  mercy  firom  above. 
Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn. 
My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 
So  closely  nUngling  here,  thaf  discntwincd, 
I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind. 
Yet  dread  not  this  —  the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  lo%'e  will  last; 
But  —  Oh,  Medora !  nerve  tliy  gentler  heart. 
This  hour  again— but  not  for  long— we  part" 

"This  hour  we  part!  —  my  heart  foreboded  this. 
Thus  ever  lade  my  fairy-dreams  or  bliss. 
This  hour  —  it  cannot  be  —  this  hour  away ! 
Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay : 
Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 
Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew; 
My  love!  thou  mock'st  my  weakness;  and  wouldst  steel 
My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel ; 
But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distn^s. 
Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 
Be  silent,  Conrad!  —  dearest!  come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare ; 
Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 
See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best. 
And  where  not  sure,  perplcx'd,  but  pleased,  I  guessed 
At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest :  thrice  the  hill 
My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 
Yes!  thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow. 
See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow ! 
The  grape's  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers; 
Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears: 
Think  not  I  mean  to  chide  —  for  I  rejoice 
What  others  deem  a  penance  Ls  thy  choice. 
But  come,  the  board  is  spread;  our  silver-lamp 
Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp: 
Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along. 
And  join  me  in  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song; 
Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lovest  to  hear, 
Shall  soothe  or  lull  —  or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear. 
We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told. 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old. 
Why  —  thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 
To  tiiat  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  mc  now; 
Or  even  that  traitor-chief-^  I've  seen  thee  smile, 
When  the  dear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 


C*NTO  I. 


THE  CORSAIR 


77 


Wbicb  I  hsTe  pointed  from  these  oliffs  the  wbile : 

And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said. 

Lest  time  sboald  raise  tliat  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 

Thos  Conrad,  too,  will  qnit  me  for  the  main  : 

And  he  deceived  me  —  for  —  he  came  again !" 

''Again  —  again  —  ^d  oft  again — my  love  I 
If  there  be  life  below  and  hope  above, 
He  will  return — but  now  the  moments  bring 
The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 
The  why — ^the  where — ^what  boots  it  now  to  tell? 
Siace  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word — farewell ! 
Yet  would  I  fiun— did  time  allow — disclose  - 
Fear  not  —  these  are  no  formidable  foes ; 
And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard. 
For  sudden  sic^e  and  long  defence  prepared : 
Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord*s  away, 
Oar  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay  ; 
And  this  thy  comfort— that,  when  next  we  meet. 
Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet : 
List!— 'tis  the  bugle — Juan  shrilly  blew  — 
One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh !  Adieu !" 

She  rose — she  sprung— she  clung  to  his  embrace. 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face* 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fidr  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
la  all  the  wildness  of  dishevelled  charms ; 
Scaree  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  M\—that  feeling  seem*d  almost  unfelt! 
Hark— peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun ! 
It  told  'twas  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again— again — that  form  he  madly  press'd ; 
Whidi  mutely  dasp'd,  imploringly  caress*d ! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more ; 
Felt— that  for  bim  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd — is  Conrad  gone  ? 

^And  is  he  gone  V* — on  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude  ? 
'Twas  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood! 
And  now" — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd ; 
Big— bright— and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell; 
But  stiD  her  lips  refused  to  send— "Farewell !" 
For  in  that  word— that  fatal  word— liowe'er 
We  promise — ^hope— believe — tfcere  breathcsdesitair. 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  faccT* 
Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase  : 
The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy. 
Till— Ob,  how  far ! — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him. 
And  then  it  flowed- and  phrcnsied  seem'd  to  swim 
Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  rcnew'd. 
**H€*t  gone!" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 
CoiiTttbed  and  quick— then  gently  raised  to  heaven  ; 
She  looked  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 
The  white  sail  set— she  dared  not  look  again ; 


But  tum'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate  — 
''It  is  no  dream  —  and  I  am  desolate!" 

From  crag  to  crag  descending  —  swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  bis  head; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey. 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep. 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she  —  the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest  —  but  on  destruction's  brink : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd  —  and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave; 
But  no  —  it  must  not  be  —  a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  nund : 
Again  he  hurries  on  —  and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 
The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar ; 
As  marks  his  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast, 
The  anchor's  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge; 
And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 
He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 
Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ; 
He  bounds,  —  he  flies  —  until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach, 
There  checks  his  speed ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath. 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew. 
Nor  rush,  disturb'd  by  Jiaste,  to  vulgar  view  : 
For  well  had  Conrad  leam'd  to  curb  the  crowd. 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud; 
His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien. 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight— and  awes  if  seen: 
The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye,  \/ 

That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent : 
But  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent. 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 
And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
When  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone: 
But  suet)  was  foreign  to  lus  wonted  mood. 
He  cared  not  what  he  soften'd,  but  subdued; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved  —  than  what  obey'd. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands  —  "Arc  all  prepared  ?" 
'They  are — nay  more — embark'd :  the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

"My  sword,  and  my  capote.*' 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung. 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung ; 


78 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  IL 


<<CaIl  Pedro  here  I"  He  comes— and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends  ; 
*<Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 
Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven  there; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark; 
In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 
On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine !" 
This  said,  his  brotlier-piratc's  hand  he  wrung. 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke 
Around  the  waves'  phosphoric  brightness  broke ; 
They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  he  stands  ; 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle— ply  the  busy  hands  — 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 
His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn  — 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 
Alas!  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting-hour; 
She — ^his  Kedora— did  she  mark  the  prow? 
Ah !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 
But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day  — 


Again  he  mans  himsdf  and  turns  away; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends. 
And  tiiere  unfolds  his  plan— his  means — and  ends ; 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart. 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 
They  to  the  midnight-watch  protract  debate ; 
To  anxioas  eyes  what  honr  is  ever  late? 
Mean  time,  the  steady  breese  serenely  blew. 
And  fiist  and  feloon-like  the  v^scl  flew ; 
Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle. 
To  gain  their  port— long — ^long  ere  morning  smile: 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 
And  anchored  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie ; 
Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 
While  leaned  tbdr  leader  o'er  the  Abetting  flood, 
And  cahnly  talk'd— and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood ! 


CANTO      n. 

Conosceste  I  dabiiMi  deairit 
Damtb. 


In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light. 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright. 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night: 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fettcr'd  rovers  home; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword. 
And  faithiul  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast. 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast ; 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize. 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise; 
'Tis  but  to  sail—no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  sec  the  pirates  bound— their  haven  won ! 
Mean  time  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill : 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave  — 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may  ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  auggeata  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Hevel  and  rout  the  evening-hours  beguile. 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile. 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer. 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd ; 
Around— the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff'  — 
Forbidden  draughts,  'tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff. 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice. 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use; 
The  long  Chibouque's  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  mom  will  view  the  chief  embark. 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark  : 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep ; 
Feast  there  who  can — nor  combat  till  they  must. 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
Bows  his  bent  head  —  his  hand  salutes  the  floor  : 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore; 
''A  captive  dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 
Escaped,  is  here— himself  would  tell  the  rest." 
He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye. 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark  green  vest. 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 


CANTO  n 


THB  CORSAIR. 


79 


And  pale  his  cliedc  ytHh  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vowed  to  his  God— his  sable  locks  he  wore^ 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 
Aromid  bis  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  bcayen  alone ; 
SobmissiTc,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'dy 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd. 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek. 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allowed  to  speak. 

''Whence  oom'st  thou,  Dervise  V 

''From  the  outlaw's  den, 
AfiigitiTe— " 

'  ^hy  capture  where  and  when  V* 
'^roffl  Scalanoya's  port  to  Scio's  isle 
The  Saick  was  bound;  but  AUa  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course— the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
TheroTCrs  won:  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains, 
f  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast. 
Beyond  the  waodering  freedom  which  I  lost; 
At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Aibrded  hope,  and  offered  chance  of  flight : 
I  sdxed  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here  — 
With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha !  who  can  fear?" 

'How  speed  the  outlaws  ?  stand  they  well  prepared. 
Their  plundered  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard  I    • 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion-nest  consumed?" 

"Pacha !  the  fettered  captiye's  mourning  eye 
That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy  ; 
1  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar. 
Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  nK  fh>m  the  shore; 
I  oaiy  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky. 
Too  bright — too  Uue — for  my  captivity; 
And  £^— that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheers, 
Vast  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 
This  mayst  thou  judge,  at  least,  firom  my  escape. 
They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape; 
Else  vainly  had  I  pray'd  or  sought  the  chance 
That  leads  mt  bere^if  eyed  with  vigilance: 
The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 
May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nlgli : 
Pacha! — my  limbs  are  feint — and  nature  craves 
Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves ; 
Vtrmk  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee  I  Peace 
With  all  around  l^now  grant  repose— release." 

"Stay,  Uervise !  I  have  more  to  question— stay, 
X  do  command  thee — sit— dost  hear  ? — obey ! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring; 
Thou  shah  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting. 
The  supper  done — prepare  thee  to  reply, 
Cleariy  and  foil— I  love  not  mystery." 

Twcre  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man. 
Who  look'd  not  fovingly  on  that  Divan ; 
Nor  show'd  high  rdisb  for  the  banquet  prcst. 
And  less  rasped  for  every  fellow-guest. 
*Twaa  bola  oMHnenf  s  peevish  hectic  past 


Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquiUised  as  fest : 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook: 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in  —  but  sumptuous  fere 
He  shunn'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fest, 
Methioks  be  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast 
"What  ails  thee,  Dervise?  eat  —  dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or  my  friends  thy  foes? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt?  that  sacred  pledge 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite. 
And  bated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 


''Salt  seasons  dainties  —  and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill; 
And  my  stem  vow  and  order's  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes ; 
It  may  seem  strange  —  if  there  be  aught  to  dread. 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head ; 
But  for  thy  sway  —  nay  more  —  thy  Sultan's  throne, 
1  taste  nor  bread,  nor  banquet  —  save  alone; 
Infringed  our  order's  role,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

"Well  —  as  thou  wilt  —  ascetic  as  thou  art  — 
One  question  answer;  then  in  peace  depart. 
How  many?  —  Ha !  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 
What  star  —  what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 
It  shines  a  lake  of  fire !  —  away  —  away ! 
Ho!  treachery!  my  guards!  my  scimitar! 
The  galleys  feed  tlie  flames  —  and  I  afar! 
Accursed  Dervise!  —  these  thy  tidings  —  thou 
Some  villain  spy— seise — cleave  him— slay  him  now!" 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise  —  not  in  saintly  garb. 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  bis  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away  — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash 'd  his  sabre's  ray! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume. 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom. 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afnt  sprite. 
Whose  demon-death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight 
The  wild  conftision,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell  — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell,  - 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
ney  seize  that  Dervise !  selae  on  Zatanai! 
He  saw  their  terror  —  check'd  the  first  despaii 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd. 
The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made; 
He  saw  their  terror  —  from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bogle  —  brief  the  blast  —  but  shrilly  blew; 
'lis  answer'd  —  "Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew » 


80 


THB  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  ft 


Why  did  I  doabt  their  quickneas  of  career? 

And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here?" 

Sweeps  his  long  arm  —  that  sabre's  whirling  swajr 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  Arst  delay ; 

Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  began. 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head : 

Bven  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprise, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he  —  and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  bis  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight; 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  haram-gate, 

And  burst  within  —  and  it  were  death  to  wait; 

Where  wild  amazement  shrieking  ~  kneeling  *  throws 

The  sword  aside  —  in  vain  —  the  blood  overflows ! 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groSning  victims,  and  wild  cries  tor  life, 

Prodaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair  I 

But  short  their  greeting  —  shorter  his  reply  -^ 

"*Tis  well  —  but  Scyd  escapes  —  and  he  must  die. 

Much  hath  been  done  —  but  more  remains  to  do  — 

Their  galleys  blaze  —  why  not  their  city  too?" 

Quick  at  the  word  —  they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 
And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 
A  stern  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 
But  sudden  sunk  —  for  on  his  ear  the  cry 
Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 
Knocked  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 
*'0h !  burst  the  Haram  —  wrong  not,  on  your  lives. 
One  female  form  —  remember  —  we  have  wives. 
On  them  such  outrage  vengeance  will  repay ; 
Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay : 
But  still  we  spared  —  must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 
Oh !  I  forgot  —  but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live; 
Follow  who  will  —  I  go  —  we  yet  have  time 
Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 
He  climbs  the  crackling  stair  —  he  bursts  the  door. 
Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floors 
His  breath  choak'd  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke. 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 
They  search  —  they  find  —  they  saVe :  with  lusty  arms 
Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms; 
Calm  their  loud  fears;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims : 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood. 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck  —  away  — 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed? 
The  haram-queen  —  but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd ! 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare, 
Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair: 


For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  fl-om  war 

The  foe,  before  retiring  fast  and  far. 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued. 

First  slowlier  fled  —  then  rallied  —  then  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  ^rst  perceives  how  few. 

Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew. 

And  blushes  o'er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia!  Vengeance  swells  the  cry  —' 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell. 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well  — 

When  wratli  returns  to  renovated  strife. 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger  —  he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repcH'd: 

"One  effort  —  one  —  to  break  the  circling  host!" 

They  form  —  unite  —  charge  —  waver  —  all  is  lost! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset. 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet  — 

Ah !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Hemm'd  in — cut  off* —  deft  down  —  and  trampled  o'er 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 

And  sinks  outwearied  rather  than  o'ercome. 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breatb. 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death ! 

cr 

But  first  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows. 
And  rank  to  rank  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  haram-handmaids  freed. 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd. 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd : 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair. 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smoothed  bis  accents;  soften'd  in  his  eye : 
'Twas  strange  —  that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedcw'd, 
Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 
The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave; 
The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affiright. 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right 
"The  wish  is  wrong  —  nay  worse  for  female  —  vain : 
Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again ; 
If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot. 
The  life  ^  my  loving  lord  remember'd  not!" 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread. 
But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead ; 
Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 
That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 
Feird  —  bleeding  —  bafiled  of  the  death  he  sought. 
And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 
Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain. 
While  Vengeance  pondered  o'er  new  plans  of  pain. 
And  staunch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again  — 
But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 
Would  doom  hbn  ever  dying  —  ne'er  to  die ! 
Can  this  be  he?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 
When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law ! 


CAMTO  IL 


THB  CORSAIR. 


81 


Til  he  indeed  —  dinuni'dy  bat  andeprest. 

His  aole  rcipret  the  life  he  stiU  possest; 

Bis  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Whkh  woold  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could  kilL 

Oh!  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  send  his  soul  —  he  scarcely  ask'd  to  heaven  ? 

Most  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death  ? 

He  deeply  felt  —  what  mortal  hearts  must  feci, 

When  thus  reversed  on  Pithless  fortune's  wheel. 

For  crimes  oommitted,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt  — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate  —  now  serves  lo  hide. 

SciU  in  hb  stem  and  self-collected  mien 

A  ooiMiaeror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen ; 

ThoQsh  fiunt  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffcmng  wound, 

But  few  that  saw  —  so  calmly  gaaed  around: 

Thomgfa  the  frr  shoaling  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud, 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near, 

losolted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear ; 

And  the  grim  goards  that  to  his  durance  led, 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

The  Leech  was  sent  —  but  not  in  mercy  » there 
To  DOte  how  maoh  the  fife  yet  left  could  bear; 
He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain,  ^ 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain : 
To4Dorrow  —  yea  —  to-morrow's  evening-sun 
Will  suddng  see  impalement's.pangs  begun. 
And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  mom 
Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 
Of  torments  tiiis  the  longest  and  the  worst, 
Whidi  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst. 
That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 
While  fimiish'd  vultares  flit  around  the  stake. 
'KMi!  water  ^  water!"  —  smiling  hate  denies 
The  vielim's  prayer  —  for  if  he  drinks  —  he  dies. 
This  was  his  doom :  —  the  Leech,  the  guard  were  gone, 
And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 

Twere  vam  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew  — 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
.  There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind. 
When  all  its  elements  convulsed  —  combined  — 
lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
Aidgoashing  with  impenitent  remorse; 
That  juggling  fiend  —  who  never  spake  before  — 
Bat  cries,  **l  wam'd  thee !"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Tain  voice!  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent. 
May  writhe  —  rebel  —  the  weak  alone  repent' 
Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And,lo  itself,  aU  —  aU  that  self  reveals, 
Ko  iingie  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  at  once  unseen,  unsought ; 
Bat  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reriews  — 
AO  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues, 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 
■  Bodanger'd  glory,  liib  itself  beset; 
The  joy  ontasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 


'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  &te; 

The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remembered  not 

So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time. 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  %  crime; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd. 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceai'd  — 

All,  in  a  word^  from  which  all  eyes  must  start. 

That  opening  sepulchre  -^  the  naked  heart 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  pride  awake. 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  ^e  soul  —  and  break. 

Ay  —  pride  can  veil,  and  courage  brave  it  all. 

All  —  all  —  before  —  beyond  -« the  deadliest  fall. 

Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise: 

Kot  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flics; 

But  he  who  looks  on  death  —  and  silent  dies. 

So  steel'dl^y  pondering  o'er  his  fiur  career. 

He  halfway  meets  him  should  he  menace  near  I 

In  the  high  cHnmber  of  his  highest  tower. 
Sate  Conrad,  fetterM  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame  —  this  fort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same :  -^ 
Alone  he  sate  —  in  solitude  had  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mana'd : 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not  —  dared  not  meet  — 
*'Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Mcdora  greet?" 
Then  —  only  then  his  clanking  hands  he  raised. 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed; 
But  soon  he  found  —  or  fcign'd  •—  or  dream'd  relief, 
And  smiled  in  8elf*derision  of  his  grief; 
''And  now  come  torture  when  It  will  —  or  may. 
If  ore  need  of  rest  to  nenre  me  for  the  day !" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept. 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept 

'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  firay  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done; 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  unoonmiitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemmed— [dcmned— 
Disguised  —  discover'd  —  conqueriDg  —  ta'en  —  con- 
A  chief  on  land  —  an  outlaw  on  the  deep  ^ 
Destroying  —  saving  ^  prison'd  —  and  asleep ! 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming  —  for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep  —-  Ah!  happy  if  in  death ! 
He  slept  —  who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends? 
His  foes  are  gone  —  and  here  he  hath  no  friends ; 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  fhce! 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp  —  yet  gently  hid. 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 
And  once  unclosed  —  but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fhir, 
6 


82 


THB  CORSAOt 


CANTO  a 


And  anbnra  waves  of  gemm^  aad  braided  hair; 
With  shape  of  fairy-lightness  ^  naked  foot. 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mate  — 
Through  guards  and  donnest  night  how  came  it  there? 
Ah !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare? 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnarc ! 
She  conld  not  sleep  —  and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 
She  left  his  side  —  his  signet-ring  slie  bore. 
Which  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before  — 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question' d,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  liis  repose; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret-door, 
They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more; 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring,       «> 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  ''Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep? 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here. 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  io  dear? 
True  —  'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more  I  owe. 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe : 
'Tis  late  to  think  —  but  soft  -*-  his  slumber  breaks  — 
How  heavily  he  sighs !  —  he  starts  —  awakes!'' 
He  raised  his  head  —  and  das9led  with  the  light. 
His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright: 
He  moved  his  hand  —  the  grating  of  his  obain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 
<'What  is  that  form?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 
Methinks  my  jailor's  faoe  shows  wondrous  foir!" 

^'Pirate!  thou  knowst  me  not  —  but  I  am  one 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  haat  too  rarely  done! 
Look  on  me  •—  and  remember  her,  thy  band 
Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band. 
I  come  through  darkness  ^  and  I  scarce  kjBOW  why  -— 
Yet  uQt  to  hurt  -<- 1  would  not  see  thee  die." 

<*If  so,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 
That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 
Theirs  is  the  chance  —  and  let  them  use  their  right 
But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 
That  would  confess  mo  at  «p  fair  a  shrlner 

Strange  though  it  seem,  y^  with  extremest  grief 
Is  llnk'd  a  mirth  —  it  doth  not  bring  relief  — 
That  playfulness  of  sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 
And  smiles  in  bitterness  —  but  still  it  smiles; 
And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best. 
Till  even  the  scaffold  echoes  with  their  jest! 
Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin  — 
It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  withia« 
Whate'er  it  was  tbat  flash'd  on  Conrad,  now 
A  laughing  wiji^laess  half  unbent  his  brow : 
And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth. 
As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth ; 
Yet  'gainst  his  nature  —  for  throi^b  that  short  life. 
Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 


"Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named  —  but  I  have  power 
To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 
Thee  would  I  spare —nay  more  —  would  save  thee  now, 
But  this  —  time  —  hope  —  nor  even  thy  strength  allow; 
But  all  I  can,  I  will:  at  least,  delay 
The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 
More  now  were  ruin  —  even  thyself  were  loth 
The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

^<Yes!  —  loth  indeed:  —  my  soul  is  nerved  to  all. 
Or  fiiirn  too  low  to  fear  a  farther  fall: 
Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope, 
Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope: 
Unfit  to  vanquish  —  shall  I  meanly  fly. 
The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die? 
Yet  there  is  one  <^  to  whom  my  memory  etingm 
Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 
My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 
Were  these — my  bark — my  sword— my  love— my  G  od  \ 
The  last  I  left  in  youth  —  he  leaves  me  now  — 
And  man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 
I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 
Wrung  from  the  coward  orotiching  of  despair; 
It  is  enough  —  I  breathe  —  and  I  can  bear. 
My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 
That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 
My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive  — •  but  my  love  — 
A>r  her  in  sooth  my  voioe  would  mount  above : 
Oh !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind  — 
And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 
And  blight  a  form  —  till  thine  appeared,  Gulnarc ! 
Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  feir?" 

"Thou  lovest  another  then  ?  —  but  what  to  me 
Is  this  —  'tis  nothing  —  nothing  e'er  can  be : 
But  yet  —  thou  lovest  —  and  —  Oh!  I  envy  thoae 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  fidthful  can  repose^ 
Who  never  feel  the  void  —  the  wandering  thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions  -^  such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 

"Lady  —  methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redcem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"My  love  stern  Seyd's!  Oh— No— No— not  my  love— 
Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
To  meet  his  passion  —  but  it  would  not  be. 
I  felt  —  I  feel  —  love  dwells  with  —  with  the  free. 
I  am  a  slave,  a  favour'd  slave  at  best, 
To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 
Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo. 
Of  —  <Dost  thou  love?'  and  burn  to  answer  *No !' 
Oh !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain. 
And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain ; 
But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear. 
And  hide  from  one  —  perhaps  another  there. 
He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not  —  nor  withhold  — 
Its  pulse  nor  check'd  —  nor  quicken'd  —  calmly  oold : 
And  when  resign'd,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 
No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest. 
And  chill'd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 


lamoiiL 


THB  CORSAIR. 


83 


Yes  —  had  I  erer  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 

Theebaage  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 

Bat  itiU  —  he  goes  anmonrnM  ^  returns  nnsought  — 

And  oft  when  present  —  absent  from  my  tbovght. 

Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must  -^ 

I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  bat  hriog  disgust; 

I  am  his  sfair^  —  bat,  in  despite  of  pride, 

Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  hia  bride. 

(Ml!  that  tliis  dotage  of  his  breast  woald  cease! 

Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

Bat  yesterday  —  I  coold  have  said,  to  peace  I 

Yes  ~  if  unwonted  fondn^s  now  I  feign, 

ReBMoiber  —  captire  I  'tis  to  break  thy  chain ; 

Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe : 

To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  below, 

Who  share  soch  love  as  I  can  never  know. 

Fuewell  —  morn  breaks  -^  and  I  most  now  away : 

Twifl  coat  me  dear  —  bat  dread  no  death  to-day !" 

She  prcss'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 
And  bow'd  her  head,  and  tum'd  her  to  depart, 
And  MHseiess  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 
And  was  she  here?  and  is  he  now  alone? 
What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chaio  ? 
The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  other's  pain. 


That  starts  at  once — bright  -—  pure  ^  from  pity's  mine, 
Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine! 

Oh!  too  convincing  —  dangerously  dear  — 
In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 
That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield,         . 
To  save,  subdue  —  at  once  her  spear  and  shield :  / 
Avoid  it  —  Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 
Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers ! 
What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly? 
The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 
Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  ianit  forgiven, 
By  this  —  how  many  lose  not  earth  —  but  heaven ! 
Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe. 
And  seal  their  own  to  tpare  some  wanton's  woe! 

'Tis  morn  —  and  o'er  his  altered  features  play 
The  beams  *-  without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  tke  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing, 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  un£dt. 
While  acta  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt. 
Chill  —  Wet  —  and  misty  round  each  sdffen'd  Umb, 
Refreshing  earth  —  reviving  all  but  him  I 


CANTO    IIL 


Come  vedi   ^ 


ancor   nou  m'abbandoBa. 


Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Korea's  hills  the  setting  sun; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright. 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 
Cer  thehnsh'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  iB^ina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
Tlie  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 
0*cr  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Pesceuding  fast  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  gforious  gr^iph,  uncotfquer'd  Salamis ! 
Their  asure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  this  mellowing  glance, 
Aod  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Hark  his  gay  coarse  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Bdiind  his  Delgidan  clifi'hc  sinks  to  sleep. 

Oa  soch  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast. 
When  —  Athens !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  fturewell-ray, 
Thst  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day ! 
Hot  yet  —  not  yet  —  Sol  pauses  on  the  hill  — 
The  prccioQS  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 


But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes : 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before, 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Citbseron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff 'd  — the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  iHm  who  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly  — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 
No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm. 
Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon^beams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisns  pours  his  scanty  tide. 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, 
And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  lioly  calm. 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinged  with  varied  hues  arrest  the  eye  — 
And  dull  were  bis  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 


84 


THE  CORSAOL 


CANTO  01. 


Agmin  the  ^g^ean,  heard  no  more  afhr, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown  —  where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 

Not  now  my  theme  —  why  turn  my  thonglits  to  tliec? 
Oh  I  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 
Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whatever  the  tale? 
So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail ! 
Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set. 
Fair  Athens !  could  thine  evening-ihoe  forget? 
Not  he  —  whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees. 
Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades! 
Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain. 
His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain  — 
Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again  ! 

The  Sun  hath  sunk  —  and,  darker  than  the  night. 
Sinks  with  his  beam  upon  the  beaoon*hcight  — 
Hcdora's  heart  —  the  third  day's  come  and  gone  — 
With  it  he  comes  not  —  sends  not  —  faithless  one! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  lig^ht ;  and  storms  were  none. 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  retum'd,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  fhr  different  were  the  talc 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-brecse  freshens  —  she  that  day  had  past 
In  watching  aH  that  hope  proclaim'd  a  mast ; 
Sadly  she  sate  —  on  high  —  impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  there  she  wander'd  heedless  of  the  spray. 
That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  warn'd  away  : 
S  he  saw  not —  lelt  not  this    -  nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  decm'd  it  cold  —  her  diill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense  — 
His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense! 

It  eame  at  last  —  a  sad  and  shattered  boat, 
Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  Aret  they  sought ; 
Some  bleeding  —  all  most  wretched  —  these  the  few  — 
Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped  —  MtV  all  they  knew. 
In  silence,  darkling,  each  appeared  to  wait 
His  fellow's  moumfol  guess  at  Conrad's  fate: 
Something:  they  would  have  said ;  but  seem'd  to  fear 
'  To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 
She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not  —  trembled  not  — 
Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot; 
Within  that  meek  feir  form  were  feelings  high. 
That  deem'd  not  tiH  they  found  their  energy. 
While  yet  was  hope— they  soiten'd— flutter'd— wept-- 
All  lost  —  that  softness  died  not  —  but  it  slept; 
And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  strength  which  said, 
"With  nothing  left  to  love  —  there's  nought  to  dread." 
'Tis  more  than  nature's ;  like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

''Silent  you  stand  —  nor  would  I  hear  yon  tell 
What  —  speak  not  —  breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well— 


Yet  would  I  ask  —  almost  my  lip  denies 

The  —  quick  your  answer  — •  tell  me  where  he  lies  f  ' 

"Lady!  we  know  not  ~  scarce  with  life  we  fled ; 
But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 
He  saw  him  bound ;  and  bleeding  —  but  alive." 

She  heard  no  ftirther  —  'twas  in  vain  to  strive  — 
Sothrobb'd  each  vein-each  thought-till  then  withstood; 
Her  own  dark  soul  •—  these  words  at  once  subdued: 
She  totters  —  fells  —  and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatched  her  from  another  grave ; 
But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes. 
They  yield  such  aid  as  pity's  haste  supplies : 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean-dew. 
Raise  —  fen  —  sustain,  till  life  returns  anew ; 
Awak^  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  feinting  form  o'er  which  they  gase  and  grieve ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious  —  when  the  triumph  short. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange, 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit  and  forbade  despair; 
Whate'er  his  fete  —  the  breasts  he  fonn'd  and  led. 
Will  save  him  living;  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes !  there  yet  survive  a  few. 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

Within  the  baram's  secret  chamber  sale 
Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  captive's  fete; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell. 
Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell; 
Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 
Surveys  his  brow  —  would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind. 
While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 
Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 
Hu  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads. 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"Pacha!  the  day  is  thine;  and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  triumph  —  Conrad  taken  —  fell'n  the  rest! 
His  doom  is  fix'd  —  he  dies:  and  well  his  fete 
Was  eam'd  —  yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate: 
Hetbinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard  — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord ! 
While  bafllcid,  weaken'd  by  this  fetal  fray  — 
Watch'd  —  follow'd  -—  he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 
But  once  cat  off —  the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"Gulnare !  —  If  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 
Were  offer'd  rich  as  Stambonl's  diadem 
If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 
Of  virgin-ore  should  supplicating  shine ; 
If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 
Of  wealth  were  here  —  that  gold  should  not  redeem  I 
It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour, 


CUI70  Ul. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


83 


tttt  tet  I  know  liini  fetter'd,  in  my  power ; 
And,  thirsting  for  reven^  I  ponder  still 
On  pangs  tliat  longest  rack  and  latest  kill/' 

*<Nay,  Seyd !  —  I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage. 
Too  jnstly  moved  for  meroy  to  assoage ; 
My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee « 
Hii  riches  —  thus  released^  he  were  not  free : 
Disa^edy  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 
His  capture  ooold  bat  wait  thy  first  oommand." 

"His  captore  emdd!  —  and  shall  1  then  resign 
Oae  day  to  him  —  the  wretch  already  mine? 
Rdease  my  foe !  —  at  whose  remonstrance  ?  —  thine ! 
Fair  snitor!  —  to  thy  Yirtnous  gratitude, 
That  dins  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood. 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 
No  doubt  —  regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair. 
My  dianks  and  praise  alike  are  due  —  now  hear ! 
I  baTe  a  coonsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 
I  do  mistrust  tbee^  woman !  and  each  word 
Of  ddne  stamps  truth  on  all  suspicion  heard. 
Borae  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  serai  — 
Say,  wert  thon  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 
Thoa  needst  not  answer  —  thy  confession  speaks, 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks ; 
Then,  lorely  dame,  bethink  thee!  and  beware: 
*  Tu  not  ku  life  alone  may  claim  such  care ! 
Another  word  and  —  nay  —  Ineed  no  more. 
Aoearsed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 
Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  Ihr  —  but  —  no  — 
I  then  had  monrn'd  thee  with  a  foyer's  woe  — 
Kow  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns  —  deceitful  thing! 
Kaowst  thou  that  I  can  dip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 
hi  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe : 
Look  to  thyself —  nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe!" 

He  rose  —  aiid  sfowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  in  his  eye,  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 
Ah!  littie  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood  — 
Which  firowns  ne'er  qnell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued ; 
Aad  littie  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare ! 
When  soft  conld  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appeared  to  wrong  —  nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew  — 
She  was  a  stave  —  from  such  may  captives  claim 
A  feilow*feeling,  difiering  hot  in  name ; 
Still  half  nnoonscious  —  heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Agam  she  yentured  on  the  dangerous  path. 
Again  his  rage  repeU'd  —  until  arose 
That  strife  of  thought,  the  source  of  woman's  woes ! 

Meanwhile  —  long anxions  —-weary— still— the  same 
Roli'd  day  and  night  —  his  soul  could  terror  tame  — 
This  fearfrd  intenral  of  doubt  and  dread, 

,   When  eyety  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 

I   Wbea  eyeiy  step  that  echo'd  by  the  gate, 

I   Mig^  entering  lend  where  axe  and  stake  await  ; 

I   When  eyery  yoicc  that  grated  on  his  ear 

I   Might  be  the  last  tliat  he  conld  cyer  hear ; 
Could  terror  tame  —  that  spirit  stern  and  high 


Had  proved  on  willing  as  unfit  to  iMe ; 

'Twas  worn  —  perhaps  decay'd  —  yet  silent  bore 

That  conflict  deadlier  fiur  than  all  before: 

The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

tieave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 

But  hound  and  fix'd  in  fetter'd  solitude. 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood; 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart,  and  meditate 

Irrevocable  frmlts,  and  coming  fate  — 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun  —  the  first  to  mend  — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end. 

With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 

To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 

And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny ; 

Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare. 

Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear ; 

But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 

To  valour's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim: 

The  life  thon  leavest  below,  denied  above 

By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love; 

And  more  than  doubtful  paradise  —  thy  heaven 

Of  earthly  hope  -^  thy  loved  one  fit>m  thee  riven. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain. 

And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain  : 

And  those  sustain'd  he  ^  boots  it  well  or  ill? 

Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still ! 

The  first  day  pass'd  —  he  saw  not  her  —  Gnlnara  — 
The  second  —  third  —  and  still  she  came  not  there; 
But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  done^ 
Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  snn. 
The  fourth  day  roU'd  along,  and  with  tde  night 
Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might ; 
Oh !  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep. 
That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  npon  his  sleep ; 
And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent. 
Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 
Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave. 
And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave; 
And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 
A  long  known  voice  —  alas !  too  vainly  near! 
Loud  sung  the  wind  above;  and,  donbly  loud. 
Shook  o'er  his  turret-cell  the  thunder-cloud ; 
And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  die  latticed  bar. 
To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight-star : 
Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain, 
And  hoped  iktiJt  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 
He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 
One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made : 
His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike  — 
The  storm  rolFd  onward  and  disdain'd  to  strike; 
Its  peal  wax'd  fiiinter  —  ceased  —  he  felt  alone. 
As  if  some  foithless  friend  had  spurn'd  his  groan ! 

The  midnight  pass'd  —  and  to  the  massy  door, 
A  light  step  came  —  it  paused  —  it  moved  onoe  more ; 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key : 
'Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded  —  that  ftur  she! 
Whatc'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian-saint, 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint; 


86 


TH£  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  in 


Yet  changed  since  last  wkhin  that  cell  she  oamc^ 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame: 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hairied  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents  —  ''thou  must  die ! 
Yes,  thou  must  die  —  there  is  but  one  resonroe, 
The  last  —  the  worst  —  if  torture  were  not  worse." 

''Lady  I  I  look  to  none  —  my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim'd  they  —  Conrad  still  the  same: 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare. 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear? 
Well  have  I  eam'd  —  nor  here  alone  ^  the  meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

<<Why  should  I  seek?  because  —  Oh !  didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot? 
Why  should  I  seek  ?  —  hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind ! 
And  must  I  say?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 
With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell  — 
Because  —  despite  tliy  erimcff —  that  heart  is  moved: 
It  fear'd  thee — thank 'd  thee — pitied — madde&'d— loved. 
Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again,  - 
Thou  lovest  another  —  and  I  love  in  vain ; 
Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fur, 
I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 
If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear. 
Were  I  thine  own  —  thou  wert  not  lonely  here : 
An  outlaw's  spouse  —  and  leave  her  lord  to  roam ! 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home? 
But  speak  not  now  —  o'er  tbine  and  o'er  my  head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free, 
Receive  this  poniard  —  rise  —  and  follow  me !" 

"Ay  —  in  my  chains  I  my  steps  will  gently  tread. 
With  these  adornments,  o*er  each  slumbering  head! 
Thou  hast  forgot  —  is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight?" 

"Misdoubting  Corsair!  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 
Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 
A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  diain : 
Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain? 
Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 
If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime: 
The  crime  —  'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 
That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad  —  he  must  bleed ! 
I  see  thee  shudder  —  but  my  soul  is  changed  — 
Wrong'd—spurn'd— reviled— and  it  shall  be  avenged— 
Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd  — 
Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 
Yes,  smile!  —  but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 
I  was  not  treacherous  then  —  nor  thou  too  dear ; 
But  he  has  said  it  —  and  the  jealous  well. 
Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel. 
Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 
I  never  loved  —  he  bought  me  —  somewhat  high  — 
Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  oould  not  buy. 
I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring;  he  hath  said. 
But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 


'Twas  fiUse  thou  kttowst  —  but  let  sncb  angvs  rve, 

Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true* 

Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer; 

This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 

New  torments  for  thy  liie,  and  my  despair. 

Mine  too  he  threatens;  but  his  dotage  still 

Would  &in  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  wiU : 

When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  oharms  and  me. 

There  yawns  the  sack  —  and  yonder  rolls  the  sea ! 

What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play. 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 

I  saw  thee  —  loved  thee  —  owe  thee  all  — would  save, 

If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 

But  had  be  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounce  in  strife) 

I  still  had  saved  thee  —  but  the  Pacha  spared. 

Now  I  am  all  thine  own  —  for  all  prepared : 

Thou  lovest  me  not  —  nor  knowst  —  or  but  the  worst. 

Alas !  this  love  —  that  hatred  are  the  first  — 

Oh !  couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  not  start, 

Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  eastern  heart; 

'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety  —  now 

It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow : 

But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead. 

There  slei^ — he  must  not  wake— the  oppressor  Soyd !" 

'H^ulnare  —  Oulaare  —  I  never  felt  till  now 
My  abject  fortune,  withered  fiune  so  low  : 
Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  band 
From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand. 
And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war. 
To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar ; 
Such  is  my  weapon  —  not  the  secret  knife  — 
Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 
Thine  saved  I  gladly,  lady,  not  for  this  — 
Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shewn  amiss. 
Now  iare  thee  well  —  more  peace  be  with  thy  breast ! 
Night  wears  apace  —  my  last  of  earthly  restT' 

"Rest!  Rest!  by  sunrise  most  thy  sinews  shake. 
And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 
I  heard  the  order  —  saw  —  I  will  not  see  ~ 
If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  foil  with  thee. 
My  life  —  my  love  —  my  hatred  —  all  below 
Arc  on  this  cast  —  CorSair !  'tis  but  a  blow ! 
Without  it  flight  were  idle  —  how  evade 
His  sure  pursuit?  my  wrongs  too  unrqiaid. 
My  youth  disgraced  —  the  long,  long  wasted  years. 
One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears; 
But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 
I'll  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 
The  guards  are  gain*d  —  one  moment  all  were  o'er  — 
Corsair !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more ; 
If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  ttie  morningHsloud 
Will  hover  o'er  thy  scafibld  and  my  shroud.'* 

She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 
But  his  glance  folio w'd  far  with  eager  eye; 
And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound. 
Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude. 


04100  la 


THE  CORSAOt 


87 


J^  ; 


He,  frit  as  fttter'd  limbs  allovr,  pursoed. 

T«a8  dark  and  windinfp,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  patnge  led;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there : 

He  aees  a  dosky  glimmering  —  shall  he  seek 

Or  shui  tliat  ray  so  Indistinet  and  weak  ? 

Chance  gaides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Fan  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning-air  — 

He  reaeh'd  an  open  gallery  —  on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  Uat  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky: 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these  —  another  light 

FroBi  a  lone  chamber  stmek  apon  his  sight 

Towards  it  he  mored,  a  scaroely  closing  door 

Rcreal'd  the  ray  within,  bnt  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 

Then  paused— and  tum'd— and  pansed— 'tis  she  at  last! 

No  poniard  in  that  hand  —  nor  sign  of  ill  — 

Thanks  to  that  softening  heart  —  she  conld  not  kill !" 

Again  he  looked,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 

Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 

She  stopped  —  threw  baek  her  dark  far*floating  hair, 

That  nearly  veiled  her  fiioe  and  bosom  fair: 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet  —  upon  her  brow  —  unknown  —  forgot  — 

Her  haiT3^ng  hand  had  left  —  'twas  but  a  spot  ^ 

Its  hne  was  aU  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood  ^ 

Oh !  slight  bnt  certain  pledge  of  crime  —  'tis  blood ! 

He  had  seen  battle  -^  he  had  brooded  lone 
O'er  proflused  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown ; 
He  had  been  tempted  —  ehasten'd  ^  and  the  chain 
Tet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain : 
Bat  ne'er  from  strife  —  captivity  —  remorse  — 
FhNtt  all  his  feelings  In  their  inmost  foroe  — 
So  thrill'd  —  so  shudder'd  every  creeping  vdn, 
As  now  they  frose  before  that  purple  stain. 
That  spot  of  Mood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak. 
Had  hanish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 
Bfood  he  had  riew'd  —  oould  view  unmoved  —  but  then 
it  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men! 

**'Tis  done  —  he  nearly  waked  —  but  it  is  done. 
Corsair!  he  perislT'd  —  thou  art  deariy  won. 
AU  words  wo«ld  now  be  vain  — •  away  —  away ! 
Oar  bark  is  tossing  —  'tis  already  day. 
The  few  gain'd  orer  now  are  wholly  mine. 
And  these  thy  yet  svrviving  band  shall  join : 
Anon  my  roice  shall  vindicate  my  hand. 
When  once  o«ir  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 

She  cbpp'd  her  hands  —  and  through  the  gallery 


Equipp'd  for  flight,  her  vassals  —  Greek  and  Bloor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind ; 
Onee  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain-wind ! 
Bat  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate. 
As  if  diey  there  transferr'd  that  faron  weight. 
Ho  words  are  utter'd  —  at  her  sign,  a  door 
Beveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore; 
The  city  fies  belilnd  —  they  speed,  they  reach 
The  gind  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 


And  Conrad  fallowing,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Sey  d 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

Embaric'd,  the  sail  nnfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew  — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review! 
Sunk  he  in  contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchored  rCar'd  its  giant-shape. 
Ah !  —  since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time. 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast. 
He  reird  bis  fhee,  and  sorrow'd  as  he  past; 
He  thought  of  all  —  Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  fieiiling  hand, 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride : 
He  tnm'd  and  saw  —  Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

She  watoh'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness,  forefgn  to  her  eye. 
Fell  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him,  and  Ms  hand  she  prest. 
'*Thou  mayst  forgive  though  Alla's  self  detest; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou? 
Reproach  me  —  but  not  yet  —  Oh !  spare  me  now  ! 
I  am  not  what  I  seem  — this  fearfVil  night 
My  brain  bewilder 'd  ^  do  not  madden  quite ! 
If  I  had  never  loved  —  though  less  my  grnilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to  —  hate  me  —  if  thou  wilt." 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts;  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made; 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  nnex  prest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell  —  his  breast. 
Still  onward,  fhir  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge. 
The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge; 
Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 
A  spot  •;-  a  mast  ^  a  sail  —  an  armed  deck! 
Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry. 
And  ampler  canvai  woos  the  wind  from  high; 
She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 
Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier; 
A  flash  is  seen  —  the  ball  beyond  their  bow 
Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 
Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 
A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance; 
"Tis  mine  —  my  blood-red  flag !  again  —  again  — 
I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main!" 
They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 
Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 
«'Tis  Conrad !  Conrad  f  shouting  from  the  deck, 
Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check ! 
With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 
They  view  him  mount  onee  more  his  vessefs  side: 
A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face. 
Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 
He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat. 
Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet, 
Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 
And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command! 


88 


THE  CORSAIR 


oanto  at 


These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  tliat  o'erflow, 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  withont  a  blow ; 
They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengeance  —  bad  they  known 
A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own. 
She  were  their  queen  —  less  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 
Tbey  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gnlnare; 
And  her,  at  once  above  -^  beneath  her  sex. 
Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  feint  imploring  eye, 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which  —  Conrad  safe  ^  to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  phrensy  could  that  bosom  fill, 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill. 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still! 

This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt  —  ah !  could  he  less  ? 
Hate  of  that  deed  —  but  grief  for  her  distress ; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away. 
And  heaven  must  pnnish  on  its  angry  day : 
But  ^  it  was  done:  he  knew,  whatever  her  guilt. 
For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt; 
And  he  was  free !  —  and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  1 
And  now  he  turned  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  he  gave. 
Who  now  seemM  changed  and  humbled: — faint  and  meek. 
But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  paleness  —  all  its  red 
That  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead ! 
He  took  that  hand  —  it  trembled  —  now  too  late  — 
So  soft  in  love  —  so  wildly  nerved  in  hate; 
He  clasp'd  that  hand — it  trembled  —  and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 
•'Gulnarel"  —  but  she  replied  not  —  "dear  Guinare !" 
She  raised  her  eye  —  her  only  answer  there  — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace: 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place. 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 
But  —  good  or  ill  —  it  bade  her  not  depart 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  join'd  the  rest. 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask'd  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this. 
The  first,  the  last  that  frailty  stole  from  faith  — 
To  lips  where  love  had  lavished  all  his  breath. 
To  lips  —  whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling, 
As  he  had  ttam'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing! 

They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 
To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile; 
The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound. 
The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round. 
The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay. 
And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray; 
Even  tiie  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill,  discordant  shriek. 
Greets  Hke  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak ! 
Beneath  each  lamp,  that  through  its  lattice  gleams, 


Their  fhnoy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home. 

Like  hope's  gay  gianoe  from  ocean's  troubled  foam? 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower. 
And  midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower: 
He  looks  in  vain  —  'tis  strange  —  and  all  renuurk. 
Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 
'Tls  strange  —  of  yore  its  welcome  never  fldl'd 
Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'd,  only  veil'd. 
With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore. 
And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 
Oh !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight. 
To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 
With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave 
He  waits  not  —  looks  not  —  leaps  into  the  wave. 
Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 
Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret-door  —  he  paused  —  no  soud 
Broke  from  within ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly  —  footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh; 
He  knock'd  —  but  fointly  —  for  his  trembling  hand 
Refosed  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens  —  'tis  a  well  known  face  — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace; 
Its  lips  are  silent  —  twice  bis  own  essay'd. 
And  foil'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd; 
He  snatoh'd  the  lamp  —  its  light  will  answer  all  -* 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  CedL 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray  — 
As  soon  could  he  have  lingered  there  for  day ; 
But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  oorrldore. 
Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain  —  his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not  —  yet  foretold ! 

He  tum'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — &i,'il  his  look, 
And  set  tiie  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 
He  gazed  —  how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain. 
And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  In  vain ! 
In  life  itsdf  she  was  so  still  and  fair. 
That  death  with  gentier  aspect  wither'd  there; 
And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd. 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  fdgn'd  a  sleep. 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 
And  veil'd— thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below— 
Oh !  o'er  the  eye  death  most  exerts  his  might. 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 
But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips  ~ 
Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile. 
And  wish'd  repose  —  but  only  for  a  while; 
But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress. 
Long  —  fair  —  but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness. 
Wliich,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer-wind. 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind ; 


CJLMTO  III. 


THB  CORSAIR. 


89 


These  —  and  the  pale  pore  cbeek,  became  the  bier  ~ 
Bat  she  is  notkljig  ^  wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

He  ask'd  no  question  —  all  were  answer *d  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  stiii  —  marble  brow. 
It  was  enough  —  she  died  —  w]iat  rcclc'd  it  how  ? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years. 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tendcrest  fears. 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate. 
Was  reft  at  once  —  and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less ;  —  the  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar: 
The  proud  —  the  wayward  —  who  have  fix'd  below 
Their  joy  —  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe. 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all  —  perchance  a  mite  — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 
Foil  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost, 
Ifl  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprcst 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Whidi  seeks  firom  all  the  refuge  found  in  none ; 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show. 
For  truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest; 
So  fiseble  now  —  his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  in&nt's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain^ 
Which  thus  confessed  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears  —  perchance,  if  seen, 
That  oscless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been : 
Nor  long  they  flow'd  —  he  dried  them  to  depart. 
In  helpless  —  hopeless  —  brokenness  of  heart: 
The  sun  goes  forth  —  but  Conrad's  day  is  dim ; 
And  the  night  comcth  —  ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind 


On  griefs  vain  eye  —  the  blindest  of  the  blind! 
Which  may  not  —  dare  not  see  —  but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade  —  nor  will  endure  a  guide ! 

His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness  —  warp*d  to  wrong; 
Bctray'd  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long  ; 
Bach  feeling  pure  —  as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot  —  like  that  had  harden'd  too; 
Less  dear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd. 
But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock ; 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade  —  it  shclter'd  —  saved  till  now, 
The  thunder  came  —  that  bolt  hath  blasted  both. 
The  granite's  firmness,  and  the  lily's  growth : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell. 
And  of  its  cold  protector  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground ! 

'Tis  mom  —  to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 
Few  dare ;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 
He  was  not  there  —  nor  seen  along  the  shore; 
Bre  night,  alarm'd^  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er: 
Another  morn  —  another  bids  them  seek. 
And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak ; 
Mount  —  grotto  —  cavern  —  valley  searched  in  vain, 
They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain : 
Their  hope  revives  —  they  follow  o'er  the  main. 
'Tis  idle  all  —  moons  roll  on  moons  away, 
And  Conrad  comes  not  —  came  not  —  since  that  day : 
Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 
Where  lives  his  grief,  or  perish'd  his  despair! 
Long  moum'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside; 
And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride: 
For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 
His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  kno^n; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Link'd  with  one  virtue  and  a  thousand  crimes. 


6* 


90 


LARA- 


CANTO     L 


Thb  Serfs  are  glad  through  Lara's  wide  domain, 

And  slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain ; 

He,  their  anhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord. 

The  long  self-exiled  chicftain^is  restored : 

There  be  bright  feces  in  the  busy  hall, 

Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 

Far  chequering  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays 

The  unwonted  fiiggots'  hospitable  blase; 

And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 

With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  retum'd  again : 
And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  main? 
Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself;  —  that  heritage  of  woe, 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest !  — 
With  none  to  check,  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to  crime ; 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment,  then  • 
Had  Lara's  daring  boyhood  governed  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mases  of  its  race ; 
Short  was  the  course  bis  restlessness  had  run. 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone. 

And  Lara  left  in  youth  his  father-land ; 
But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  Its  fading  frame, 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
The  young  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died ; 
<<Yet  doth  he  live!"  exclaims  the  impatient  heir. 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wear. 
A  hundred  scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dwelling-place ; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness, 
And  whence  they  know  not,  why  they  need  not  guess ; 
They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o'er. 


Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before : 

No  train  is  his  bey  end  a  single  page. 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 

Years  had  roll'd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 

To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay ; 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 

Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  time. 

They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 

The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a  dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  past  his  manhood's  prime. 

Though  sear'd  by  toil,  and  something  toucli'd  by  time ; 

His  faults,  whate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot, 

Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot ; 

Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 

Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame  : 

His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 

No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins ; 

And  such,  if  not  yet  harden'd  in  their  course, 

Might  he  redeem'd,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 

And  they  indeed  were  ehanged  —  'tis  quickly  seen 
Whate'er  he  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  .been : 
That  brow  in  furrow'd  lines  had  fix'd  at  last. 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past ; 
The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days. 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 
A  high  demeanour,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  single  look ; 
And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue. 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 
Tliat  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 
And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound ; 
All  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath. 
Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim, 
That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim. 
Within  his  breast  appear'd  no  more  to  strive. 
Yet  seem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive ; 
And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  llghten'd  o'er. his  livid  face. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast. 
In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wander'd  lone. 
And  — as  himself  would  have  it  seem  —  unknown : 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  glean  experience  from  liis  fellow-man ; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 


CINTO  L 


91 


As  hardly  worth  a  stnuiger^A  oare  to  know ; 

If  still  more  prying  such  inqoiry  grew, 

His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his^ords  more  few. 

Not  norejoiced  to  see  him  onoe  again, 
Wana  was  his  welcome  to  the  haants  of  men ; 
Born  of  high  lines^ge^  Ubk'd  in  high  command. 
He  DUDgled  with  the  magnates  of  his  land ; 
Join'd  the  caroosals  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away; 
Bat  stin.  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  hope  still  baffled,  still  to  be  renew'd; 
Nor  shadowy  honour,  nor  substantial  ga}n, 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rivaFs  pain: 
Around  him  some  mysterious  drde  thrown 
Bepell'd  approach,  and  show'd  him  still  idone; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  something  of  reproof 
That  kept  at  least  friyolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 
la  silence  gaxed,  or  whispered  mutual  fear ; 
And  they,  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  contest 
They  deem'd  him  better  than  bis  air  exprest 

Twas  strange  —  in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Bomiag  for  pleasure,  not  aTerse  from  strife; 
Woman  ^  the  field  —  the  ocean  —  all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  gra^e, 
lo  turn  he  tried  —  he  ransack'd  all  below, 
And  found  his  it^i^unpcnse  in  joy  or  woe. 
No  tame,  trite  medium ;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought : 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  rauMxl ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  Iqok'd  on  high, 
And  ask'd  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky : 
Cbain'd  to  excess,  the  slare  of  eadi  extreme, 
How  woke  he  firom  the  wildness  of  that  dream? 
Alas!  he  told  not  ^  but  he  did  awake 
To  curse  the  wither'd  heart  that  would  not  break. 

Books,  for  his  Tolume  heretofore  was  Man^ 
With  eye  more  curious  he  appeared  to  scan, 
And  of^  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day 
From  all  cooununion  he  would  start  away: 
And  then,  his  rarely  called  attendants  said, 
ThroQghnlgfat's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried  tread 
O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fiithers  frownM 
In  rode  but  antique  portraiture  around : 
They  heard,  but  whisper'd — "that  must  not  be  known  — 
The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  tlian  his  own. 
Yes,  they  who  diose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 
Thcj  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have 

been. 
Why  gased  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 
Which  hands  profime  had  gathcr'd  from  the  dead^ 
That  still  beside  his  opened  volume  lay. 
As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  ? 
Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest? 
Why  heard  no  music  and  received  no  guest  ? 


All  was  not  well  they  deem'd  ^  but  where  the  wrong  ? 
Some  knew  perchance  —  but  'twere  a  tale  too  long; 
And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise. 
To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise; 
But  if  they  would  —  they  could''  —  around  the  board. 
Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 

It  was  the  night  —  and  Lara's  glassy  stream 
The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam : 
So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray. 
And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away ; 
ReOecting  for  and  fairy-like  from  high 
The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky : 
Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 
And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee; 
Such  in  her  chaplet  Infhnt  Dian  wove. 
And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 
These  deck  the  shore;  tibe  waves  their  channel  make 
In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 
AH  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth.and  air. 
Yon  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there; 
Secure  that  nought  of  evU  could  delight 
To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 
It  was  a  mom  ent  only  for  the  good : 
So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 
But  tum'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate; 
Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate: 
Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days. 
Of  skies  mor^  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze. 
Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now  — 
No  ^  no  —  the  storm  may  heat  upon  his  brow, 
Unfelt  —  unsparing  —  but  a  night  like  this, 
A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

He  turned  within  his  solitary  hall^ 
And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall: 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'Twas  all  they  left  of  viKues  or  of  crimes, 
Save  vague  tradition;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  tfaeur  ihults ; 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page. 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age : 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  Ucs. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dimlattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fifintastic  figures  grew. 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume, 
Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

'Twas  midnight  —  all  was  slumber;  the  lone  light 
Dimm'd  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night 
Hark !  there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  hall  — 
A  sound  **  a  voice  —  a  shriek  -^  a  fearful  call ! 
A  long,  loud  shriek  —  and  silence  —  did  they  hear 
That  frantic  echo  burst  the  slecqping  ear  ? 


92 


CAKTOL  r 


They  heard  and  rose,  and  tremnloiuily  brave 
Rush  where  the  soand  invoked  their  aid  to  save; 
They  come  with  haif-iit  tapers  in  their  hands. 
And  snatch'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid, 
Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  his  features  play'd, 
Was  Lara  stretchM;  his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 
Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's  fear; 
Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now, 
And  still  defiance  knit  his  gatber'd  brow ; 
Though  mix'd  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 
There  lived  upon  Ills  lip  the  wish  to  slay ; 
Some  half-form'd  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died. 
Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride ; 
His  eye  was  almost  scai'd,  but  not  forsook 
Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look, 
That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose. 
And  now  was  fix'd  in  horrible  repose. 
They  rabe  him — bear  him ;  hush !  he  breathes,  he  speaks, 
The  swarthy  blush  recolours  in  his  checks. 
His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim, 
Rolls  wide  and  wild,  each  slowly-quivering  limb 
Rccallsits  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 
In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue ; 
Distinct,  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land; 
And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 
That  hears  him  not  —  alas  I  that  cannot  hefix  I 

His  page  approach'd,  and  he  alone  appear'd 
To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard ; 
And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow. 
They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow. 
Nor  he  interpret,  yet  with  less  surprise 
Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  state  he  eyes ; 
But  Lara's  in-ostrate  form  he  bent  beside. 
And  in  that  tongue  which  seem'd  his  own  replied; 
And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 
To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream; 
If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 
A  breast  that  heeded  not  ideal  woe. 

Whate'cr  his  phrensy  dream'd  or  eye  beheld, 
If  yet  remember'd  ne'er  to  be  reveal'd, 
Rests  at  his  heart :  the  'custom'd  morning  came. 
And  breathed  new  vigour  in  his  shaken  fitime; 
And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech, 
And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech. 
As  heretofore  he  fill'd  the  passing  hours. 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lours 
Than  these  were  wont;  and  if  the  coming  night 
Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 
.  He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not. 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot. 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish'd  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 
Tlie  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door, 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor. 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night-song  of  the  breeze : 


Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals,  i 

As  evening  saddens  o'er  tlie  dark  gray  walls.  ) 

I 
Vain  thought!  that  hour  ofne'erunravell'd  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  oould  assume  ] 

A  seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amaxed  nor  less  afhud  —  i 

Had  memory  vanished  then  with  sense  restored  ?  j 

Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord  { 

Betray'd  a  feeling  that  recall'd  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents?  his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppress'd  o'erlabour'd  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suffer'd,  so  foiget, 
When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet  ? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix*d 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix 'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  not  the  cause  ? 
Not  so  in  him ;  his  breast  had  buried  both, 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half-told ; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 

In  him  inexplicably  mixM  appear'd 
Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd ; 
Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 
In  prsuse  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot ; 
His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  others'  prate  —         [fiite. 
They  guess'd  ^  they  gazed  —  they  i^n  would  know  hfs 
What  had  he  been  ?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 
Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known  ? 
A  hater  of  his  kind  ?  yet  some  would  say, 
With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay; 
But  own'd,  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near. 
Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer ; 
That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by^ 
None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye:  (^' 
Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard. 
At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard. 
But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 
Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride. 
And  steel'd  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 
One  doubt  from  others'  half-withheld  esteem; 
In  self-inflicted  pcnanoe  of  abreast 
Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest ; 
In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 
The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all:  ^ 
As  if  the  worst  had  foU'n  which  could  befhil. 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 
An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurl'd ; 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped ; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret: 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth. 


curio  1. 


LARA. 


93 


His  early  dreams  of  good  ootstripp'd  fhe  tnith, 

And  troubled  manhood  followed  baffled  youth ; 

With  thought  of  years  in  phantom-chase  muspcaty 

And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  poar'd  their  wrath 

la  honied  desolation  o'er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

bi  wild  reOeetioa  o^er  his  stormy  life; 

Bat  haoghty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame, 

And  diarged  all  fiinlts  npon  the  fleshly  form 

She  gSTe  to  dog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm ; 

TUl  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 

And  half  mistook  for  (kte  the  acts  of  will : 

Too  h)gh  for  common  selfishness,  he  coold 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good. 

Bat  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought. 

Bat  in  some  strange  perrersity  of  thought, 

That  sway'd  him  onwards  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 

Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  ; 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemned  to  breathe, 

And  loqg'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own : 

Tfaos  coldly  pasung  all  that  pass'd  below, 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow: 

Ah !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 

Bat  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  fiow'd ! 

Tb  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd« 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd, 

Nor  outraged  reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start. 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart; 

And  rarely  wander'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 

His  thoqghts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 

With  all  that  ohillisg  mysteiy  of  mien. 
And  sradng  gladness  to  remain  unseen ; 
He  had  (if  'twere  not  nature's  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart: 
It  was  not  lOTC  perchance  —  nor  hate  —  nor  aught 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought ; 
Bat  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  Tain, 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again : 
And  thoae  to  whom  he  spake  remember'd  well. 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell : 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Hiauelf  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind ; 
There  he  was  stamp'd  in  liking,  or  in  hate. 
If  greeted  once;  however  brief  the  date 
That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 
8tin  there  within  the  iimiost  thought  he  grew. 
Tou  coold  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound ; 
His  presence  haunted  still ;  and  from  the  breast 
He  fiireed  an  all-unwilling  interest 
Tain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  yon  to  forget! 


There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims 
Appear  —  a  high-born  and  a  welcome  guest 
To  Otho's  hall  eame  Lara  with  the  rest 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hail. 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance-of  bounding  beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well-according  bands ; 
It  is  a  sight  the  carefol  brow  might  smooth  , 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  yoath. 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  past  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad. 
His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad; 
And  his  glance  follow'd  fast  each  fluttering  fieur. 
Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there: 
He  lean'd  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 
With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye. 
Nor  mark'd  a  glance  so  sternly  fix'd  on  his, 
HI  brook'd  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this : 
At  length  he  caught  it,  'tis  a  fiioe  unknown. 
But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone; 
Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  by  his  mien, 
Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen ; 
At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 
Of  keen  Inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze; 
On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew. 
As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw ; 
Along  the  stranger's  aspect  fix'd  and  stem, 
Flash'd  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could  learn. 

'*'Tis  he  I*'  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard. 
Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 
"'Tis  he!"  —  "'Tis  who?"  they  question  fiur  and  near. 
Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear; 
So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 
The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look ; 
But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 
That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 
Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 
Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed, 
And  drawing  nigh,  exdaim'd,  with  haughty  sneer: 
"'Tis  he !  —  how  came  he  thence  ? — what  doth  he  here  ?" 

It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  question,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high; 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold. 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 
He  turn'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone  — 
"My  name  is  Lara!  —  when  thine  own  is  known, 
I>oubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd-for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight 
'Tis  Lara!  —  further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask  ? 
I  shun  no  question  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"Thou  shun'st  no  question !  Ponder  » is  there  none 
They  heart  most  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun? 
And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too?  Gaze  again! 


94 


LARA. 


CANTO L 


At  least  thy  memory  wu  not  giren  in  vain. 
Ob !  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt. 
Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  fhoe 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know  —  with  dnbions  look 
He  deign'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  be  shook, 
And  half-contemptuous  tum'd  to  pass  away ; 
But  the  stem  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 
"A  word !  —  I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  here 
To  one,  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer, 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art  —  nay,  frown  not,  lord, 
If  false,  'tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word  — 
But,  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down. 
Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he?  whose  deeds " 

^•Whatc'er  I  be. 
Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee 
I  list  no  further;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gaia:»y 
The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell. 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 
Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest, 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  exprcst" 
Aud  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed  ~ 
"Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 
This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
If  thou.  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  ought  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know. 
To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest; 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
Though  like  Count  Lara  now  return'd  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown ; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth. 
He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie, 
Nor  aught,  that  knighthood  may  accord,  deny." 

^*To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 
"And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried ; 
I  gage  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 
My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest!" 
What  answers  Lara?  to  its  centre  shrunk 
His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk ; 
The  words  of  many  and  the  eyes  of  all, 
That  there  were  gather'd,  seem'd  on  him  to  fell ; 
But  his  were  silent,  his  appcar'd  to  stray 
In  far  forgetfuhicss  away  —  away  — 
Alas!  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 
Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

'*To-morrow !  —  ay,  to-morrow!"  further  word 
Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard ; 
Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke, 
From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke; 
Yet  there  was  something  fix'd  in  that  low  tone , 
Which  show'd  resolve,  determined,  thougfi  unknown. 
He  seized  his  cloak  —  his  head  he  slightly  bow'd, 
And  passing  Eccelin  he  left  the  crowd ; 


And,  as  he  pass'd  him,  smiling  met  the  frown 

With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down: 

It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride 

That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide : 

But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 

Of  ail  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 

Could  this  mean  peace?  the  calmness  of  the  good? 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood? 

Alas !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each; 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech ; 

From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 

Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  Icara. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  way  — 
Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey : 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afiftr, 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star; 
For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung. 
In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  fkith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongpEie  of  Lara's  land. 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command. 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come. 
When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home* 
Those  accents  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear. 
Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 
Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one  —  his  friend,  his  all: 
For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide; 
What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side? 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 
That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate. 
But  had  not  marr'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  grew. 
The  cheek  where  oft  the  unbidden  blush  shone  through; 
Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 
All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow; 
But  'twas  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 
That  for  a  burning  moment  fever*d  tlicrc ; 
And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 
From  high,  and  lighten'd  with  electric  thought. 
Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes  fringe. 
Had  temper'd  with  a  melanclioly  tinge ; 
Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 
Or  if 'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share: 
And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age. 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page; 
For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance. 
As  all-forgotten  in  that  watcliful  trance; 
And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone. 
Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none ; 
His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book ; 
His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook : 
He  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 
From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart; 
To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 
No  g^ft  beyond  that  bitter  boon  ^  our  birth. 

.  If  aught  he  loved,  'twas  Lara;  but  was  shown 
Hu  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone; 


curro  L  LARA.. 

In  mute  attention;  and  his  oare,  which  gness'd      . 

Bach  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  expreu'd.  y 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid; 

His  seal,  though  more  than  that  of  serrile  hands, 

b  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 

As  if 'twas  Lara's  less  than  ku  desire 

That  thus  be  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  cnjoin'd  him  by  his  lord. 

To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword; 

To  tone  his  lute,  or,  if  he  will'd  it  more, 

On  tomes  of  otiier  times  and  tongues  to  pore; 

Bat  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train, 

To  whom  he  show'd  sor  deference  nor  disdain, 

Bat  that  well-wom  resenre  which  proved  he  knew 

No  sympathy  with  that  fiuniiiar  orew : 

His  sonl,  whatever  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Gould  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem*d,  and  better  days, 

Nor  aaark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  fieminindy  white  it  might  bespeak 

Aaotber  sex,  when  match'd  with  that  smooth  cheek, 

Bat  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  bis  gase, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays; 

A  btent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame : 

True,  m  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast. 

Bat  from  his  aspect  might  be  more  tlian  guess'd. 

Kaled  his  name,  though  rumour  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore ; 

For  sometimes  he  wonld  hear,  however  nigh, 

Tkat  name  repeated  loud  without  reply, 

Asmiftmiliar,  or,  if  roosed  again. 

Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then ; 

Caless  'twas  Lara's  wonted  voioe  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 

He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall. 
And  ntark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  mark'd  of  all ; 
And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 
Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold, 
Thdr  marvel  how  the  high-bom  Lara  bore 
Sock  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore. 
The  eotoor  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came. 
The  Up  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame ; 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 


w. 


95 


The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew. 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 

Tes  —  there  be  things  that  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware : 

Whatever  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonise  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past; 

When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell. 

As  if  on  something  recognized  right  well, 

His  memory  read  iU'Suoh  a  meaning  more 

Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore  ^ 

Forward  he  sprung  —  a  moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  within  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone; 

Bach  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 

AU  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene. 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 

No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 

Bach  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  aU  bosoms  seem 

To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream. 

Such  as  we  know  is  felse,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 

Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone  —  but  Bzzelin  is  there, 

With  thoughtfol  visage  and  imperious  air; 

But  long  remain'd  not;  ere  an  hour  expired 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho»  and  retired. 

The  crowd  are  gone^  the  revellers  at  rest ; 
The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest. 
Again  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 
Where  joy  subsides^  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep, 
And  man,  o'er-labour'd  with  his  being's  strife, 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetftilness  of  life : 
There  lie  love's  feverish  hope  and  eunning's  guile. 
Hate's  working  brain,  and  lull'd  ambition's  wile; 
O'er  each  vain  eye  oUivion's  pinions  wave. 
And  quendi'd  e3dstence  crouches  in  a  grave. 
What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become? 
Night's  sepulohrC)  the  universal  home. 
Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine. 
Alike  in  naked  helplessness  reoflne; 
Glad  for  awhile  to  heave  uneon^ions  breath. 
Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death* 
And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  im  ills  inercast, 
That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least 


96 


LARA. 


CANTO  0. 


CANTO     n. 


Night  wanes^the^apours  roand  the  moantainfi  currd 
Melt  into  moriiy  and  Li|[pht  awakes  the  world. 
Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past. 
And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  his  last; 
But  mig^hty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 
The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth ; 
Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendour  in  the  beam, 
Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  tbe  stream. 
Immortal  man  I  behold  her  glories  shine, 
And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "they  are  thine!" 
Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden'd  eye  may  sec ; 
A  morrow  comes  when  they  are  not  for  thee : 
And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 
Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a  single  tear ; 
Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall. 
Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee  for  all; 
Bat  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil. 
And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soiL 

'Tis  morn  ^  'tis  noon  —  assembled  in  the  hall, 
The  gathered  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call; 
'Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame ; 
When  Bzzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 
I{is  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given. 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 
Why  comes  he  not  ?  Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
With  self-Hsonfiding,  coldly  patient  air; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin?  The  h<mr  is  past, 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow's  o'ercast 
''I  know  my  friend !  his  faith  I  cannot  fear. 
If  yet  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here; 
The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands; 
My  halls  from  such  a  guest  had  honour  gain'd. 
Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disdain'd, 
But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  bis  stay, 
And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day ; 
The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 
Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood's  stain.*' 
He  ceased  ~  and  Lara  answer 'd,  "I  am  here 
To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear 
To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 
Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  liave  wrung. 
But  that  I  deem'd  liim  scarcely  less  tlian  mad, 
Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 


I  know  him  not  —  but  me  it  seems  he  knew 
In  lands  where  •—  but  I  must  not  trifle  too : 
Produce  this  babbler  —  or  redeem  the  pledge ; 
Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge," 
Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 
"The  last  alternative  befits  me  best. 
And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  g^est." 
With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom. 
However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb; 
With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 
Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke; 
With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare. 
Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 
In  yain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed, 
For  Otho's  phrenzy  would  not  be  opposed ; 
And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell  — 
"His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well." 

Short  was  the  conflict;  fnrious,  blindly  rash, 
Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash : 
He  bled,  and  fell;  but  not  with  deadly  wound, 
Stretch'd  by  a  dextrous  sleight  along  the  ground. 
"Demand  thy  life!"  He  answer'd  not :  and  then 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again. 
For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon-hue; 
And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 
Than  when  his  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow ; 
Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art. 
Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart; 
So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd. 
That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld, 
He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those 
Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose; 
But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent : 
Yet  look'd  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent. 
As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 
That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life; 
As  if  to  search  how  for  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech ; 
The  others  met  within  a  neighbouring  hall. 
And  he,  incensed  and  heedless  of  them  all. 
The  cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray. 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away; 
He  baok'd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took. 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  towers  a  single  look. 


CANTO  IL 


LARA. 


97 


Bit  where  was  he?  thai  meteor  of  a  night, 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light  ? 
Where  was  this  Bsselin?  who  eamc  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 
He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  morn. 
In  daricnes^  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  nuss  it:  near  his  dwelling  lay : 
But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  bst  inquiry,  which  unfolded  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
ffis  host  alarm'd,  his  murmuring  squires  distrest: 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path. 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers'  wrath : 
Bot  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hath  borne 
Nor  gout  ofl>lood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  bath  de&oed  the  grass, 
Which  still  retains  a  mark  where  murder  was; 
Nor  dabbling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  tale. 
The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsiTC  nail, 
When  agonized  hands,  that  cease  to  guard. 
Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  reft. 
But  these  were  not;  and  doubting  hope  is  left ; 
And  strange  suspicion,  whispering  Lara's  name, 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  blacken'd  fame; 
Then  sadden  silent  when  his  form  appear'd, 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear'd 
Again  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew. 
And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue; 

Days  roll  along,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  heaPd, 
Bat  not  his  pride;  and  hate  no  more  conceai'd ; 
He  was  a  man  of  power,  and  Lara's  foe, 
The  firiend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 
Aad  from  bis  country's  justice  now  d<miands 
Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 
Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
His  presence?  who  had  made  him  disappear. 
If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Hnd  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 
The  general  rumour  ignorantly  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd; 
The  seeming  firiendlessness  of  him  who  strore 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love ; 
The  sweeping  fierceness  which  his  soul  betrayed, 
The  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade ; 
*  Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art  ? 
Where  had  that  fierceness  grown  upon  his  heart? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage ; 
Bat  the  deep  working  of  a  sou)  unmix'd 
With  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd; 
Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  thaf  s  merciless : 
These,  link'd  with  that  desire  which  ever  sways 
Uaokiud,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise, 
*Gaiast  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Sacfa  as  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would  form^ 
And  be  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 


Within  that  land  was  many  a  malcontent, 
Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent ; 
That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  saw. 
Who  work'd  his  wantonness  in  form  of  law ; 
Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 
Had  made  a  path  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 
That  waited  but  a  signal  to  begin 
New  bavock,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 
Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foos  or  friends; 
Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord. 
In  word  and  deed  obey'd,  in  soul  abhorr'd. 
Thus  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands. 
And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands; 
But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 
Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime. 
And  now  diverted  by  bis  milder  sway. 
All  dread  by  slow  d^^rees  bad  worn  away : 
The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone. 
But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was  grown ; 
They  deem'd  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  first 
Their  evil  judgment  augur'd  of  the  worst. 
And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 
Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude : 
And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 
Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate ; 
For  thence  the  wretched  ne'er  unsootbed  withdrew, 
For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 
Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high,  ^^^ 
The  bumble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye ;         / 
Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  rooff 
They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof.         \ 
And  they  who  watch 'd  might  mark  that  day  by  day 
Some  new  retainers  gather'd  to  his  sway; 
But  most  of  late,  since  Ezselin  was  lost. 
He  play'd  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host: 
Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 
Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head ; 
Whate'er  his  view,  his  favour  more  obtains 
With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow-thanes. 
If  this  were  policy,  so  fiir  'twas  sound. 
The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found ; 
From  him,  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven. 
They  b«t  required  a  shelter,  and  'twas  given. 
By  him  no  peasant  moum'd  his  rifled  cot, 
And  scarce  the  serf  could  murmur  o'er  his  lot; 
With  him  old  avarice  found  his  board  secure. 
With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor; 
Youth  present  cheer  and  promised  recompense 
Detain'd,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thenee: 
To  hate  he  ofier'd,  with  the  coming  change, 
The  deep  reversion  of  dday'd  revenge; 
To  love,  long  baflled  by  the  unequal  match, 
The  well- won  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch* 
All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 
The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otho  thought 
Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought ; 
His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 
Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall. 
Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven, 
Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 
7 


98 


LARA. 


CANTO  n. 


That  morning*  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  sHiTea 
Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  gnves ! 
Such  is  their  cry  —  some  watchword  for  the  fight 
Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right: 
Religion  —  freedom  —  vengeance  —  what  yon  will, 
A  word's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill: 
Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  canght  and  spread, 
That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed ! 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  bad  gain'd 
Such  sway,  their  infhnt-monarch  hardly  reign'd; 
Now  was  the  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth. 
The  serfis  contemned  the  one,  and  hated  both: 
They  waited  but  a  leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound ; 
By  circumstance  compelFd  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 
Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes. 
Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accurst. 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst: 
Some  reason  urged,  whatever  it  was,  to  shun 
Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done ; 
By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all. 
E'en  if  he  fyal'd,  he  still  delayed  bis  fall. 
The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 
The  storm  that  once  bad  spent  itself  and  slept, 
Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  foredoora'd  to  ui^gc 
His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 
Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
And  is  again ;  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fome,   [/^ 
But  not  less  fitted  for  the  despefate  game: 
He  deem'd  himself  mark'd  out  for  others'  hate. 
And  mock'd  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd? 
He  raised  the  humble  but  to  bend  the  proud. 
He  had  hoped  qiyet  in  his  sullen  lair. 
But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there : 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  ba}', 
And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene,         ^ 
But  dragg'd  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud; 
In  voice  —  mien  —  gesture  —  savage  nature  spoke, 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

What  boots  the  ofl-repeatcd  tale  of  strife. 
The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life? 
Tlie  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field. 
The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  foint  that  yield  ? 
Tlic  smoking  ruin,  and  the  crumbled  wall? 
In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all; 
Save  that  distempered  passions  lent  their  force 
In  bitterness  that  banish'd  all  remorse. 
None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain, 
The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-plain : 
In  either  cause,  one  rage  alone  posscst 
The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast ; 
And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway. 


Oeem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  remained  to  slay. 

Tt  was  too'late  to  check  the  wasting  brand. 

And  desolation  reap'd  the  lamish'd  land ; 

The  torch  was  lighted,  and  the  flame  was  spread, 

And  carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-bom  impulse  strung, 
The  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  dung: 
But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruinM  all, 
Tliey  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call; 
In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press. 
And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 
The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate. 
Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate; 
In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do, 
To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 
In  vain  their  stubborn  ardour  be  would  tame, 
The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame; 
The  wary  foe  alone  hath  tum'd  their  mood. 
And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood: 
The  feign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade. 
The  daily  harass,  and  the  fight  deiay'd. 
The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply. 
The  tentlcss  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky. 
The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art. 
And  palls  the  patience  of  his  baflled  heart, 
Of  these  they  had  not  deem'd:  the  battle-day 
They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may, 
But  more  prcferr'd  the  fury  of  the  strife, 
And  present  death  to  houHy  suffering  life : 
And  femine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 
His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array ; 
Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent, 
And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 
But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand. 
And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band : 
Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remained 
To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain'd. 
One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  iar. 
And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war ; 
And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighbouring  state 
An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate : 
Hard  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit. 
But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit 

it  is  resolved  —  they  march  —  consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torch  less  fllglit; 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier-stream; 
Already  they  descry  —  Is  yon  the  bank  ? 
Away !  'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly !  —  What  glitters  in  the  rear? 
'Tis  Otho's  banner  —  the  pursuer's  spear ! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height  ? 
Alas !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight: 
Cut  off  from  hope  and  compass'd  in  the  toil, 
Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil ! 

A  moment's  pause,  'tis  but  to  breathe  their  band. 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
It  matters  little  —  if  they  charge  the  foes 


CANTO  IL 


LARA. 


99 


Who  by  tbc  border-stream  their  inarch  oppose. 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line^ 
Howe? er  link'd  to  baffle  sach  desig^n. 
**The  char^  be  onrs !  to  wait  for  their  assault 
Were  fiUe  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt" 
Forth  flics  each  sabre,  rein'd  is  every  steed. 
And  tbc  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed : 
In  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death  I 

Hia  blade  is  bared,  in  him  there  is  an  air 
Aideep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair; 
Aaomething  of  indifference  more  than  then 
Beoomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men  — > 
fietura'd  his  eye  on  Kalcd,  ever  near. 
And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear; 
Perchance  'twas  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  threw 
Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 
Of  moornfol  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  exprest 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 
This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his : 
it  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this; 
His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart. 
His  eye  alone  proclaim'd  :  ^'We  will  not  part  1 
Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee^ 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee  I" 

The  word  hath  pass'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven. 
Poms  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven ; 
Well  has  each  steed  obey 'd  the  armed  heel. 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel; 
Outnomber'd,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes; 
And  Mood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream. 
Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 


Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all. 
Where  foe  appeared  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Ios(ariog  hope,  himself  had  ceased  to  feel 
None  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vain; 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again. 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow : 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone. 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own; 
Hhnself  he  spared  not  —  once  they  secm'd  to  fly  — 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high. 
And  shook  —  why  sudden  droops  that  plumed  crest  7 
The  shaft  is  sped  —  the  arrow's  in  bis  breast! 
That  frta!  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side, 
And  Death  hath  stricken  down  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fiunted  from  his  tongue ; 
That  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingiy  it  hung  1 
Bnlyet  the  sword  instinctively  retains. 
Though  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  falling  reins; 
These Kaled  snatches:  diszy  with  the  blow, 
And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow. 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
BegoiJea  his  charger  from  the  combat's  rage: 


Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and  charge  again ; 
Too  mix'd  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain  1 

Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  hclmlcss  head; 
The  war-horse  mastcrless  is  on  the  eartli, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  Iturst  his  bloody  girth  ; 
And  near,  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remain'd. 
The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd ; 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie, 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  ttiose  that  die; 
That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death, 
In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop  —  the  jast  ~  to  cool  it  for  the  grave ; 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept. 
Their  limbs  along  the  orimson'd  turf  have  crept; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste: 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake  *- 
Why  pause?  No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake  — > 
It  is  unquench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not; 
It  was  an  agony  —  but  now  forgot  I 

Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene. 
Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 
A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay : 
'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fiast  from  life  away. 
His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide. 
Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 
And  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush, 
With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush; 
And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low. 
In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow : 
He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  'tis  vain. 
And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 
He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page 
Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 
Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim. 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
'Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere  vain. 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain. 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate. 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  liate: 
And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state;  he  answers  not. 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot. 
And  turns  to  Kaled:  —  each  remaining  word, 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue. 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clunf^ 
They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what  —  is  known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reaoh'd  alone; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 


100 


LARA. 


OANTO  a 


While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  romid : 
Thej  scem'd  even  then  —  that  twain  —  anto  the  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  shonld  penetrate. 

Their  words,  thoagh  faint,  wc^e  many — from  the  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  jndge  alone; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  yonng  Kaled's  death 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath. 
So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke; 
But  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near : 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  they  guess. 
So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 
Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last. 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once  as  Kalod's  answering  accents  ceast; 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 
Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 
Roird  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye. 
Or  that  'twas  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been. 
Scarce  Kaled  scom'd  to  know,  but  turn'd  away, 
As  if  his  heart  abhor r'd  that  coming  day. 
And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning-light. 
To  look  on  Lara's  brow  —  where  all  grew  night 
Yet  sense  seem*d  left,  though  better  were  its  loss; 
For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross, 
And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead. 
Of  wliich  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need. 
He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 
And  smiled  —  Heaven  pardon !  if 'twere  with  disdain : 
And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 
From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view. 
With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift. 
Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift, 
As  if  such  but  disturb'd  the  expiring  man, 
Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began, 
That  life  of  immortality,  secure 
To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  sure. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew; 
His  limbs  stretch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o*er 
The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore; 
He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart  — 
It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 
"It  beats!"  —  Away,  thou  dreamer!  he  is  gone  — 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  lookst  upon. 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 
The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay; 
And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 
But  cannot  tear  from  theiice  his  fixed  glance; 
And  when  in  raising  him  from  wherelie  bore 
Within  his  arms  th9  form  that  felt  no  more. 


He  saw  the  head,  his  breast  would  still  sustain. 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain ; 

He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven-hair. 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell. 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 

Than  that  ke  loved!  Oh !  never  yet  beneath 

The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  I 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 

The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half-conceal'd ; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 

Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confest;  ^ 

And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame ! 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  feithcrs  sleep. 
But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep; 
Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound. 
Though  priest  nor  bless'd,nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound; 
And  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 
Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 
Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 
And  vain  even  menace  —  silent  to  the  last. 
She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 
Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind 
Why  did  she  love  him  ?  Curious  fool !  —  be  still  — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness;  the  stern 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  sm tiers  guess  not  bow 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  form'd  the  ebain 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain ; 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold. 
And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast. 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest. 
They  found  the  scattcr'd  dints  of  many  a  scar. 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer-years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt. 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt. 
And  Bzzclin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return'd  no  more  —  that  night  appear'd  his  last 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale. 
When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 
And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn ; 
A  serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood. 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 
Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain : 
He  heard  a  tramp  —  a  horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood  —  before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow. 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 


CANTO  a 


LARA. 


101 


And  some  forcbodlni^  that  it  might  be  crime, 

Himjelf  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course. 

Who  reach'd  the  rhrer,  bounded  from  his  horse. 

And  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore. 

Heaved  up  the  bapk,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 

Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  scera*d  to  watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch. 

And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow*d. 

As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd : 

At  once  he  started,  stoop'd ;  —  around  him  strown 

The  winter-floods  had  scattered  heap^  of  stone; 

Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gathered  there. 

And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 

Ileantimc  the  serf  bad  crept  to  where  unseen 

Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean ; 

Re  caaght  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast. 

And  something gKtter'd  starlike  on  the  vest; 

But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 

A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk : 

It  rose  again  but  indistinct  to  view. 

And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue. 

Then  deeply  disappcar'd :  tlie  horseman  gazed 

Til]  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised; 

Then  turning,  vaulted  on  bis  pawing  steed. 

And  instant  spnrr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 

His  face  was  mask'd  —  the  features  of  the  dead, 

If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread; 

Bat  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 

Snch  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore. 

And  snch  'tis  known  Sir  Ezsclin  had  worn 

Upon  the  night  that  led  to  snch  a  morn. 

If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul! 

ffis  undiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 


And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  felL 

And  Kaled  —  Lara  —  Bzzelin,  are  gone, 
Alike  without  their  monumental  stone! 
The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 
From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been; 
Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud. 
Her  tears  were  few,  her  waiting  never  loud; 
But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 
Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not. 
Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire; 
But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there. 
She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air. 
Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints. 
And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints: 
And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee; 
And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall. 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall; 
And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven-hair. 
And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 
And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 
As  if  she  staunch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 
Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit; 
Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand. 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand — 
This  could  not  last  —  she  lies  by  him  she  loved; 
Her  tale  untold  —  her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


•lO?-::  : 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  esq. 

THIS  POEM  IS  INSCRIBED  BY  HIS 


FRIEND. 


JannorySa,  1S10. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

"The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1716),  under  the 
Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the  heart 
of  the  Morea ,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Ro- 
mania, the  most  considerable  place  in  all  that  country, 
thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attadc  Corinth^  upon 
which  they  made  scTcrai  storms.    The  garrison  being 


weakened  and  the  governor  seeing  it  was  imposaiblc  to 
hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force ,  thought  it  fit  to  beat 
a  parley:  but  while  they  were  treating  about  the  ar^ 
tides,  one  of  the  magazines  in  the  Turkish  camp,  wherein 
they  had  six  hundred  barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by 
accident,  whereby  six  or  seven  hundred  men  were  fcilled: 
which  so  enraged  the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant 
any  capitulation,  but  stormed  the  place  with  so  much 
fury,  that  they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with 
Signior  Minotti ,  the  governor ,  to  the  sword.  The  rest, 
with  Antonio  Bembo,  provcditor  extraordinary,  were 
made  prisoners  of  war."  —  Hittory  of  the  JKtrki,  voL  HI. 
p.  151. 


Many  a  vanished  year  and  age. 
And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage, 
Have  swept  o'er  Corinth ;  yet  she  stands 
A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands. 
The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock. 
Have  left  untouch'd  her  hoary  rock, 
The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  still, 
Though  fieiirn,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill, 
The  htnd-mark  to  the  double  tide 
That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side. 
As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet. 
Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 
But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 
Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled. 
Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 
Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 
The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank. 
That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 
Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below : 
Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain. 
Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 
That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 
Mjorc  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies. 
Than  yon  tower-capt  Acropolis 
Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss.  . 

On  dun  Cithaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescc^nt  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pasha's  glance; 


And  far  and  wide  as  eye  oan  reach 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach ; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels. 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd, 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour, 
THl  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  fiir  hissing  globe  of  death ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall. 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball ; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies. 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spumng  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail. 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well. 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable. 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sultan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 


THB  aiEOB  OF  CQRIHTH. 


103 


To  point  the  tabc,  tlic  lanoe  to  wield, 
I   Or  wbirf  around  the  bickering  blade ;  — 
Was  AJp,  the  Adrian  renc^de ! 

From  Venice  —  onoe  a  race  of  worth 
:   Rls  gentle  sircfl  —  he  drew  his  birth ; 
Bat  late  an  exile  from  her  shore. 
Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 
The  arms  they  taught  to  bear;  and  now 
The  turban  girt  his  shaTcn  brow. 
Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass'd 
With  Greece  to  Tenice'  rule  at  last ; 
And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 
To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 
.  He  stood  a  foe«  with' all  the  zeal ' 
Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel, 
Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 
The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 
To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 
Ho-  ancient  dvic  boast  —  **the  Free;" 
And  io  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Within  the  "Lion's  mouth"  had  placed 
A  charge  against  him  uneiiaeed : 
He  fled  in  time,  and  sared  his  life, 
To  waste  bis  future  years  in  strife. 
That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 
Id  him  who  triumphed  o'er  the  Cross, 
'Gainst  which  he  rear'd  the  Crj^oent  high, 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

Ck>amourgi  —  he  whose  closing  scene 
Adom'd  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz*  bloody  plain, 
The  bst  and  mightiest  of  the  slain. 
He  ank,  regretting  not  to  die, 
But  curst  the  Christian's  victory  ^ 
Coumoorgi  —  can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 
TOI  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore? 
A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  be  refix'd  the  Hoslem'svsway ; 
And  now  be  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levell'd  with  the  dust; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
Hon  firm  his  heart  in  novel  laith. 

The  walls  grew  weak;  and  fast  and*hot 
Against  them  pour'd  the  ceaseless  shot. 
With  nnabating  fury  sent 
^nok  battery  to  battlement; 
And  thimder-like  the  pealing  din 
Soae  from  each  heated  calverin; 
Jad  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 
iWas  fired  before  the  explodiqg  bomb : 

E  as  the  fabric  sank  benestb 
sfaattcriog  shell's  volcanic  breath, 
id  aad  wreathing  columns  fiash'd 


The  flame,  as  loud  the  roio  orash'd. 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven. 

Its  earth-stars  metted  into  iicaven; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dim. 

Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun. 

With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 

To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay'd, 
Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade^ 
The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teaoh 
His  skill  to  pierce4h6  promised  breach ; 
Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire, 
W}K>se  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire. 
When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 
Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  olaim. 
In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time. 
While  unimpeach'd  for  traitorous  crime, 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hail, 
He  glittcr'd  through  the  Carnival ; 
And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e'er  on  Adria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid*.  , 

And  many  deem'd  her  heart  was  won; 
For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none» 
Had  young  Frauccsca's  hand  remain'd 
Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchain'd: 
And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore. 
Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fall. 
And  pensive  wax'd  the  maid  and  pale ; 
More  constant  at  confessional, 
More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 
Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 
Which  conquer'd  hearts  they  ceased  to  prize: 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze; 
With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song; 
Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  tlie  morning's  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land, 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand, 
While  Sobicski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Euboea's  bay ;) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Dpge's  delegated  powers. 
While  y^  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
Smiled  o'er  her  long  forgotten  Greece : 
And  ere  that  faithless  tmee  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke. 
With  him  his  gontle  daughter  came; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  proye 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 


104 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Had  fkirer  form  adornM  tbe  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 

Tbe  wall  is  rent,  tbe  ruins  yawn; 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn. 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  tbe  fierce  assault 
The  bands  are  rank'd ;  the  chosen  yan 
Of  Tartar,  and  of  IMCussulman, 
The  fall  of  hope,  misnamed  "forlorn,'' 
Who  bold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  fkichions'  force, 
Or  paye  the  path  with  many  a  corse. 
O'er  which  the  following  braye  may  rise. 
Their  stepping-stone  —  tbe  last  who  dies! 

'Tis  midnight :  on  the  mountain's  brown 
The  cold  round  moon  shines  deeply  down ; 
Blue  roll  tbe  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high. 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light. 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining. 
And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining. 
Nor  wish'd  ft>r  wings  to  flee  away. 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  tbe  aur; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook. 
But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves. 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling. 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signahspoke. 
Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill. 
And  echo  answer'd  ft-om  the  hill, 
And  the  wide  bum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
In  midnight-call  to  wonted  prayer; 
It  rose,  that  chanted  mbumfal  strain, 
Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain : 
'Twas  musicaly^but  sadly  sweet. 
Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 
And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 
To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 
It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 
A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 
It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear, 
An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 
Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 
Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed; 
Sach  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 
Wakes,  thongh  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore. 
The  sound  was  busb'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er; 


The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obey 'd : 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night. 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  ail, revenge  and  love  can  pay. 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  be  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter ;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o'er  the  cross. 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss. 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally: 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stem  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  pn  tbe  parent  soiL 

He  stood  alone  —  a  renegade 

Against  the  country  be  betray 'd; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band. 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand: 

They  follow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave ; 

They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  earn'd  beneath  a  Moslem-name; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  no^know  how  pride  can  stoop. 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop; 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stern; 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them  —  man  may  rule  the  worst. 

By  ever  daring  to  be  ^sii 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey,  , 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

His  head  grows  fever'd,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse; 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  rqiosc; 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd, 
The  mail  weighed  lead-like  on  bis  breast. 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate. 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy,  ^ 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed. 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 


THE  SIBGS  OF  OOOMTH. 


105 


He  eoald  not  reft,  he  oofoid  not  ate j 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
Bat  walic'd  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thonaand  sleepers  strew'd  tiie  strand. 
WhatpQIou'd  them?  and  why  should  he 
Moie  wakefol  than  the  humblest  be? 
Smee  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil, 
Aid  yet  tliey  fearless  dream  of  spoil; 
Wlule  he  alone,  where  thousands  passed 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 
In  fliekly  Tigil  wander'd  on. 
And  envied  all  he  gased  upon. 

fle  felt  bis  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  «alm, 
Aad  bathed  bis  brow  with  airy  balm : 
Behind,  the  camp  ^  before  him  lay. 
Id  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lqianto's  gulf:  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delhi's  hill,  unshaken  snow. 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf;  the  mount,  the  dime; 
It  wiO  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time : 
Tynni  and  slaTC  are  swept  away. 
Less  form'd  to  wear  before  the  ray ; 
Bat  that  white  Tcil,  the  lightest,  frailest. 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  bailcst, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent. 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement ; 
la  form  a  peak,  in  heigtit  a  cloud, 
la  texture  like  a  faoyering  shroud. 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread. 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled. 
And  Bnger'd  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet-spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh,  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  withered  fields,  and  ruin'd  altars. 
And  fiun  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken. 
By  pointing  to  eaeh  glorious  token. 
Bat  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  rays 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 
Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes; 
And  thfougfa  tliis  night,  as  on  he  wander'd. 
And  o'er  the  past  and  present  pondcr'd, 
And  tboi^ht  upon  the  glorious  dead 
Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 
Be  Celt  how  &int  and  feebly  dhn 
The  &ne  that  could  accrue  to  him, 
Who  cfaeer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 
A  traitor  in  a  tnrban'd  horde; 
I  And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 
Whoae  best  suooess  were  sacrilege. 
Hot  so  had  those  his  fancy  numbered, 
Ae  cfaielSi  whooc  dust  around  him  slumbered  -, 
phafamx  marthaU'd  on  the  plain. 


Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain* 
They  fdl  devoted,  but  u^ying; 
The  veiy  gale  thor  names  seem'd  sighing: 
The  waters  mnrmur'd  of  their  name; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fiune; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
ClaimM  kindred  with  their  sacred  day ; 
Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  monntein. 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain ; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 
RoU'd  mingling  with  their  fiime  for  ever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears. 
That  hwd  is  glory's  stilt  and  theirs ! 
'Tis  still  a  watoh-word  to  the  earth : 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread. 
So  sanction'd,  on  the  tyrant's  head: 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused. 
And  woo'd  the  freshness  night  diffused. 
There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideiess  sea. 
Which  changeless  rolls  eternally ; 
So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood. 
Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood ; 
And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 
Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 
Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay. 
On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 
The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare. 
And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there: 
And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 
On  the  fine  that  it  left  long  ages  ago : 
A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 
Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach. 
Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 
Oftheleaguer'dwall;  but  they  saw  him  not. 
Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot? 
Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians'  hold? 
Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold? 
I  know  not,  in  sooth ;  but  from  yonder  wall 
There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball, 
Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown. 
That  flank'd  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town ; 
Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 
The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 
As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 
Clank'd,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro; 
And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 
Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival, 
Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcase  and  limb; 
They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 
From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 
As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh ; 
And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull. 
As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew  dull, 
As  they  laaily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead. 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they  fed; 
7» 


106 


THE  SIBGB  OF  CCmiNTH. 


So  well  had  they  broken  a  luDgering  fiist 

With  those  who  had  fallen  for  tl^t  night's  repast. 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  sand. 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  bis  band : 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear. 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair. 

All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  roond  his  jaw. 

Bot  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf. 

There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away. 

Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey ; 

But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 

Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  tlie  bay. 

Alp  tnrn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying. 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 
Scorch'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  aU  pain. 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour. 
Whatever  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower; 
For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 
And  Honour's  eye  on  daring  deeds! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there; 
All  regarding  man  as  their  prey. 
All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 
Fashion'd  by  long  forgotten  hands; 
Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone. 
Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 
Out  upon  Time!  it  will  leave  no  more 
Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before! 
Out  upon  Time!  who  for  ever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be: 
What  wc  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 
Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatui*es  of  clay ! 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base. 
And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face; 
Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood. 
Declining  was  his  attitude; 
His  head  was  drooping  on  bis  breast, 
Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  opprest; 
And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent. 
Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 
Hurriedly,  as  yon  may  see 
Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key. 
Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 
By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 
There  be  sate  all  heavily. 
As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 


Was  it  the  wind,  througb  some  hollow  etono, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass  —  it  waved  not  a  blade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  con  vey'd  ? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners  —  each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithasron's  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  turn'd  to  the  left  —  is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 

There  sate  a  lady,  yonthftal  and  bright ! 

He  started  np  with  more  of  fear 
Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 
'<God  of  my  fathers!  what  is  here? 
Who  art  thou  ,  and  wherefore  sent 
So  near  a  hostile  armament  ?" 
His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 
The  cross  he  deemM  no  more  divine: 
He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 
But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 
He  gazed,  he  saw:  he  knew  the  face 
Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace; 
It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 
The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  check. 
But  mellow'd  with  a  tenderer  streak : 
Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled? 
Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 
The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 
Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue; 
But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still. 
And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 
Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 
Nought  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining; 
Through  the  parting  of  her  hair. 
Floating  darkly  downward  there, 
Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare: 
And  ere  yet  she  made  reply. 
Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high ; 
It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue. 
You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

^  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best. 
That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  blest 
I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall ; 
Sought  thee  in  safety  tlirougb  foes  and  all. 
'Tis  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 
From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity ; 
And  the  power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 
Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 
Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 
From  the  hands  of  the  Icaguering  infidel. 
I  come  —  and  if  I  come  in  vain. 
Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again! 
Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 
In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed : 
But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 


THB  SIBOB  OF  CORINTH. 


107 


The  rign  of  the  erou,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 
WrinsTtbc  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 
iad  to-morrow  unites  ns  no  more  to  part" 

''And  wiiere  shoald  oar  bridal  couch  be  spread  ? 
In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 
For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 
The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name> 
None,  save  thou  and  thlne>  Tye  sworn. 
Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn : 
Bnt  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 
Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot. 
There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 
Wbcn  onoe  again  I've  qnell'd  the  pride 
Of  Venice;  and  her  hated  race 
Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase 
Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 
Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes/' 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own  — 
Light  was  the  tonch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  botae, 
And  shot  a  chlllness  to  his  heart, 
Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 
Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 
He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold ; 
Bat  never  did  dasp  of  one  so  dear 
Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 
As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 
Fk-ose  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 
The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 
And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 
As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue 
So  deeply  changed  from  what  be  knew : 
Fair  but  fiunt  —  without  the  ray 
Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 
Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day ; 
And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death. 
And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 
And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 
Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd. 
And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix'd 
With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 
Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream; 
like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 
Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air. 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 
Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awfUl  to  sight ; 
Astiiey  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 
From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown; 
Fearfhlly  flitting  to  and  fro, 
As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

'If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  mucii,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  — 
Again  I  say  —  that  turban  tear 
From  ofi"  thy  feithless  brow,  and  swear 
Thoe  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 
Or  thou  art  lost;  and  never  shalt  see. 
Hot  earth  —  that's  past  ^  but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  then  dost  accord,  albeit 


A  heavy  doom  'tis  thine  to  meet, 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within : 
Bnt  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Hhn  thou  didst  forsake; 
And  look  onoe  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  lightioloud  by  the  moon  ^ 
'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon  — - 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil. 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed. 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ilL" 

Alp  looked  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky; 
But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  tura'd  aside. 
By  deep  interminable  pride. 
This  first  ihlse  passion  of  his  breast 
Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 
i9e  sue  for  mercy!  Ifodismay'd 
By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 
He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 
Her  sons  devoted  to  the  grave! 
No  —  though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst. 
And  charged  to  crush  him  —  let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly, 
Without  an  accent  of  reply ; 
He  watch'd  it  passing;  it  is  flown : 
Full  on  his  eye  the  elear  moon  shone, 
And  thus  he  spake  —  « Whate'er  my  (hte, 
I  am  no  changeling  —  tis  too  late : 
The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver. 
Then  rise  again;  the  tree  must  shiver. 
What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be 
Her  fbe  in  all,  save  love  to  Aee : 
But  thou  art  safe:  oh,  fly  with  me!" 
He  tum'd,  but  she  is  gone ! 
Nothing  is  there  but  the  column-stone. 
Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 
He  saw  not,  he  knew  not;  but  nothing  is  there. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 
As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 
Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 
The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray. 
And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 
Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 
And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn. 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum. 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  'Hhey  come,  they  come!" 
The  horsetails  are  pluck'd  from  theground,  andthesword 
From  its  sheath  >  andtheyform,  and  but  wait  for  the  word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van ; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain. 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vdn, 


108 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


When  be  breaks  from  the  town ;  and  none  esoape, 

Aged  or  yonng,  in  the  Christian  shape ; 

While  yonr  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 

Bloodstain  the  breach  throngh  which  they  pass. 

The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein : 

Carved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane ; 

Wliite  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit: 

The  spears  are  uplifted ;  the  matches  are  lit; 

The  cannon  arc  pointed  and  ready  to  roar, 

And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before : 

Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 

Alp  at  their  head;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  Is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 

The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  eulvcrin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on ; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth,  a  living  one  — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet  —  Alia  Hu ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

<*Thcre  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale ; 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  foil  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish ;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have !" 

Thus  uttered  Conmourgi,  the  dauntless  visier ; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear. 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire :  — 

Silence  ^  hark  to  the  signal  —  fire ! 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 
On  the  stately  buffalo, 
Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar. 
And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore. 
He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 
The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die : 
Thus  against  the  wall  they  went. 
Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ; 
Many  a  bosom,  sheathM  in  brass, 
Strcw'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 
Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 
The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more : 
Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day. 
When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levelled  plain ; 
Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash. 
From  the  clifls  invading  dash 
Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow. 
Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go; 
Like  the  avalanche's  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below : 
Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 
Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 
By  the  long  and  oft  renew'd 
Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 
In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 
Heap'd  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 
Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mate ; 


Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes ; 

If  they  nmst  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 

^V'hich  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 

With  an  echo  dread  and  new: 

You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day. 

O'er  Salamis  and  Megara; 

(We  have  heard  the  hearers  say) 

Even  unto  Piraeus  bay. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt. 
Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt; 
But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun. 
And  all  but  the  after-carnage  done. 
Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 
From  within  the  plunder'd  dome: 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 
That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street ; 
But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage-ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found. 
Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten. 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again  — 
With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 
Fiercely  stand,  or  fitting  &IL 

There  stood  an  old  man  —  his  hairs  were  white, 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray. 
The  dead  before  him  on  that  day 
In  a  semidrcie  lay; 
Still  he  combated  unwonnded, 
Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 
Many  a  soar  of  former  fight 
Lurked  beneath  his  corslet  bright; 
But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 
Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before : 
Though  aged  he  was,  so  iron  of  limb. 
Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him ; 
And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 
Outnumber'd  his  thin  hairs  of  silver-gray. 
From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept : 
Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 
Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp'd 
His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 
Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 
Of  all  he  miglit  have  been  the  sire 
Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire : 
For,  sonlcss  left  long  years  ago. 
His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe ; 
And  since  the  day,  when  In  the  strait 
His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate. 
His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 
More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 
If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 
Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 
Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 


fm^mmB.  ov  ccHuicra. 


109 


Wlwrc  Asia's  bounds  and  oocs  dhride.- 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thoasands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the  shore; 

Whflit  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 

Wheiefliey  lie,  and  how  they  fcU? 

Kot  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves ; 

Bat  they  live  in  the  Terse  that  inunortally  sares. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shont  I  a  band 
Of  the  ^ossolman  brayest  and  best  is  at  band : 
Tbdr  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 
Smifier  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 
Undothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on; 
Thus  ia  the  fig^ht  is  he  ever  known : 
Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show. 
To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe ; 
Many  a  hand's  on  a  richer  hilt. 
But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt : 
ICsay  a  loftier  turban  may  wear,  — 
Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare ; 
Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  'tis  there  I 
There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 
So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before ; 
There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 
Wfll  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far ; 
U  glanoes  like  a  failing  star ! 
Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen. 
The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been; 
There  the  CTaven  cries  for  quarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar ; 
Or  the  hero,  silent  lying, 
Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying; 
Mastering  his  last  feeble  blow 
'Gainst  the  nearest  levell'd  foe. 
Though  fidnt  beneath  the  mutual  wound. 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect. 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 
*Tieldthec,Minotti;  quarter  take 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

•"Never,  reni^do,  never ! 
Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

''Pnuioesca!  —  Oh  my  promised  bride ! 
liast  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride?" 

"She  is  safe."  —  "Where  ?  wheref  —  **In  heaven, 
From  whence  thy  traitor-soul  is  driven  — 
Flar  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 
Gfimly  then  Minotti  smiled. 
As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 
Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 
^h  God!  when  died  she?"  —  "Yesternight  — 
Mor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight: 
of  my  pure  race  shall  be 
to  Mahomet  and  thee  ^- 
|Coaie  on!"  —  That  chaOenge  is  in  vain  *- 
Mp's  already  with  the  slain ! 
jtHuMe  ICttOtti's  words  were  wreaking 


More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allowed  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighbouring  pordi 

Of  a  long  defended  church. 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound* 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise. 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk ; 

Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  qmvering 

Where  his  limbs  were  sUgbtly  shivering: 

They  tum'd  him  on  his  hack ;  his  breast 

And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  and  dust, 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb. 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob; 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death ; 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unaneal'd  he  pass'd  away. 

Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid,  <— 

To  the  last  a  renegade. 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose 
Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes; 
These  in  joy,  in  fury  those: 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 
Clasliing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing. 
Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust 
Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 
Still  Minotti  dared  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land 
Left  beneath  his  high  command ; 
With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand. 
The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 
Still  the  church  is  tenable, 
Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half  avenged  the  city's  ftiU, 
When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell: 
Thither  bending  sternly  back. 
They  leave  before  a  bloody  track ; 
And,  with  their  fkcea  to  the  foe, 
Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow. 
The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train. 
Join  to  those  within  the  fane: 
There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 
Shdter'd  by  the  massy  pile. 

Brief  breathing-time !  the  turban*d  host. 
With  added  ranks  and  raging  boast. 
Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 
Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat; 
For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 


110 


TUB  SIBGB  OF  CORINTH. 


Where  still  the  ChriBtiaiu  yielded  not) 

And  the  foremost,  if  fearfol,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly ; 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

They  die;  but,  ere  their  eyes  could  close. 

Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose; 

Fresh  and  furious,  last  they  fill 

The  ranks  unthinn'd,  though  slaughter'd  still; 

And  fiunt  the  weary  Christians  wax 

Before  the  still  renewed  attacks: 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate; 

Still  resists  Its  iron  weight. 

And  still,  all  deadly  aim'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot; 

From  every  shattered  window  pour 

The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower : 

But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak  — 

The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak  — 

It  bends  —  it  falls  —  and  all  is  o'er ; 

Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more! 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 
liiGnotti  stood  o'er  the  altar-stone: 
Madonna's  &ce  upon  him  shone. 
Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 
With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love; 
And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 
To  ^  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 
When,  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 
Her,  and  the  Boy-God  on  her  knee, 
Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 
To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 
Still  she  smiled ;  even  now  she  smiles, 
Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles : 
Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye, 
And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 
Then  seized  a  torch  which  biased  thereby ; 
And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame, 
Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 
Contain'd  the  dead  of  ages  gone ; 
Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 
But  now  illegible  with  gore ; 
The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 
The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 
Were  smear'd,  and  slippery  —  stain'd,  and  strown 
With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'ertbrown: 
There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 
Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffin'd  row; 
You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state. 
By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate ; 
But  War  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves. 
And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead ; 
Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christians'  chiefest  magazine; 
To  these  a  late-form'd  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stem  resouroe 
Against  the  foe's  o'erwhebning  force. 


The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remaia 
To  strive,  and  those  must  striye  in  vain: 
For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 
The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake. 
With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 
And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head. 
And  fell  the  statues  firom  their  niche. 
And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich. 
And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 
The  silver  vessels  saints  had  bless'd. 
To  the  high  altar  on  they  go ; 
Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show! 
On  its  table  stiU  behold 
The  cup  of  consecrated  gold ; 
Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  price, 
Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes: 
That  mom  it  held  the  holy  wine. 
Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine,  ' 
Which  his  worshippers  dfank  at  the  break  of  day, 
To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  join'd  in  the  fray. 
Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay ; 
And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 
Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 
From  the  purest  metal  oast; 
A  spoil  —  the  richest,  and  the  last. 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch 'd 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  readi'd, 
When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touch'd  with  the  torch  the  train  — 
'Tis  fired! 

Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain. 
The  turban'd  victors,  the  Christian  band. 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurl'd  on  high  with  the  shiver'd  fane. 
In  one  wild  roar  expired! 
The  shattered  town  —  the  walls  thrown  down  — 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent  — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 
As  if  an  earthquake  pass'd  -* 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven. 
By  that  tremendous  blast  — 
Proclaim'd  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below  : 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span, 
When  he  fell  to  ewth  again 
Like  a  cinder  strew 'd  the  plain : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles; 
Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but  far  away, 
Scatter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay ; 
Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 
Let  their  mothers  see  and  say ! 
When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay. 
And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child. 


THB  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Ill 


Little  deem'd  she  tech  a  day 

Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 

Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 

Could  discern  their  offspring  more; 

Tkat  ooe  moment  left  no  trace 

More  of  human  form  or  fece 

Sare  a  acatter'd  scalp  or  bone : 

And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 

Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone. 

Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 

AH  blacken'd  there  and  reeking  lay. 

AO  the  liTing  things  that  heard 

That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared  : 

The  wild  birds  flew;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 

And  howling  left  the  unboried  dead ; 

The  camels  from  tbdr  keepers  broke; 

The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke  — 


The  nearer  steed  plonged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girthf  and  tore  his  rein; 
The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-month'd  arose,  and  doubly  harsh ; 
The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavern'd  hill. 
Where  echo  roIFd  in  thunder  still; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gathered  cry, 
Bay'd  from  afar  complainingly. 
With  a  mix'd  and  mournful  sound, 
Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound : 
With  sudden  wing,  and  ruffled  brpast, 
The  eagle. left  his  rocky  nest. 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun. 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seem'd  so  dun  ; 
Their  smoke  assail'd  his  startled  beak. 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek  -* 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won ! 


112 


PARISINA. 


TO 

SCROPE  BERDMORE  DAVIES,  esq. 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM    IS  INSCRIBED  BY  ONE  WHO  HAS 
LONG  ADMIRED  HIS  TALENTS  AND  VALUED  HIS  FRIENDSHIP. 
Janoury  SS,  1818. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  following  Poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance 
mentioned  in ,  Gibbon's  << Antiquities  of  the  Aouso  of 
Brunswick."  —  I  am  aware  that  in  modern  times  the 
delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem  such 
subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The  Greek 
dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old  English 
writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion :  as  Alfieri  and  Schil- 
ler have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon  the  continent 


The  following  extract  will  expl^n  Che  facts  on  which  (be 
story  is  founded.  The  name  otAzo  is  substituted  for 
Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

''Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.  Fcrrara  was  pol- 
luted with  a  domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  of  id 
attendant,  and  his  own  obserration,  the  Marquis  of  Este 
discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wife  Parisina  and 
Hugo  his  bastard-son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant  youtb. 
They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the  sentence  of  a 
father  and  husband,  who  published  his  shame,  and  sur- 
vived their  execution.  He  was  unfortunate,  if  they  were 
guilty;  if  they  were  innocent,  he  was  still  more  unfor- 
tunate ;  nor  is  there  any  possible  situation  in  which ) 
can  sincerely  approve  the  last  act  of  the  justioe  of  t 
parent'*— Crt^6(m'f  Mucellaneous  Works,  vol.IIL  p. 470 


It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard ; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 
Seem  sweet  In  every  whispered  word ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met. 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue. 
And  in  the  heaven  tliat  dear-obscure. 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure. 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day. 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall. 
And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 
That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night; 
And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 
'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower  — 
She  listens  —  but  not  for  the  nightingale  — 
Though  her  oar  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 
There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick. 
And  her  cheek  grows  pale  —  and  her  heart  beats  quick. 
There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves, 
And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves: 
A  moment  more  -^  and  they  shall  meet  -^ 
'Tis  past  —  her  lover's  at  her  feet. 


And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside. 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide? 
Its  living  things  —  its  earth  and  sky  — 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 
And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 
Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath; 
As  if  all  else  had  pass'd  away, 
They  only  for  each  other  breathe ; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 
So  deep,  that  did  it  not  decay. 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 
The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway: 
Of  guilt,  or  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream? 
Who,  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power, 
Or  paused,  or  fear'd  in  such  an  hour? 
Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last? 
But  yet  —  they  are  already  past  I 
Alas!  we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 

With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 
The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve. 
As  if  that  parting  were  the  last 
The  frequent  sigh  —  the  long  embraoe  — 
The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 
The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forj^ve  her. 


PARISINA. 


113 


As  if  cttch  l»lni] y  consdous  star 

Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar  — 

The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace^ 

Tet  Hnds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 

Bot  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 

In  fcarfo]  heaviness  of  heart. 

With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 

Which  follows  fost  the  deeds  of  ill. 

And  Hugo  is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 
To  covet  there  another's  bride; 
Bat  she  most  lay  her  conscious  head 
A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fever'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
Awl  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams. 
And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day. 
And  clasps  her  Lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes. 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  sadi  as  he  was  woot  to  bless ; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

He  dasp'd  her  sleeping  to  his  heart, 
And  listcn'd  to  each  broken  word : 
He  hears  —  Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start. 
As  if  the  Archangers  voice  he  heard? 
And  well  he  may  —  a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb, 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  be  may  —  his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doom'd  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  whose  that  name?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breakiog  billow, 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore. 
And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks'to  rise  no  more,  — 
So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  'tis  Hugo's,  —  his  — 
la  sooth  he  had  not  dcem'd  of  this !  — 
Tis  Hugo's,  —  he,  the  child  of  one 
He  loved  —  his  own  all-evil  son  — 
The  offspring  of  bis  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betray'd  Bianca's  truth. 
The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
la  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

He  pluck 'd  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 
Bat  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare  — 
Howc'cr  unworthy  now  to  breathe. 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair  — 
At  least,  not  smiling  -—  sleeping  there  — 
1^,  more :  he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  herewith  a  glance 
Wlucb,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance, 


Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again  — 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam'd  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 
She  spake  no  more  —  but  still  she  slumbered  — 
While,  in  his  thought,  Her  days  are  nnmber'd. 

And  with  the  mom  he  sought,  and  found. 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 
The  proof  of  all  he  fear'd  to  know, 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe; 
The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 
To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt  —  the  shame  ~  the  doom  to  her : 
Concealment  is  no  more  —  they  speak 
All  circumstance  which  may  compel 
Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell: 
And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  hear. 

He  was  not  one  who  brook'd  delay: 
Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 
The  chief  of  Este's  ancient  sway 
Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate ; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there,  -* 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair; 
Both  young,  —  and  one  how  passing  foirl 
With  s wordless  belt,  and  fetter'd  hand. 
Oh,  Christ  I  that  thus  a  son  should  stand 
Before  a  father's  fhce ! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 
Tlie  tale  of  his  disgrace  I 
And  yet'he  seems  not  overcome. 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb.  * 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 
Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 
Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  r6om. 
Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait  — 
Where  Beauty  watch'd  to  imitate 
Her  gentle  voice  —  her  lovely  mien  — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 
The  graces  of  its  queen : 
Then,  —  had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  thdr  own. 
Now,  —  what  is  she?  and  what  are  they? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey? 
All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear, 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court  —  is  there: 
And  he,  tlie  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch'd  before  her  glance, 
Who  —  were  his  arm  a  moment  free  — 
Had  died  or  gain'd  her  liberty; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride,  — 
He,  too,  is  fetter'd  by  her  side; 
8 


114 


PARISINA. 


Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  foil  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids  — o*er  which  the  violet  vein 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite  ~ 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 
Bat  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gased : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept; 
Stern  and  erect  Ids  brow  was  raised. 
Whatever  the  grief  his  soul  avow'd, 
He  wonld  not  shrink  before  the  crowd; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her: 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were  — 
His  guilt  —  his  love  —  his  present  slate  — 
His  father's  wrath  —  all  good  men's  hate  — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate  «- 
And  hers,  —  oh,  hers !  —  be  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray'd 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

And  Azo  spake :  —  **BvLi  yesterday 
I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son ; 
That  dream  this  morning  pass'd  away; 
Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  mast  linger  on  alone ; 
Well,  —  let  that  pass,  •—  there  breathes  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done: 
Those  ties  are  broken  —  not  by  me; 
Lot  that  too  pass :  —  the  doom's  prepared  I 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee. 
And  then  —  thy  crime's  reward! 
Away !  address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 
Before  its  evening-stars  are  met  — 
Learn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven; 
Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 
But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath. 
There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe: 
Farewell!  I  will  not  see  thee  die  — 
But  thou,  frail  tiling!  shalt  view  his  head  — 
Away  I  I  cannot  speak  the  rest  : 
Go !  woman  of  the  wanton  breast ; 
Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed  : 
Go !  if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive. 
And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face  — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Tlirobb'd  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebb'd  and  flow'd  again ; 
And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space 
And  pass'd  his  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng  ; 
While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands. 


And  for  a  brief  delay  demandA 
Hisfother'sear:  the  silent  sire 
Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

<<It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death  — 
For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 
All  redly  through  the  battle  ride. 
And  that  not  once  a  useless  brand 
Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  hand, 
Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine 
Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine: 
Thou  gavest,  and  mayst  resume  my  breath, 
A  gift  for  which  I  thank  thee  not ; 
Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot. 
Her  slighted  love  and  ruin'd  name^ 
Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame; 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 
Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 
Her  broken  heart  —  my  sevcr'd  head  — 
Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 
How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 
Thy  youthful  love  —  paternal  care. 
'Tis  true,  that  I  have  done  thee  wcong  — 
But  wrong  for  wrong  —  this  deem'd  diy  bride. 
The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 
Thou  knowst  for  me  was  destined  long. 
Thou  sawst,  and  oovetedst  her  charms  — 
And  with  thy  very  crime  —  my  birth, 
Thou  tauntedst  me  —  as  little  worth ; 
A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms. 
Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 
The  lawfol  heirship  of  thy  name. 
Nor  sit  on  Bste's  lineal  throne: 
Tet,  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 
Af  y  name  should  more  than  Estc's  shine 
With  honours  all  my  own. 
I  had  a  sword  —  and  have  a  breast 
That  should  have  won  as  haught  a  crest 
As  ever  waved  along  the  line 
Of  ail  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 
Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 
The  brightest  by  the  better  born ; 
And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 
Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank. 
When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 
Of  **Este  and  of  Victory !" 
I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime. 
Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 
A  few  brief  hours  or  days  that  must 
At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust;  — 
Sue!)  maddeuing  moments  as  my  past, 
They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last  ~ 
Albeit  my  birth  and  name  be  base. 
And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain'd  to  deck  a  thing  like  me  — 
Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 
Some  features  of  ray  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit  —  all  of  thee. 
From  thee  —  this  tamclcssness  of  heart  — 
From  thee  —  nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start?  — 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 


PARISINA. 


115 


y[j  ann  of  strength,  my  soal  of  flame  — 

Thoa  didst  not  giye  me  life  alone, 

Bat  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 

Sec  what  thy  goilty  love  hath  done  I 

Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son ! 

1  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul,* 

For  that,  like  thine,  abhorr'd  contronl : 

And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 

Thou  garest  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 

I  valued  it  no  more  than  thoa, 

When  rose  thy  casqac  above  thy  brow, 

And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 

And  o'er  the  dead  oar  coarsers  driveo : 

The  past  is  nothing  *-  and  at  last 

The  fotnre  can  bat  be  the  past; 

Tet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died : 

For  thoQgh  thoa  work'dst  my  mother's  iO, 

And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feet  thou  art  my  fother  still ; 

And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree. 

Us  not  unjost,  althoagh  from  thee. 

Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame. 

My  life  began  and  ends  tlie  same : 

As  err'd  the  sire,  so  err'd  the  son. 

And  thoa  most  ponish  both  in  one. 

lly  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view, 

Bat  God  most  jadge  between  as  two !" 

He  ceased  —  and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded ; 
And  not  an  ear  bat  felt  as  wounded. 
Of  aU  the  chiefii  that  there  were  rank'd, 
When  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  dank'd : 
Tin  Pftrisina's  fifttal  charms 
Again  attracted  every  eye  ^ 
WooM  she  thos  hear  him  doom'd  to  diel 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  living  cause  of  Hugo's  ill : 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  lull  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  turn'd  to  either  side  — 
Nor  ODoe  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close. 
Or  shade  the  gkince  o'er  which  they  rose. 
Bat  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew  — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood; 
Cot  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gathered  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fur  lid. 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear ! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise. 
Such  drops  could  fiill  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought  —  the  imperfect  note 
Was  choked  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Tet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  wIh^  heart  gushing  in  the  tone, 
it  ceased  —  again  she  thought  to  speak. 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown. 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  bad  life,  -^ 


A  monument  of  Aso's  wife,  — 

Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing. 

Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting. 

Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 

That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 

But  yet  she  lived  —  and  all  too  soon 

Recover'd  from  that  death-like  swoon  — 

But  scarce  to  reason  —  every  sense 

Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense ; 

And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 

(As  bow-strings,  when  relax'd  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide  — 

The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black. 

With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track. 

Like  lightning  on  the  desert-path. 

When  midnight-storms  are  mustering  wrath. 

She  fear'd  —  she  felt  that  something  ill 

Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill  •— 

That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew; 

That  some  one  was  to  die  —  but  who  ? 

She  had  forgotten :  —  did  she  breathe? 

Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath  ? 

The  sky  above,  and  men  around; 

Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 

On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 

Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy? 

AU  was  confused  and  undefined. 

To  her  all-jarr'd  and  wandering  mind; 

A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 

But  madly  still  in  each  extreme. 

She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream; 

For  so  it  seem'd  on  her  to  break: 

Oh!  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake t 

The  convent-bells  are  ringing. 
But  mournfully  and  slow. 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging. 
With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 
Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark!  the  hymn  is  singing — 
The  song  for  the  dead  below. 
Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  sol 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 
The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll  : 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Friar's  knee; 
Sad  to  hear  —  and  piteous  to  sec  — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground. 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around— 
And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm  ready. 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true  — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father. 

it  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer-sun  shall  set, 
Which  rose  up<m  that  heavy  day, 


116 


PARISINA. 


And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray; 
And  his  evening-beams  are  shed 
Fall  on  Hugo's  fated  head. 
As  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 
In  penitential  holiness, 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 
That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen  — 
And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
Curled  half  down  his  neck  so  bare; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 
With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter  — 
Oh !  that  parting-hour  was  bitter! 
Even  tlie  stern  stood  chilFd  with  awe: 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law  — 
Yet  they  sbudder'd  as  they  saw. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son  —  and  daring  lover! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 
His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted  — 
His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripped. 
His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd; 
'Tis  done  —  all  closely  arc  they  shorn  -*- 
The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn  — 
The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave  — 
Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
£ven  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 
And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied ; 
But  no  —  that  last  indignity 
Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
All  feelings  seemingly  subdued, 
In  deep  disdain  were  half  renew'd, 
When  headman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 
Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind: 
As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 
"No  —  yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath  — 
These  hands  are  chain'd  —  but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye  — 
Strike:"  —  and  as  the  word  he  said, 
Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head ; 
These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke: 
"Strike"  —  and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  — 
RoU'd  the  head  —  and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk. 
In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain; 
His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
Convulsed  and  quick  -—  then  fix  for  ever. 

He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die. 
Without  display,  without  parade; 
Meekly  had  he  bow'd  and  pray'd, 
As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  Prior  kneeling, 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling; 


His  wrathful  sire  —  his  paramour  — 

What  were  they  in  such  an  hour? 

No  more  reproach  —  no  more  despair; 

No  thought  but  heaven  —  no  word  but  prayer  - 

Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 

When,  bared  to  meet  the  headman's  stroke. 

He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound. 

His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death. 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath : 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A  cold  electric  shiver  ran. 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended; 
And  with  a  hushing  sound  comprest, 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 
But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there. 
Beyond  the  blow  tliat  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  shock. 
Save  one:  —  what  cleaves  tlte  silent  air 
So  madly  shrill  —  so  passing  wild? 
That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child. 
Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow,  * 
To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 
Like  a  soul's  in  endless  woe. 
Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven. 
That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven. 
And  every  eye  is  turn'd  thereon ; 
But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  g^ne  I 
It  was  a  woman's  shriek  —  and  ne'er 
In  madlicr  accents  rose  despair ; 
And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past. 
In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  the  last 

Hugo  is  fallen ;  and,  from  that  hoar. 
No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower. 
Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen : 
Her  name  —  as  if  she  ne'er  had  been  — 
Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear. 
Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear; 
And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice  by  none 
Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son; 
No  tomb  —  no  memory  had  they ; 
Theirs  was  unconsccrated  clay ; 
At  least  the  knight's  who  died  that  day. 
But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 
Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin-lid: 
Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 
And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 
By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 
Of  scipurge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears ; 
Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 
For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel; 
Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote. 
She  died  by  tortures  less  remote; 
Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 
With  heart  that  shared  the  headman's  shock, 
In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came, 
In  pity,  o'er  her  shattcr'd  frame;  — 
None  knew  —  and  none  can  ever  know : 


PARISINA. 


117 


But  whatsoe'er  its  end  beloir, 
Her  life  began  tnd  closed  in  wool 

And  Aso  found  another  bride. 
And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side; 
Bat  none  so  lovely  and  so  braye 
Aj  him  who  wither'd  in  the  grave; 
Or  if  they  were  ^  on  his  ooM  eye 
Tbdr  growth  bat  glanced  unheeded  by, 
Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 
Bat  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 
Aod  never  smile  his  brow  unbended  ; 
And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 
Tlie  intersected  lines  of  thought; 
Tbcie  furrows  which  the  burning  share 
Of  sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there; 
Senrs  of  the  lacerating  mind 
Wiiich  the  soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 
He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe : 
Nothing  oiore  rcmain'd  below 
Bat  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 
A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 
A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself —  and  yet 
That  would  not  yield  —  nor  oould  forget ; 
Which,  when  it  least  appeared  to  melt, 
Intently  thought  —  intensely  felt : 
The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 
Cin  only  o'er  the  surface  close  — 
The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 
And  flows  —  and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 


Still  was  his  seaFd-up  bosom  haunted 

By  thoughts  which  Nature  hath  implanted ; 

Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 

Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish ; 

When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 

We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 

They  are  not  dried  —  those  tears  unshed 

But  flow  back  to  the  fountain-head. 

And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  UQcongeal'd, 

And  chcrish'd  most  where  least  reveard. 

With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left^ 

To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bcrefl ; 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 

The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain  ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  souls  shall  gladness  share; 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill ;  — 

Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 

The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 

If  lopp'd  with  care,  a  strength  may  give. 

By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 

All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free: 

But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 

The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 

The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 

And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


118 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHSJLLO^.^ 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 
Kternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

Uriffhtaat  in*^iinf^#»An«,  y^jh^rty!    thOUart, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  tliy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  daylcss  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom. 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
A  lid  thy  sad  4oor  an  {dtar  —  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
nyjf^nnivftrd!  —  May  none  those  markfl  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears« 
My  limbs  are  bow*d,  fhough  not  with  toil, 
But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 
And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  eartk  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd  —  forbidden  fare ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith, 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one. 
Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun. 
Proud  of  Persecution's  rage; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd; 
Dying  as  their  father  died. 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last 

There  arc  seven  pillars  of  gotiiic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old; 
There  are  seven  columns,  mass^nd  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'^  r$j^  '- 


A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way. 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o'er  tlie  floor  so  damp. 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor-lamp: 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 
And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  cllain ; 
That  iron  Is  a  cankering  thing, 
For  in  these  linibs  its  tectli  remain. 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score, 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  cliain'd  us  each  to  a  colmnn-stone, 
And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight; 
And  thus  together  —  yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart ; 
'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth,  • 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech. 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each, 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 
A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be: 
It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  tlie  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 
The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him  —  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven. 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 


THE  PBISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


119 


'\' 


Tosee  sach  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beaatiful  as  day  — 
(When  day  was  beaatifol  to  me 
As  to  yonng  eagles,  being  free)  — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  nof  see 
A  sunset  till  its  snmmer's'gone, 
Its  sleepless  sommer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  tlie  snn: 
And  thos  he  was  as  pure  anc!  bright, 
And  m  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills. 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain-rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 
Bat  f<OTn'd  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  firame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  Against  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 
With  joy :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine : 
His  spirit  withcr'd  with  their  clank, 
I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 
And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine ; 
Bat  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 
Had  fbllow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 
To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf. 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Xiake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
llts  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thvs  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
Prom  Chillon's  snow- white  battlement, 
Which  round  about  the  wave  intb rails: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 
Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray  ' 
Wash  througii  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 
And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake  unshock'd. 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  bis  mighty  heart  declined, 
iBe  loathed  and  put  away  his  food; 
lit  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
[For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
lad  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
Fhe  ndlk  drawn  from  the  mountain-goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
'  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
re  oioisten'd  many  a  thousand  years. 


Since  man  ^rst  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den : 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould  ^ 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold,  (/^ 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  wliy  delay  the  truth?  —  he  died. 
*I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead, 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died  •—  and  tbey  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg*d  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine  ^  it  was  a  foolish  thought. 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  free*bom  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  -» 
They  coldly  laugh'd  —  and  laid  him  there : 
The  fiat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  wc  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower. 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  of  ail  his  race. 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  souglit 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untirod 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 
He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 
Oh  God!  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood:  — 
I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 
I*ve  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 
I've  ^^^n  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 
Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 
But  these  were  horrors  ^  this  was  woo 
Unmix'd  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow : 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 
So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender  —  kind, 
And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 
Whose  tints  as|j^cntly  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 
That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 


I 


12Q 


TH£  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


And  not  a  wor4  of  mnrmnr  —  not 

A  gT02LB  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sank  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  iainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear  — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound ; 

And  rush'd  to  him :  —  I  found  him  not, 

I  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 
//only  lived  —  /only  drew 
4  The  accursed  breath  of  dungoon-dew ; 

The  last  —  the  sole  —  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink,  - 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race^ 

Was  broken  in  this  fotal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 

My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe: 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas !  my  own  was  full  as  chill; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive. 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 

I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith. 

And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

What  next  befel  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well  —  I  never  knew  — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air. 
And  then  of  darkness  too. 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  —  none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  1  wist, 
As  shrubless  eragg  within  the  mist; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray. 
It  was  not  night  -—  it  was  not  day, 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light. 
So  hatefiil  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness  •—  without  a  place; 
There  were  no  stars  —  no  earth  —  no  time  — 
No  check  —  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime  - 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless! 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  -r- 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 
It  ceased  and  then  it  came  again, 
The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 


And  mine  wa«  thankful  till  my  eyes 

Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise. 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 

I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 

But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  baok 

My  senses  to  their  wonted  tiack, 

I  saw  the  dungeon-walls  and  floor 

Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 

I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 

Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 

But  through  the  crevice  where  it  oame 

That  bird  was  peroh'd,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 

A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 

And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things. 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 

I  never  saw  its  like  before, 

I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more: 

It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate. 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 

None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brinks 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine. 

But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird!  I  could  not  wish  for  thine! 

Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 

Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile; 

I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  nugiit  be 

My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 

But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 

And  then  'twas  mortal^ —  well  I  knew, 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 

And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 

Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud. 

Lone  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 

A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 

That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fiite, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so. 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe; 
But  so  it  was :  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain. 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart. 
And  tread  it  over  every  part; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one. 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 
For  if  I  thought  witli  heedless  tread 


^ 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


121 


My  step  pro&ned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 
ft  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  boried  one  and  all, 
Who  loved  me  in  a  haman  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  wonld  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me:  ' 

No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
I  thought  of  this^  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thoaght  of  them  had  made  me  mad; 
But  I  was  carious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Oace  more,  npon  the  moontains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

1  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same. 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 
Isaw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 
1 1  beard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  chaonell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
I  saw  the  white- wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Wbidi  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 
The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  soall  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
iicarce  broader  than  my  dungeon-floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain-breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing. 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle-wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 


Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly. 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darknes  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave. 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest. 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 
I  kept  no  count  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  bad  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 
And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 
I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where. 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 
I  learnM  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made. 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade. 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  telP 
In  quiet  we  had  learA'd  to  dwell  — 
My  vcrychains  and  I  grew  frirads. 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are;  —  even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


8* 


122 


H^^ 


V^ 


\s 


4>^ 


L.-^' 


MAZEPPA. 


'<Celui  qui  remplissalt  alors  cettc  place,  ^tait  im 
gentilhomme  Polonais,  nornm^  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le  pa- 
latinat  de  Podolie;  il  avait  ^t6  ^levd  page  de  Jean  Casi- 
mir,  et  avait  pris  k  sa  cour  quelqae  tcinture  des  belles- 
lettres.  Une  intrignc  quil  cut  dans  sa  jeunesse  avec  la 
fcmmc  d'nn  gcntilhommePoIonais  ayant  ^td  decouverte, 
le  mari  le  fit  lier  tout  nu  sur  an  cheval  farouche^  et  le 
laissa  aller  en  cct  dtat.  Le  cheval,  qui  dtaitdupays  de 
rUkraine,  y  retoorna,  et  y  porta  Mazcppa,  dcmi-mort 
de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quelques  paysans  le  secoururent : 
il  resta  long-temps  parmi  eux,  et  se  signala  dans  plu- 
siears  courses  contre  les  Tartares.  La  superiority  de  sea 
lumi^rcs  lui  donna  une  grande  consideration  parmi  les 
Cosaques :  sa  reputation  s'augmcntant  de  jour  en  jour 
obliged  le  Czar  h  le  faire  Prince  de  TUkraine/'  — 


''Le  roi  fuyant  et  poursuivi  cut  son  cheval  tae  soos 
lui ;  le  Colonel  Gieta,  blcss^,  et  perdant  tout  son  san;, 
lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  k  cheval,  dans 
la  fuite,  ce  conqudrant  qui  n'avait  pu  y  monter  pendant 
la  bataille."  — 

''Le  roi  alia  par  an  autre  chemin  avec  quelqaes  cava- 
liers. Le  carosse  oii  il  etait  rompit  dans  la  marche;  on 
le  remit  k  chevaL  Pour  comble  de  disgrace,  il  s'dgara 
pendant  la  nuit  dans  an  bois;  I&,  son  courage  nepouvant 
plus  suppleer  &  ses  forces  epaisdcs,  les  douleursdesa 
blcssure  devenues  plus  insupportables  par  la  fatigue, 
son  cheval  etant  tombd  de  lassitude,  il  se  coucha  quel- 
ques henres,  au  pied  d'un  arbre,  en  danger  d'c^trcsur- 
pris  k  tout  moment  par  les  vainqueurs  qui  le  cherchiicot 
de  tons  c6tes."  —  Voltaire,  Hittoire  de  Charles  XIL 


'TwAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 
When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter^  army  lay, 
No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 
Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  pass*d  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 
And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again. 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear. 
And  a  more  memorable  year. 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  hauglitier  name; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one  —  a  thunderbolt  to  alL 

Sndi  was  the  hazard  of  the  die; 
The  wounded  Charles  was  tanght  to  fly         , 
By  day  and  night  through  field  and  flood, 
Stain'd  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood; 
For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid : 
And  not  a  voice  was  heard  to  upbraid 
Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 
When  truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  power 
His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 
His  own  —  and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 
Thii  too  sink's  after  many  a  league  '' 
Of  well  sustained,  but  vain  fatigue ; 
And  in  the  depth  of  forests,  darkling 
The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling  -^ 
The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes  ~~ 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 


Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 

For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strength  ? 

They  laid  him  by  a  savage  tree. 

In  out-worn  nature's  agony ; 

His  wounds  were  stilT —  his  limbs  were  stark  - 

The  heavy  hour  was  chill  and  dark ; 

The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 

A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid : 

And  thus  it  was;  but  yet  through  all, 

King-like  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 

And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill. 

His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will ; 

All  silent  and  subdued  were  they. 

As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 

A  band  of  chiefs !  —  alas !  how  few, 
Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinn'd  it ;  but  this  wreck  was  true 
And  chivalrous;  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mnte, 
Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 
And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pDlo  w  in3n.QldjjaL's>«ittde  — 
Rtafiselfas  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  hetman,  calm  and  bold ; 
But  first,  outspent  with  his  long  course, 
Tbe  Cossack  pcinee-mbb'd  down  hi%  horse, 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 
And  smooth'd  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane, 


MAZEPPA. 


123 


And  slack'd  hin  girth,  and  strtpp*d  his  rein, 

And  joy 'd  to  sec  how  well  he  fed; 

For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 

His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 

To  hrowic  beneath  the  midnight-dews : 

But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 

And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 

But  spirited  and  docile  too, 

Whatever  was  to  be  done,  would  do. 

Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 

All  Tartar>like  be  carried  him ; 

Ohefd  his  voice,  and  came  to  call. 

And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all : 

Thougb  thousands  were  around,  and  night, 

Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight. 

That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 

fijs  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawD. 

This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 
And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 
Fdt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 
The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood  — 
If  still  the  powder  fill'd  the  pan, 
And  flints  unloosened  kept  their  lock  — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt, 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt  — 
^d  next  the  venerable  man, 
V^  out  his  havresack  and  can. 
Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock : 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  oflcr'd  then 
With  hi  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 
To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe ;  — 
And  then  he  said  —  <'Of  all  our  band. 
Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 
Can  less  have  said,  ^^r  yw^ff  iiinvn  dftntv 
Than  thee,  May^eppaJ  On  the  earth 
So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth. 
Since  Alexander's  days  till  now, 
As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou: 
All  Scythia's  fiime  to  thine  should  yield 
Fcr  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 
Mizeppa  answer'd  —  <<I11  betide 
The  school  wherein  I  IcamM  to  ride  V 
Qooth  Charles  —  "Old  hetman,  wherefore  so, 
Since  thou  hast  learn'd  the  art  so  well  V 
Xazeppa  said  —  '''Twcre  long  to  tell ; 
And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go 
With  every  now  and  then  a  blow. 
Mad  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 
Befisrc  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease 
Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes: 
And,  Sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 
Aid  I  will  be  the  sentinel 
If  this  your  troop."  —  "But  I  request," 

I  Sweden's  monach, "  thou  wilt  tell 


This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap 
Perchance  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep, 
For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies. 


"WeU,  Sire,  with  such  a  hope,  I'll  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back : 
I  think  'twas  in  my  twentieth  spring,  — 
Ay,  'twasi  —  when  Casimir  was  king  — 
John  Casimir  —  I  was  his  page 
Six  summers  in  my  earlier  age ;  ^ 

A  learned  monarch,  faith!  was  he. 
And  most  unlike  your  majesty : 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again ; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 
He  reign'd  in  most  unseemly  quiet; 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex. 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex; 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are. 
They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war; 
But  soon,  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book : 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fdtes  — 
All  Warsaw  gather'd  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court. 
And  dames,  and  chie£s,  of  princely  port:  ^ 
He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 
So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 
Who,  being  unpension'd,  made  a  satire, 
And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 
It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes. 
Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes ; 
Even  I  fi»r  once  produced  40KIM  versiS^**^^  '* 
And  sign'd  my  odes :  Despairing  Thirfiis. 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 
A  Count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt-  or  silver-mine; 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 
As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent: 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 
As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  woul^  pore, 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Which  almost  look'd  like  want  of  bead, 
He  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 
HiflL  vi£&]«aanotofhi»oimrion  — 
Hisjitfiop  who  by-thirty  years  — 
Grew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion; 
And  after  wishes,  hopes  and  fears, 
To  virtue  a  few  farewdl  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth,  some  songs,  and  dances, 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances, 
Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender. 
To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given, 
'Tis  said,  as  passports  into  heaven ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these  who  have  deserved  them  most 


124 


BCAZBPPA. 


"I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then ; 
At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say. 
That  there  were  few,  or  boys  or  men, 
Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 
Of  vassal  or  of  knight's  degree. 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me ; 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 
A  port  not  like  to  this  ye  see. 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now; 
For  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  plougVd 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow ; 
And  thus  I  should  be  disavowed 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday; 
This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page: 
With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind. 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneatli  a  tree, 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 
But  let  me  on:  Theresa's  form —  ^ 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now. 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough. 
The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm; 
And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye. 
Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood 
Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light, 
Like  the  first  moonrise  at  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimmin^f  in  the  stream, 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam ; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire. 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire, 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high. 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die. 
A  brow  like  a  midsummer-lake. 
Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make, 
And  heaven  beholds  lier  face  within. 
A  cheek  and  lip  ^  but  why  proceed  \ 
I  loved  her  then  —  I  love  her  still ;    ^ 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 
\xL  fierce  extremes  ^  in  good  and  ill. 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

"We  met  —  wc  gazed  —  I  saw,  and  sigli'd, 
She  did  not  speak,' and  yet  replied ; 
There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 
We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines  — 
Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 
Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'er- wrought, 
And  form  a  strange  intelligence, 
Alike  mysterious  and  intense, 
Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds, 


Without  thdr  will,  young  hearts  and  minds ; 

Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire, 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire.  — 

I  saw,  and  sigh'd  —  in  silence  wept, 

And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 

Until  I  was  made  known  to  her. 

And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 

Without  suspicion  —  then,  even  then. 

I  long'd,  and  was  resolved  to  speak ; 

But  on  my  lips  they  died  again. 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 

Until  one  hour.  —  There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day; 

It  is  —  I  have  forgot  the  name  — 

And  wc  to  this,  it  seems,  were  set, 

By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forget : 

I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

It  if^as  enough  for  me  to  be 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh !  to  see 

The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most.  ~ 

I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 

(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well !) 

Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was. 

That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 

Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 

Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain ;  but  still 

Play'd  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 

Yet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  [H>t 

That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pa^s 

£ven  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there. 

That  there  was  something  in  her  au 

Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair; 

And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  fortli, 

All  incoherent  as  they  were  — 

Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 

But  yet  she  listen'd  —  'tis  enough  — 

Who  listen^  once  will  listen  twice ; 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice. 

And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

''I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  — 
They  tell  me.  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties;  if  'tis  true, 
I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain, 
To  you  'twould  seem  absurd  as  vain ; 
But  all  men  are  not  born  to  reign. 
Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 
Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too. 
I  am  —  or  rather  wm  —  a  prince, 
A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed; 
But  could  not  o*er  myself  evince 
The  like  control  —  But  to  resume : 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again : 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom, 
But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain.  — 
We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower 
Was  fiery  expectation's  dower. 


MAZBPPA. 


125 


ICy  days  and  oiglits  were  nothings  —  all 
Except  that  boor,  which  doth  recall 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 
No  other  like  itself  —  I'd  give 
The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more  -^  and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 
Aod  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health.  — 
Wc  met  in  secret  —  doubly  sweet, 
Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 
I  know  not  that  —  I  would  have  given 
My  life  but  to  have  cali'd  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven ; 
For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

"For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 
And  such  there  were  on  us;  —  the  devil 
On  such  occasions  should  be  civil  — 
The  devil!  —  I'm  loth  to  do  him  v^rong. 
It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 
Jf^  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long. 
But  to  his  pious  bile  g^ve  vent  — 
But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 
The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth  — 
I  was  nnarm'd ;  but  if  in  steel, 
All  cap-k-pie  from  head  to  heer, 
What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do  ?  — 
Twas  near  his  castle,  far  away 
From  city  or  from  succour  near, 
And  almost  on  the  break  of  day ; 
I  did  not  think  to  see  another. 
My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few ; 
And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 
And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 
As  I  reslgn'd  me  to  my  fate. 
They  led  me  to  tlie  castlc-gate : 
Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew, 
Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate.  — 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 
Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine ; 
And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 
But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 
Upon  his  friture  pedigree; 
Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 
His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 
While  he  was  highest  of  his  line; 
Becanse  unto  himself  he  seem'd 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deem'd 
In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 
'Sdeath !  with  VLpape  —  perchance  a  king 
Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing; 
But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page  — 
1  felt  —  but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

"Bring  forth  the  horse  !*'  —  the  horse  was  brought ; 
Is  tmthy  he  was  a  noble  steed, 


A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed. 

Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 

Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 

With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 

And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 

And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 

In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 

To  me  the  dcscrt-born  was  led : 

They  bound  mc  on,  that  menial  throng, 

Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 

Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 

Away !  —  away!  —  and  on  we  dash!  — 

Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"Away !  —  away !  —  My  breath  was  gone  — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on: 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 
And  on  he  foam'd  —  away !  —  away !  ■— 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose> 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter. 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout: 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head. 
And  snapp'd  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein. 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse ;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 
It  vexes  me  —  for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after-days : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle-gate. 
Its  dawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight. 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was: 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  deft, 
And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof. 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeanco-proof. 
They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 
That  one  day  I  should  come  agun, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse  to  thank 
The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 
When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank: 
At  lengtli  I  play'd  them  one  as  frank  — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 
And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 


126 


MAZEPPA. 


Which  oould  evade,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  w  ho  treasures  ap  a  wrong. 

''Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind. 
All  human  dwellings  left  behind : 
We  sped,  lilte  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chcquer'd  with  the  northern  light: 
Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track, 
But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 
And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old. 
No  trace  of  man.    The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er ; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flics  the  bloody  sod :  — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray. 
And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by  — 
I  could  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh  ^ 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away  — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray; 
And  my  cold  i^weat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  brktling  mane: 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear. 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career: 
At  times  i  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed : 
But  no  —  my  bound  and  slender  frame 
Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 
Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  voice,  —  'twas  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow  ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  f^om  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang: 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

"We  near'd  the  wild  wood  —  'twas  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side; 
'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees. 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  baste,  — 
But  these  were  few,  and  for  between 
Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green^ 
Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 
Ere  strqwn  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 
Disoolour'd  with  a  lifeless  red, 
Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffen 'd  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er, 
And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 


Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head. 
So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 
May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek: 
'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood. 
And  here  and  there  a  chesnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine; 
But  far  apart  —  and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine  — • 
The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  with  cold  — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track. 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back, 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire; 
Where'er  we  flew  they  follow'd  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning-sun ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  day-break  winding  through  the  wood. 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh  !  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword. 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde. 
And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt!  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roc; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bcwilder'd  with  the  dazzling  blast. 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past  — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild ; 
All  furious  as  a  favour'd  child 
Bidk'd  of  its  wish ;  or  fiercer  still  — 
A  woman  piqued  —  who  has  her  will. 

'*The  wood  was  past;  'twas  more  than  noon , 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold  — 
Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold : 
And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem. 
But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream. 
And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 
I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er: 
And  what  with  fiiry,  fear,  and  wrath. 
The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 
Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress. 
Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness ; 
Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 
When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 
And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 
The  rattle-snake's,  in  act  to  strike. 
What  marvel  if  this  worn  out  trunk 
Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk? 


MAZEPPA. 


127 


The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roil'd  round, 

I  scem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground ; 

But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastlj  bound. 

Mj  heart  tum'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  s%ht  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  saw  no  farther:  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'erfortnrcd  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strore  to  wake;  but  could  not  make 

Uy  senses  climb  up  from  below; 

1  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea. 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee. 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm. 

And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 

My  undulating'  life  was  as 

The  ftmcied  lights  that  flitting  pass 

Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 

Ferer  begins  upon  the  brain ; 

But  soon  it  passM,  with  little  pain, 

Buta  conftision  worse  tlian  such : 

I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 

Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again ; 

And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 

Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 

No  matter;  I  have  bared  my  brow 

Full  in  Death's  face  —  before  •—  and  now. 

"My  thoughts  came  back ;  where  was  I  ?  Cold, 
And  numb,  and  giddy :  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold. 
And  throb  by  throb ;  till  grown  a  pang 
Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 
My  blood  reflow'd,  though  tliick  and  chill ; 
My  car  with  uncouth  noises  rang. 
My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 
Mj  sight  return'd,  though  dim ;  alas ! 
And  thickcn'd,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Mcthought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars;  —  it  is  no  dream ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream ! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
Aad  we  arc  half-way  struggling  o'er 
To  jon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  tram^. 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 
Mj  stiffen'd  limbs  were  rebaptized. 
Mj  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
Afld  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves 
And  onward  we  advance ! 
Wc  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 
A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 
For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
Aad  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
Ia  those  Bospcndcd  pangs  1  lay, 


I  could  not  tell;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

''With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wUd  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  the  repelling  bank. 
Wc  gain  the  top :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  mght, 
And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems. 
Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white. 
Or  scattcr'd  spot  of  dusky  green. 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light. 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  m^  right. 
But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage-gate ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  an  hospitable  star; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  weary  with  my  woes : 
That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still. 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 
Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

"Onward  we  went  —  but  slack  and  slow; 
His  savage  force  at  Icngtli  o'erspent. 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 
All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 
But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  nought  avail'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound ;  my  force  had  faifd. 
Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  efibrt  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bounds  so  starkly  tied  — 
But  still  it  was  in  vain ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er. 
Which  but  prolonged  their  pain: 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  done. 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won : 
Some  streaks  announoed  the  coming  sun  -> 
How  slow!  alas!  became! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day : 
How  heavily  it  roU'd  away  — 
Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars. 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  ears. 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  aU  his  own. 

**Up  rose  the  sun ;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before: 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 


128 


MAZ£PPA. 


Plain,  forest,  river?  Man  nor  brute, 

Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot. 

Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil; 

No  sign  of  travel  —  none  of  toil ; 

The  very  air  was  mute ; 

And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 

Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 

From  herb  nor  thicket  Many  a  worst, 

Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst. 

The  weary  brute  still  stagger'd  on; 

And  still  we  were  —  or  seem'd  —  alone  ; 

At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 

Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 

From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 

Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 

No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come ! 

In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance! 

I  strove  to  cry  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 

The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 

But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide? 

A  thousand  horse  —  and  none  to  ride! 

With  flowing  tail,  and  tlying  mane. 

Wide  nostrils  —  never  stretch'd  by  pain. 

Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein. 

And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 

And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod. 

A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free. 

Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on. 

As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet; 

The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 

A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 

A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh^ 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell; 

With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay. 

And  reeking  limbs  immoveable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done  I 

On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  stoop. 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong  : 

They  stop  —  they  start  —  tliey  snuff*  the  air, 

Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there. 

Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round. 

Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 

Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed. 

Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 

Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide; 

They  snort,  they  foam,  neigh,  swerve  aside, 

And  backward  to  the  forest  fly. 

By  instinct  from  a  human  eye.  — 

They  left  me  there,  to  my  despair, 

Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiflfening  wretch, 

Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 

Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 

From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 

Nor  him  nor  me  —  and  there  we  lay. 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 

I  little  deem'd  another  day  « 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 


''And  there  from  mom  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 
In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 
That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign'd 
To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 
Presents  the  worst  and  last  of  fears 
Inevitable  —  even  a  boon. 
Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon ; 
Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  such  care, 
As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 
That  pradence  might  escape: 
At  times  both  wish'd  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes. 
And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revcU'd  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery : 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new. 
Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave; 
And,  save  the  future  (which  is  vicw'd 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued;) 
With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve:  — 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend, 
Appears,  to  his  distcmper'd  eyes. 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  aU, 
Repaid  his  pangs,  repair'd  his  fall ; 
To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst. 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears. 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour ; 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save  — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave? 

'The  sun  was  sinking  —  still  I  lay 
Chain'd  to  the  chill  and  stifiening  steed, 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay; 
And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 
No  hope  arose  of  being  freed : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 
And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 
I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 
Bre  his  repast  begun; 
He  flew,  and  pcrch'd,  then  flew  once  more. 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit. 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 
I  could  have  smote,  but  lack'd  the  strength ; 


MAZBPPA. 


129 


Bot  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 

And  feeble  soratohing  of  the  sand. 

The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 

Whieh  scarcely  conld  be  call'd  a  voice. 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length.  — 

I  know  no  more  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fiiL'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 

And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 

Aad  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 

Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 

Aod  then  subdding  back  to  death. 

And  then  again  a  little  breath, 

A  hUle  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 

My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain  - 

A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

"I  woke  •—  Where  was  I?  —  Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 
I  dosed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 
Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long  hair'd,  and  tall. 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage- wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Bfen  with  my  first  return  of  thought ; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 
A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 
With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
Igased,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 
No  Tision  it  could  be,  — 
Bat  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack-maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal'd. 
She  smiled  —  and  I  essay 'd  to  speak, 
But  laird  —  and  she  approach'd,  and  made 
Witli  lip  and  finger  ^ns  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 


Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  tlie  pillow  for  my  head. 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 
And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers  —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet! 
Bvcn  music  follow'd  her  light  feet !  ^ 
But  those  she  call'd  were  not  awake. 
And  she  went  forth;  but,  ere  she  pass'd, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast. 
Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call. 
And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return ;  ->  while  she  was  gone 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

''She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire  — 
What  need  of  more  ?  I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest. 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest: 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain  — 
They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut  -^ 
They  brought  me  into  life  again  — 
Me  —  one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 
Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain. 
Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness. 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone. 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne.  — 
^hat  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess  ? 
Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair ! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
JUay  see  our  coursers  graze  at  case 
^pon  his  Turkish  bank,  —  and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  Ibr  a  river 
As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there. 
Comrades,  good  night!"  —  The  Hetman  threw 
His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree-shade. 
With  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where:  — 
His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 
And  if  ye  inarvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale.  A*  wonder'd  not,  — 
The  king  had  been  an  boor  asleep. 


9 


130 


BEPPO, 

A  VENETIAN  STORY. 


RosiLiND.  Farewell,  Montiear  TrtveDer:  Look,  yoo  Hip,  and  wear  itraiige  suits ;  disable  all  the 
benefits  of  yonr  owb  coantry;  be  ont  of  love  with  yo«r  natiTiCy,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making 
yoa  that  coontenance  yoa  are;  or  1  will  scarce  think  that  yoa  have  swam  in  a  Gondola. 

As  Yov  LiKV  IT,  Act  IT  Sc  L 

Annotation  of  the  Commentaton, 

That  is,  been  at  Feniee^  which  was  much  visited  by  the  yoang  English  gentlemen  of  those  times, 
and  was  then  what  Par  ft  /•  now  —  the  seat  of  all  dlssointeoess. 


1. 

'Ti8  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  throngrhoat 
All  countries  of  the  Catliolic  persuasion, 
Some  weeks  before  Shrovc-Tuesday  comes  about, 
The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation. 
And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout, 
However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 
With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masking, 
And  other  things  which  may  be  had  for  asking. 

2. 

The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 

The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better). 

The  time  less  liked  by  husbands  than  by  lovers 

Begins,  and  prudery  flings  aside  her  fetter; 

And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 

Giggling  with  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her; 

And  there  are  songs,  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming, 

Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 


And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical, 
Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jews, 
And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastioal, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee>doodIcs,  and  Hindoos ; 
All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  eoclesiastioal. 
All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose, 
But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clergy. 
Therefore  take  hcedj  ye  Freethinkers !  I  charge  ye. 


You'd  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 

Instead  of  coat  and  small  clothes,  than  put  on 

A  single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars. 

Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun; 

They'd  haul  you  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 

Of  Phlegethon  witli  every  mother's  son, 

Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  cauldron's  bubble 

That  boll'd  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them  double. 


But  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 

Yon  like,  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Such  as  in  Monmouth-street,  or  in  Rag-Fair, 

Would  lig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are 

With  prettier  names  in  softer  accents  spoke, 

For,  bating  Covent-Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that's  called  "Piazsa"  in  Great*Britain. 

6. 

This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,  which  being 
Interpreted,  implies  "forewell  to  flesh :" 
So  caird,  because  the  name  and  thing  agreeing, 
Through  Lent  they  live  on  fisli  both  salt  and  fresh. 
But  why  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in, 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell,  although  I  guess 
'Tis  as  we  take  a  glass  with  friends  at  parting, 
In  the  stage-coadi  or  packet,  just  at  starting. 


And  thus  they  bid  forewell  to  carnal  dishes, 
And  solid  meats,  and  highly  spiced  ragouts. 
To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-dress'd  ^shes, 
Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews, 
A  thing  which  causes  many  "poohs"  and  ''pishes," 
And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the  Muse) 
l^rom  travellers  accustom'd  from  a  boy 
To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy; 

8. 

And  therefore  humbly  I  would  recommend 
The  curious  in  fish-sauce,  before  they  cross 
The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend. 
Walk  or  ride  to  the  Strand,  and  buy  in  gross 
(Or  if  set  out  beforehand  these  may  send 
By  any  means  least  liable  to  loss), 
Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Hcrvey, 
Or,  by  the  Lord !  a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve  ye; 


BEPPO. 


131 


That  is  to  say,  if  y oar  reUgion's  Romfm, 
And  you  at  Rome  wonld  do  as  Romans  do, 
AccQM^Dg^  to  the  proverb,  —  although  no  man, 
If  fbrcign,  is  obliged  to  fest;  and  yon. 
If  protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman. 
Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragont  —  . 
Dine, and  be  d — d!  I  don't  mean  to  be  coarse, 
Bat  that's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

10. 

Of  an  the  plaees  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  fecetions  in  the  days  of  yore, 
For  danoe,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball. 
And  masque,  and  mime,  and  mystery,  and  more 
Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Teniee  the  bell  from  every  dty  bore. 
And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  story, 
Tbat  sea-bom  city  was  in  aU  her  glory. 

11. 

They've  pretty  &ccs  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 
Black  eyes,  arch'd  brows,  and  sweet  expressions  still, 
Soflii  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians^ 
In  andoit  arts  by  modems  mimick'd  ill; 
And  like  so  many  Yenuses  of  Titian's 
(The  besf  s  at  Florence  —  see  it,  if  ye  will), 
Thej  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony. 
Or  stepp'd  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione, 

12. 

Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  thehr  best; 
And  when  you  to  Manfrini's  palace  go. 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 
b  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show : 
It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest. 
And  that's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so, 
lis  but  a  portrait  of  bis  son,  and  wife. 
And  self;  but<ic«Aawoman!  love  in  life  I 

13. 

LoTe  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal, 
Kc,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name. 
But  something  better  still,  so  very  real. 
That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same; 
A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 
Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame: 
Thefecerecalfssome  foce,  as  'twere  with  pain. 
Ton  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again ; 

14, 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 

Are  young,  and  &x  our  eyes  on  every  &cc; 

And,  oh !  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 

In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace. 

The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree, 

hi  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace. 

Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shftU  know, 

Uke  the  lost  Pleiad  seen  no  more  below. 


15. 

I  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 
Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are. 
Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony, 
(For  beauty's  sometimes  best  set  off  afar). 
And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni, 
They  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the  bar ; 
And,  truth  to  say,  they're  mostly  very  pretty, 
And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more's  the  pity ! 

16. 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs. 
Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter. 
Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel'd  Mercuries,* 
Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better; 
And  then,  God  knows  what  mischief  may  arise. 
When  love  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 
Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds, 
Elopements,  broken  vows^  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

17. 

Shakespeare  described  the  sex  in  Oesdemona 
As  very  fhir,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame. 
And  to.this  day  from  Venice  to  Verona 
Sucli  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 
Except  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 
Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suffocate  a  wife  no  more  than  twenty, 
Because  she  had  a  ''cavalier  servente." 

18. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever,  jealous) 
Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether. 
Not  like  tbat  sooty  devil  of  Othello's 
Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather, 
But  wortiiier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows; 
When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers. 
But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another's. 

19. 

Didst  ever  see  a  gondola?  For  fear 

You  should  not,  I'll  describe  it  you  exactly ; 

'Tis  a  long  cover'd  boat  that's  common  here, 

Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly, 

Row'd  by  two  rowers,  each  called  "Gondolier," 

It  glides  along  the  water  looking  blackly, 

Just  like  a  coffin  clapt  in  a  canoe. 

Where  pooe  can  make  oqt  what  you  say  or  do. 

30.    , 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go. 

And  under  tiic  Rialto  shoot  along. 

By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow, 

And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng, 

They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woei 

But  not  to  them  do  woeful  things  belong. 

For  sometimes  they  contain  a  deal  of  frui, 

Like  mourning-coaches  when  the  funeral's  done. 


132 


BEPPO. 


31. 

But  to  my  story.  —  'Twas  some  years  ago, 
It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less. 
The  Carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 
Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress ; 
A.  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show. 
Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess, 
And  so  we'U  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please. 
Because  it  slips  into  my  Terse  with  ease. 

She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a  ** certain  a^e". 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 
Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 
A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes  or  tears, 
To  name,  define  by  speccli,  or  write  on  page, 
The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word,  — 
Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

23. 

Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  bes( 
Of  time,  and  time  return'd  the  compliment, 
And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  drest. 
She  look'd  extremely  well  where*cr  she  went: 
A  pretty  woman  is  a  welcome  guest. 
And  Laura's  brow  a  frown  had  rarely  bent, 
Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seem'd  to  flatte- 
Mankind  with  her  black  eyes  for  looking  at  her. 


She  was  a  married  woman ;  'tis  convenient. 
Because  in  Christian  countries  'tis  a  rule 
To  view  their  little  slips  with  eyes  more  lenient ; 
Whereas  if  single  ladies  play  the  fool, 
(Unless,  within  the  period  intervenient, 
A  well-timed  wedding  makes  the  scandal  cool) 
I  don't  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it, 
Except  they  manage  never  to  discover  it 

26. 

Her  husband  sail'd  upon  the  Adriatic, 

And  made  some  voyages,  too,  in  other  seas. 

And  when  he  lay  in  quarantine  for  pratique 

(A  forty  days'  precaution  'gainst  disease). 

His  wife  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest  attic. 

For  thence  she  could  discern  the  sliip  with  ease: 

He  was  a  merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 

His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd,  more  brieOy,  Bcppo. 

26. 

He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 
Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure; 
Though,  colour'd,  as  it  were,  within  a  tanyard. 
He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigour  — 
A  better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 
And  $he,  although  her  manners  show'd  no  rigour. 
Was  deem'd  a  woman  of  the  strictest  principle, 
So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  Invincible. 


37. 

But  several  years  dapsed  since  they  bad  met» 
Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and  i 
That  he  had  somehow  bhmder'd  into  debt. 
And  did  not  like  the  thoughts  of  steering  home ; 
And  there  were  several  offer'd  any  bet, 
Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come. 
For  most  men  (tiU  by  losing  render'd  sager) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

38. 

'TIS  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic. 
As  partings  often  are,  or  ought  to  be. 
And  their  presentiment  was  quite  prophetic 
That  they  should  never  more  each  other  see, 
(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic, 
Which  I  have  known  occur  in  two  or  throe) 
When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad  knee. 
He  left  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 

39« 

And  Laura  waited  long,  and  wept  a  little. 

And  thought  of  wearing  weeds,  as  weU  she  might; 

She  almost  lost  all  appetite  for  victual, 

And  could  not  sleep  with  ease  alone  at  night ; 

She  deem'd  the  window-frames  and  shutters  brittle 

Against  a  daring  house-breaker  or  sprite. 

And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 

With  a  vice-husband,  chiefijf  to  protect  her, 

90. 

She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  choose, 
If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice  f) 
'Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise. 
And  bid  once  more  her  fkithftil  heart  rejoice, 
A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse  •— 
A  coxcomb  was  he  by  the  public  voice ; 
A  Count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality. 
And  in  his  pleasures  of  great  liberality. 

31. 

And  then  he  was  a  Count,  and  then  he  knew 
Music,and  dancing,  fiddling,  French  and  Tuscao ; 
The  last  not  easy,  be  it  known  to  yon. 
For  few  Italians  speak  the  right  Etruscan. 
He  was  a  critic  upon  operas  too. 
And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and  buskin  ; 
And  no  Venetian  audience  could  endure  u 
Song,  scene,  or  air,  when  he  cried  ^'seocatura." 

82. 

His  "bravo"  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hush'd  "academic,"  sigh'd  in  silent  awe; 
The  fiddlers  trembled  as  he  look'd  around, 
For  fear  of  some  false  note's  detected  flaw. 
The  "prima  donna's"  tunefol  heart  would  bound. 
Dreading  the  deep  damnation  of  his  "bah  I" 
Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto, 
Wish'd  him  five  fethom  under  the  Rialto. 


BBPPO» 


133 


He  petroalzed  the  ImproTliatori, 

Nay,  could  hinuelf  extemporise  iome  stansas. 

Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  ooold  also  tell  a  story, 

Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilftil  in  the  dance  as 

Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  their  glory 

Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which  France  has ; 

h  short,  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero. 

And  to  his  very  valet  seem'd  a  hero. 

34. 

Then  he  was  iaithfal  too,  as  well  as  amorous ; 

So  that  no  sort  of  female  oonld  complain, 

Although  they're  now  and  then  a  little  clamorous, 

He  oerer  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain : 

His  heart  was  one  of  those  which  most  enamour  us, 

Wax  to  rcceiTe,  and  marble  to  retain. 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school. 

Who  stfli  become  more  constant  as  they  cool. 

3& 

No  wonder  sudi  aoooraplishments  should  tun 
A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady  -^ 
With  scarce  a  hope  diat  Bcppo  could  return, 
Id  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 
Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show'd  the  least  coocern, 
And  she  had  waited  several  years  already : 
And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 
That  he's  alive,  he's  d^ad,  or  should  be  ao^ 

38. 

Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman 
(Although,  God  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin,) 
Tis,  I  may  say,  pennitted  to  have  two  men ; 
I  can't  teH  who  first  brought  the  custom  in; 
But  ^KlSavailer  Serventes"  are  quite  common, 
Aad  no  one  notices,  nor  cares  a  pin ; 
And  we  may  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 
A  second  marriage  which  corrupts  the^rf  ^ 

37. 

The  word  was  formerly  a  '^Cidsbeo," 

BoMbt  is  now^own  vulgar  and  indecent ; 

nKpaniards  call  the  person  a  "Corttjo," 

For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  though  rcoent; 

la  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Tcio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea  sent 

Bat  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such  courses! 

Or  what  beo^nes  of  damage  and  divorces  I 


However,  I  still  think,  with  all  due  deference 
To  the  fidr  smj^U  part  of  the  Creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 
In  Uu-i-tett  or  iccneral  conversation  — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  reference 
I  To  England,  France,  or  any  other  nation  — 
I  Becanse  they  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 
'  Aad  being  natural,  naturally  please. 


301 

'Tis  true,  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charming. 
But  shy  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 
So  much  ahurm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 
All  Giggle,  Blush;  —  half  Pcrtness,  and  half  Pout; 
And  glancing  at  Mamma,  for  fear  there's  barm  in 
What  you,  she,  it,  or  they,  may  be  about. 
The  Nursery  still  lisps  out  in  all  they  utter  — 
Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread,  and  butter. 

But  <<Cavalier  Servente"  is  the  phrase 
Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
This  supernumerary  slave,  who  stays 
Close  to  the  h&dy  as  a  part  of  dress. 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 
His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call. 
And  carries  iieui,  and  tippet,  gloveSi  and  shawl. 

41. 

With  all  its  smfol  d(Mng3„  I  must  say. 

That  Italy's  a  pleasant  place  to  me. 

Who  love  to  see  the  sun  shine  every  day, 

And  vines  (not  nail'd  to  walls)  from  tree  to  tree 

Fcstoon'd,  much  like  the  back-scene  of  a  play. 

Or  melodrame,.  which  people  flock  to  see. 

When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 

In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

42. 

I  like  on  autumn-evenings  to  ride  out. 
Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 
My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 
Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure; 
I  know  too  that,  if  stopp'd  upon  my  route. 
Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 
Reeling  with  grapes  red  waggons  choke  the  way  — 
In  England  'twoi^d  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

48. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  bcccafioas, 
To  see  the  sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as 
A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow. 
But  with  all  heaven  t'himsclf;  that  day  will  break  as 
Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthjng-candlclight  which  glimmers 
Where  reeking  London's  smoky  cauldron  simmers. 

44. 

I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 
Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a  female  mouth. 
And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 
With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  ^nth. 
And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  ih, 
That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth. 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural. 
Which  we're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputter  all. 


134 


BBPPO. 


4&. 

I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly), 
From  the  rich  peagant-cheek  of  ruddy  bronse^ 
And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  yon  a  volley 
Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 
To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy. 
But  clear,  and  with  a  wild  and  liquid  glance^ 
Heart  on  her  lips,  and  son  I  whhin  her  eyes, 
Soft  as  her  clime,  and  sunny  as  her  sides. 

46. 

Eve  of  the  land  which  still  is  Paradise ! 
Italian  Beauty !  didst  thou  not  inspire 
Raphael,  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies 
With  all  we  know  of  Heaven,  or  can  desire, 
In  what  he  hath  bequeathed  us?  •—  in  what  guise. 
Though  flashing  from  the  fervour  of  the  lyre. 
Would  wordt  describe  tliy  past  and  present  glow, 
WhDe  yet  Canova  can  create  below?  *) 

47. 

"England !  with  all  thy  fonlts  I  love  thee  still," 

I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it; 

I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it) ;  > 

I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  tiic  Habeas  Corpus  (when  we've  got  it); 

I  like  a  parliamentary  debate. 

Particularly  when  'tis  not  too  late ; 

4a 

I  like  the  taxes,  when  they're  not  too  many ; 

I  like  a  seacoal-fire,  when  not  too  dear; 

I  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer ; 

I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year, 

And  so  God  save  the  Regent,  Cburoh,  and  King  I 

Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  every  thing. 

4d. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen, 
Poor's  rate,  reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  debt, 
Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  are  freemen, 
Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  Gasette, 
Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 
All  these  I  can  Ibrglve,  and  those  forget, 
And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories. 
And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  Tories. 


*)  In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 
Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say. 
He  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  officially, 
And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 
Appear  to  have  offended  in  this  lay. 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  se^,  our  sonnets 
Would  seemnnfinish'dliketbeir  untrinun'd  bonnets. 

(Sipted)    Printer's  Devil. 


50. 

But  to  my  tale  of  Laura  —  for  I  find 
Digression  is  a  sin,  that  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  my  mind, 
And,  therefore,  may  the  reader  too  displeSse  — 
The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  unkind. 
And,  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 
Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a  hard 
And  hapless  situation  for  a  bard. 

61. 

Oh,  that  I  had  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  should  be  easy  reading !  oould  I  scale 

Parnassus,  where  the  Muses  sit  inditing 

Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  foil. 

How  quickly  would  I  print  (the  world  deliglitiog) 

A  Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale; 

And  sell  you,  mix'd  with  western  sentimentaliaoi. 

Some  samples  of  tbe  finest  Orientalism. 

63. 

But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person, 

(A  broken  Dandy  lately  on  my  travels) 

And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling  verse  on. 

The  first  that  Walker's  I^exicon  unravels,    . 

And  when  I  can't  find  that,  I  put  a  worse  on, 

Not  caring  as  I  ought  for  critics'  eavils; 

I've  half  a  mind  to  tumble  down  to  prose^ 

But  verse  is  more  in  Ashion  —  so  here  goes, 

68. 

The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  arrangeotent. 

Which  lasted  as  arrangements  sometimes  do. 

For  half  a  dozen  years  without  estrangement; 

They  had  their  little  differences  too; 

Those  jealous  whifis,  which  never  any  obange  nicant : 

In  such  affiiirs  there  probably  are  few 

Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squabble. 

From  sinnoTi  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 


•  VRBIS 


64. 

But  on  the  whole  they  were  a  happy  pair. 

As  happy  as  unlawful  love  oould  make  them ; 

The  gentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  fair,  ^ 

Their  chains  so  slight,  'twas  not  worth  while  to  break 

The  world  beheld  them  with  indulgent  air ; 

The  pious  only  wish'd  *<the  devil  take  them!" 

He  took  them  not;  he  very  often  waits. 

And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones'  baits. 

65. 

But  they  were  young:  Oh!  what  without  our  yonUi 
Would  love  be !  What  would  youth  be  without  level 
Youth  lends  it  joy,,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth. 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  firom  above ; 
But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth  — > 
One  of  few  tilings  experience  don't  improve. 
Which  IS,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 
Arc  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 


BBFPO. 


135 


56. 

ft  was  the  Camival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  811  and  thirty  stanns  back,  and  so 

Lanra  the  usual  inreparatioDS  made, 

Which  yoa  do  when  your  mind's  made  up  to  go 

ToHught  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masqnerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show ; 

The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 

Is  —  htre,  we  have  six  weeks  of  ''vamish'd  &ces.'' 

67. 

Lnra,  when  drest,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 

Fkesh  as  the  angel  o'er  a  new  inn-door, 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  magasine, 

With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 

Coloar'd,  and  silver-paper  leaved  between 

That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 

Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  <tf  dress. 

58. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto;  —  'tis  a  haH 
Where  people  dance,  and  snp,  and  dance  again; 
lt»  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  mask'd  baU, 
But  that's  of  no  importance  to  my  strain ; 
Tis  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  onr  Yanxhail, 
Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain : 
The  company  is  <Wx'd''  (the  phrase  I  qnote  is. 
As  moch  as  saying,  they're  beJow  your  notice) ; 

59. 

For  a  ^'mixt  eompany"  implies  that,  save 
Toorsdf  and  friends,  and  half  a  hundred  more, 
Whom  yon  may  bow  to  without  looking  grave^ 
The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  pohlfc  places,  where  they  basely  brave 
The  feshionable  stare  of  twenty  score 
Of  well-bred  persons,  called  **the  World  f*  but  I, 
Althoogh  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why. 

cm. 

ThisisthecaseinBngland;  at  least  was 

During  the  dynasty  of  Dandies,  now 

Fo^anee  succeeded  by  some  other  class 

Of  ioutated  imitators:  —  how 

bieparably  soon  decline,  alas ! 

The  demagogues  of  Ihshion:  all  below 

li  frail;  how  easily  the  world  is  lost 

By  love,  or  was,  and  now  and  then  by  frost ! 

«1. 

Crasib'd  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 
Who  knock'd  his  army  down  with  icy  hammer, 
Slopp'd  by  the  elemMis,  like  a  whaler^  or 
A  bfaindering  novice  in  his  new  French  grammar ; 
i  €ood  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 
I  And  as  for  Fortune  —  but  I  dare  not  d — n  her, 
I  Because  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity, 
i  The  Biore  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 


63. 

She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet. 
She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,and  marriage; 
I  cannot  say  that  she's  done  much  for  me  yet; 
Not  that  I  mean  her  bcAmties  to  disparage, 
We've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  yet 
How  much  she'll  make  amends  for  past  miscarriage; 
Meantime  the  goddess  I'll  no  more  importune. 
Unless  to  thank  her  when  she's  made  my  fortune. 


To  tnro,  --  and  to  return;  —  the  devil  take  it, 
This  story  sfips  for  ever  through  my  fingers. 
Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it. 
It  needs  must  be  —  and  so  it  rather  lingers; 
This  form  of  verse  begun,  I  can't  well  break  it, 
But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers ; 
Bat  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 
I'll  take  another  when  I'm  next  at  Idsure. 

04. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto :  ('tis*  a  place 
To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow, 
Jast  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  little  space, 
Because  I'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of  face 
May  lurk  beneath  each  mask,  and  as  my  sorrow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I'll  make,  or  find 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hoar  behind.) 

65. 

Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd. 
Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips; 
To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud; 
To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips. 
Complains  of  warmth,  and  this  complaint  avow'd. 
Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade,  she  sips; 
She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 
Her  dearest  friends  for  being  drest  so  ill. 

00. 

One  has  fhlse  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 
A  third  —  where  did  she  buy  that  frightful  turban  2 
A  fourth's  so  pale  she  fears  she's  goiog  to  faint, 
A  fifth's  look's  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 
A  sixth's  white  silk  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 
A  seventh's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  bane, 
And  lol  an  eighth  appears,  —  "I'll  see  no  more !" 
For  fear,  like  Banquo's  kings,  they  reach  a  score. 

67. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gasing. 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her; 

Site  heard  the  men's  half-whisper'd  mode  of  praising. 

And,  till  'twas  done,  determined  not  to  stir; 

The  women  only  thought  it  quite  amasing 

That  at  her  time  of  life  so  many  were 

Admirers  still,  ^  but  men  are  so  debased. 

Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 


136 


BEPPO. 


For  my  part,  now,  I  ne'er  could  understand 

Why  naughty  women  —  but  I  won't  discuss 

A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  laud, 

I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  be  thus; 

And  If  I  were  but  in  a  gown  and  band. 

Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 

I'd  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romilly 

Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  from  my  homUy« 

68l 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smiling,  , 
Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  cared  not  what, 
So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling, 
Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that; 
And  well  drest  males  still  kept  before  her  filing. 
And  passing  bow'd  and  mingled  with  her  chat ; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seem'd  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that's  rather  rare. 

70. 

He  was  a  Turk,  the  colour  of  mahogany; 
And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad. 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 
Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad; 
'Tis  said  they  use  no  better  than  a  dog  any 
Poor  woman,  whom  they  purchase  like  a  pad: 
They  have  a  number,  though  Uiey  ne'er  exhibit  'em. 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  *'ad  libitum." 

71. 

They  lock  them  up,  and  vdl,  and  guard  them  daily, 
They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations. 
So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass^so  gaily 
As  is  supposed  the  case  witli  northern  nations; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely : 
And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 
Their  days  are  either  past  in  doing  nothing, 
Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing* 

72. 

They  cannot  read,  and  so  don*t  lisp  in  criticism ; 
Nor  write,  and  so  they  don't  affect  the  muse ; 
Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism, 
Have  no  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews,  — 
In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism ! 
But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  ''blues,'' 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 
''That  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem." 

7a. 

No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rhyme^ 
Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for  fiuno. 
And  getting  but  a  nibble  at  a  time, 
Still  iiissily  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 
Small  "Triton  of  the  minnows,"  the  sublime 
Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame. 
The  echo's  echo,  usher  of  the  school 
Of  female  wits,  boy-bards  —  In  short,  a  fool ! 


74. 

A  stalking  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 
The  approving  "Good!**  (by  no  means  good  in  law) 
Humming  like  flics  around  the  newest  blaze, 
The  bluest  of  bluebottles  yon  e'er  saw. 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 
Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  all  raw. 
Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter, 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  better. 

7fib 

One  bates  an  author,  that's  all  mttkor,  fellows 

In  foolscap  uniforms  turn'd  up  with  ink. 

So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous. 

One  don't  know  what  to  say  tathem,  or  think. 

Unless  to  puff  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows ; 

Of  coxcombry's  worst  coxcombs  e'en  the  pink 

Are  preferably  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 

These  onqnenofa'd  snufiings  of  the  midnight-taper. 

7«. 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others, 
Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men, 
S — tt,R — s,M— re,  and  all  the  better  brothers. 
Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the  pen; 
But  for  the  children  of  the  "mighty  mother's," 
The  would-be  wits  and  can't-be  gentlemen, 
I  leave  them  to  their  daily  "tea  is  ready," 
Snug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 

77. 

The  poor  dear  Mossalwomcn  whom  I  qaention 
Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people. 
And  one  would  seem  to  them  a  new  invention. 
Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple; 
I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pension 
(Though  best-sown  projects  very  often  reap  ill) 
A  missionary  author,  just  to  preach 
Our  Christian  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

78. 

No  chemistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gasses. 
No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures. 
No  circulating  library  amasses 
Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners  as  they  pass  us; 
No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures; 
They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their  attics. 
Nor  deal  (thank  God  for  that  I)  in  mathematics. 

79. 

Why  I  thank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter* 

I  have  my  reasons,  yon  no  doubt  suppose. 

And  as,  perhaps,  they  would  not  highly  flatter, 

I'll  keep  them  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose; 

I  fear  I  have  a  littie  turn  for  satire. 

And  yet  methinks  the  older  that  one  grows 

Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  thoogh  knighter 

Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 


BEPPO. 


137 


80. 

Oh,  mirth  and  innocence !  Ob,  milk  and  water ! 
Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days ! 
la  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter, 
Abominable  Man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.  No  matter, 
I  lore  yon  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise: 
Oh,  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy !  — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 

81. 

Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 
Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian^way, 
Which  seems  to  say,  "Madam,  I  do  you  honour. 
And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you'll  please  to  stay;'' 
Conld  staring  win  a  woman  this  had  won  her, 
Bot  Laura  oould  not  thus  be  led  astray. 
She  had  stood  fire  too  long  and  well  to  boggle 
Btea  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 

82. 

The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  breaking, 
A  torn  of  time  at  which  I  would  advise 
Ladies  who  have  been  dancing,  or  partaking 
la  any  other  land  <^  exercise. 
To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking 
The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candies  fiul. 
His  bluAhes  make  them  look  a  little  pale. 

83. 

Fve  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time, 

And  staid  them  over  for  some  siUy  reason. 

And  then  1  look'd  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime). 

To  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season ; 

And  though  I've  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime, 

Lovely  and  pleasing,  and  who  still  may  please  on, 

I  DCYer  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn), 

Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

84. 

The  name  of  this  Aurora  I'll  not  mention, 
AHbough  I  might,  for  she  was  nought  to  me 
More  than  that  patent- work  of  God's  invention, 
A  charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see; 
Bat  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension, 
Too,  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  $he. 
At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 
Tet  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

8&. 

Lama,  who  knew  itivould  not  do  at  all 

To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours  sitting 

Amot^  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball. 

To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting; 

The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting, 

When  lo!  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 

lost  ui  the  very  place  where  they  should  not. 


86: 

In  this  they're  like'our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 

Is  much  the  same  —  the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 

With  blasphemies,  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 

They  make  a  never  intermitted  bawling. 

At  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the  laws, 

And  here  a  sentry  stands  within  your  calling; 

But,  for  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 

And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bearing. 

87. 

The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 
And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide, 
Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past; 
The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside; 
Some  little  scandals  eke:  but  all  aghast 
(As  to  their  palace-stairs  the  rowers  glide), 
Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  adorer. 
When  lo !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

88. 

^'Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 

'Tour  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 

It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

Its  import?  But  perhaps  'tis  a  mistake; 

I  hope  it  is  so ;  and  at  once  to  wave 

All  compliment,  I  hope  so  for  your  sake; 

You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  thalW 

<<Sir,"  (quoUi  tiie  Turk)  '"tis  no  mistake  at  all. 

89. 

That  lady  is  my  wife  f"  Much  wonder  paints 

The  lady's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  might: 

But  where  an  Englishwoman  sometimes  faints, 

Italian  females  don't  do  so  outright; 

They  only  call  a  littie  on  their  saints. 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite; 

Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and sprinkllngfaees, 

And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  casesi 

90. 

She  said,  —  what  could  she  say?  Why  not  a  word : 

But  the  Count  courteously  invited  in 

The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  what  he  heard : 

''Such  things  perhaps  we'd  best  discuss  within," 

Said  be,  "don't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din. 

For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfoction 

Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

91. 

They  enter'd  and  for  coffee  call'd,  —  it  came, 
A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 
Although  the  way  they  make  it's  not  the  same. 
Now  Laura^  much  rccover'd,  or  less  loth 
To  speak,  cries  "Bcppo !  what's  your  pagan-name? 
Bless  me !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth ! 
And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long? 
Are  you  not  sensible  'twas  very  wrong? 

9* 


138 


BEPPO, 


92. 

''And  are  yoa  reaUy,  truly,  now  a  Tark? 
With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
Is*t  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork? 
Well,  that's  the  prettiest  shawl  —  as  I'm  alive! 
You'll  give  It  me?  They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 
And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To  —  Bless  me!  did  I  ever?  No,  I  never 
Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow !  How's  yoar  liver? 

''Beppo !  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  yon  not, 
It  shall  be  shaved  before  yon're  a  day  older : 
Why  do  you  wear  it?  Oh!  I  had  forgot  >- 
Pray  don't  yon  think  the  weather  here  is  colder? 
How  do  I  look?  You  shan't  stir  from  this  spot 
In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is!  Lord!  bow  gray  it's  grown !" 

M. 

What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands, 

Is  more  than  I  know.  He  was  cast  away 

About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands; 

Became  a  slave  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 

Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 

Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighbouring  bay, 

He  join'd  the  rognes  and  prosper'd,  and  became 

A  renegado  of  indifferent  fitme. 

05. 

But  he  grew  rieli,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 
Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 
He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so. 
And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main; 
Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe, 
And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 
Bound  for  Corfu;  she  was  a  fine  polaoca, 
Mann'd  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  tobaoca 


96. 

Himself,  and  much  (heaven  knows  how  gotten)  cash. 
He  then  embark'd,  witii  risk  of  Hfe  and  limb. 
And  got  clear  off,  although  the  attempt  was  rash; 
He  said  that  Providence  protected  him  ~ 
For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lest  we  clash 
In  our  opinions :  —  vrell,  the  ship  was  trim, 
Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  &irly  on. 
Except  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

97. 

They  rcach'd  the  island,  he  transferred  his  lading. 
And  self  and  live-stock,  to  another  bottom. 
And  pass'd  for  a  true  Turkey-merchant,  trading 
With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I've  ibrgot  'em. 
However,  h^  got  off  by  this  evading, 
Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him ; 
And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 
His  wife,  religion,  bouse,  and  Christian  i 


98. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptised  Mm, 
(He  made  the  church  a  present  by  the  way ;) 
He  then  threw  off  the  garments  which  disguised  him. 
And  borrow 'd  the  Count's  small-clothes  for  a  day; 
His  friends  the  more  for  his  long  absence  prised  hiai. 
Finding  he'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay. 
With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of  then. 
For  stories,  ^  but  /don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

99. 

Whate'er  his  yonfh  had  snffer'd,  his  old  age 
With  wealth  and  talking  made  him  some  amends; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 
I've  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always  friends. 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page. 
Which  bdng  finish 'd  here  the  story  ends ; 
'Tis  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done. 
But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  began. 


139 


DON  JUAN. 


JOlfScUe    est    proprie    coramimia 


diccre. 

HoiLiCB. 


FRAGMENT 

On  tk€  buck  of  the  Poefs  MS,  of  Canto  L 

I  WOULD  to  beayen  that  I  were  so  miich  clay,  ^ 

As  I  am  blood,  bone,  marrow,  passion,  feelinj^  — - 
Becnse  at  least  tbe  past  were  pass'd  away  — 
And  for  the  fatore  —  (but  I  write  this  rceliiig, 
Havioi^got  drank  exceedingly  to-day, 
So  that  I  seem  to  stand  upon  the  ceiling) 
1 8ij  ~  tbe  fatarc  is  a  serious  matter  -^  ^ 

And  go  ^  for  God's  sake  —  hock  and  soda-water! 

Km^tL  M,  1819.  —  "Keep  the  uionymoas :  it  bclpi  wliat  flin  there 
■qr  be.  B«c  ir  tbe  aiattar  %tim  acriont  «boiiC  'Don  Jian,'  and  yoa  feel 
r*VMir  in  a  scrape^  or  me  either,  ovru  that  i  am  tmjb  autro*.  I  will 
aercr  shrink;  and  if  you  do,  I  can  always  aniwcr  yon  in  tbe  question  of 
Gaatinotin  to  bis  minlAter  —  each  beln;  on  hii  own  coals.  1  wish  that  1 
had  ben  in  better  spirits ;  bot  1  am  ont  of  sorts,  out  of  nerves,  and,  now 
aid  then,  (I  begin  to  (tmt)  oM  of  my  seiiMa.*'         {Bffroni f  0,  Mvrray,, 


DEDICATION. 


1* 


f 


BobSoothet!  Tou'reapoet  — Poet-laoieate, 

And  representative  of  all  the  race, 

Although  'tis  tme  that  you  turo'd  out  a  Tory  at 

Ltst,  —  yours  has  lately  been  a  common  case,  — 

And  DOW,  my  ^ic  Renegade !  what  are  ye  at  ? 

With  all  tbe  Lakers,  inaod  out  of  place? 

A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 

Like  '^our  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye; 


"Which  pye  being  open'd  they  began  to  sing" 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good), 
"A  dbinty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 
Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of  food;  — 
And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing. 
Bat  tike  a  hai%k  encumbcr'd  with  his  hood,  — 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation  — 
I  nish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 

3. 

Too,  Bob!  are  rather  insolent,  yon  know, 
At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 
And  be  tbe  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish; 
And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 
Aad  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 
Gating  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high.  Bob, 
And  ftliy  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bob ! 


And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "Excursion" 
(I  think  tbe  quarto  holds  five  hundred  pages), 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages; 
'Tis  poetry  —  at  least  by  his  assertion. 
And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages  — 
And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  BabcL 


You  —  Gentlemen!  by  dint  of  long  sei^lusion 

From  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 

At  Keswick,  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 

Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 

To  deem  as  a  most  logical  conclusion, 

That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone : 

There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 

Which  makes  me  wish  you'd  change  your  lakes  for  ocean. 


I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 
Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice, 
For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought, 
Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 
You  have  your  salary;  was't  for  that  you  wrought? 
And  Wordswortii  has  his  place  in  tlie  Excise. 
You're  shabby  fellows  —  true  —  but  poets  still. 
And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 


Your  bays  may  hide  the  boldness  of  your  brows  — 

Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes ;  —  let  them  go  -^ 

To  you  I  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs  — 

And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below. 

The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feci  the  inherent  glow: 

Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe,  will  try 

'Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

a 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 

Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 

I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses^ 

The  fame  you  envy,  and  the  skill  you  need; 

And  recollect  a  poet  nothing  loses 

In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 

Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 

Is  not  the  certain  path  to  fbture  praise. 


140 


DON  JUAN. 


9. 

He  that  resenres  his  laurels  for  posterity 

(Who  does  not  often  claim  the  bright  reversion) 

Has  g^cncrally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it,  he 

Being  only  ii^jared  by  his  own  assertion; 

And  althoQgh  here  and  there  some  glorious  rarity 

Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 

The  maj  or  part  of  such  appel lants  go 

To  —  God  knows  where  -^  for  no  one  else  can  know. 

10. 

If,  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

Milton  appealed  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 

If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs. 

And  makes  the  word  '*Miltonic"  mean  **suhiime/* 

He  deign'd  not  to  belle  his  soul  in  songs. 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime ; 

He  did  not  loathe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 

But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

11. 

Think'st  thou,  oould  he  —  the  blind  Old  Man  —  arise 

Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once  more 

The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophecies, 

Or  be  alive  again  —  again  all  hoar 

With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes, 

And  heartless  daughters — worn — and  paJe— and  poor; 

Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlerea^? 

12, 

Cold-blooded,  smooth-fiiced,  placid  miscreant! 
Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin's  gore. 
And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant. 
Transferred  to  gorge  upon  a  sister^hore, 
The  vulgarest  tool  that  Tyranny  could  want, 
With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more, 
To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix'd, 
And  offer  poison  long  already  mix'd. 


13. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 
Ineffably,  legitimately  vile. 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise, 
Nor  foes  —  all  nations  —  condescend  to  smile,  ~ 
Not  even  ^sprightly  blunder's  spark  can  blaze 
From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless  toil. 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion. 

14. 

A  bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade. 
And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 
Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid. 
States  to  be  curb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be  confined, 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made  — 
Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind  — 
A  tinkering  slave-maker,  who  mends  old  chains, 
With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its  gains. 

16. 

If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 
Emasculated  to  the  marrow,  It 
Hath  but  two  objects  :  how  to  serve,  and  bind, 
Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may  fit, 
Eiitropius  of  its  many  masters,  —  blind 
To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit. 
Fearless  —  because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice. 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 

le. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  not  to  view  its  bonds. 
For  I  will  never/eel  them;  —  Italy! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 
Beneath  the  lie  this  State-thing  breathed  o'er  thee  > 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green  wounds. 
Have  voices  —  tongues  to  cry  aloud  for  me. 
Europe  has  slaves  —  allies  —  kings  —  armies  still. 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 


17. 

Meantime  —  Sir  Laureate  —  I  proceed  to  dedicate. 

In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you. 

And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  no  predicate, 

'Tis  that  I  still  retain  my  "buff  and  blue;" 

My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate : 

Apostasy's  so  feshionable,  too, 

To  keep  one  creed's  a  task  grown  quite  Herculean ; 

Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra<JnIian  ? 

Venice,  September  1«,  1818. 


CAKTO  1. 


DON  JUAN. 


141 


CANTO     I. 


J. 

1  WANT  a  hero:  an  ancommon  want,      i^ 
When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new  one, 
Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  caat, 
The  age  diseoyers  he  is  not  the  true  one; 
Of  sach  as  these  I  shoi/fd  not  care  to  vannt, 
ril  therefore  take  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan; 
Wc  all  have  seen  him  in  the  Pantomime  yy^ 
Sent  to  the  devO,  somewhat  ere  his  time. 


Vernon,  the  butcher  Cnroberhind,  Wolfe,  Hawke, 
Prince  Ferdinand,  Oranby,  Burgoyne,  Keppel,  Howe, 
Svil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 
And  fiil'd  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now; 
£ich  ui  their  turn  like  Banquo's  monarchs  stalk, 
Followers  of  fiime,  ''nine  fhrrow^'  of  that  sow : 
France,  too,  had  Boonaparte  and  Dumonrier, 
Recorded  in  the  Moniteor  and  Courier. 


BvnaTe,  Brissot,  Condorcet,  Ifirabeau, 
Petion,  Clooto,  Danton,  If  arat.  La  Fayette, 
Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know; 
And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  yet, 
Jonbert,  Hoche,  Marcean,  Lannes,  Dessaix,  Morean, 
With  many  of  the  military  s/sX^ 
Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times. 
Bat  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 


Nelson  was  onoe  Britannia's  god  of  war, 
And  stin  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  turn'd ;  ^ 
There's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar,   a 
Us  with  our  hero  quietly  innrn'd ;      ^- 
Because  the  army's  grown  more  popular.  . . 
At  which  the  na^ai  people  arc  concern'd  {    - 
Besides,  the  Prinee  is  all  for  the  land-service,  < 
Foigetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jenris.  c 


Biave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon 

And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 

A  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  none; 

But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 

And  so  have  been  forgotten:  —  I  condemn  none. 

But  can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 

fit  fi>r  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one) ;        / 

8a,  as  I  said,  I'll  take  pay  friend  Don  Juan.    1/ 


Most  epic  poets  plunge  in  ^'mcdlas  res," 
(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike-road) 
And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 
What  went  before  —  by  way  of  episode. 
While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 
Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode. 
Palace,  or  garden,  paradise,  or  cavern. 
Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 


That  is  the  usual  method,  but  not  mine  — 
My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning; 
The  regularity  of  my  design 
Forbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sinning, 
And  therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 
(Although  it  cost  me  half  an  hour  in  spinning) 
Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  father, 
And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you'd  rather. 

8. 

In  Seville  was  he  bom,  a  pleasant  city. 
Famous  for  oranges  and  women  —  he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity, 
So  says  the  proverb  —  and  I  quite  agree ; 
Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 
Cadiz  perhaps  —  but  that  you  soon  may  see :  — 
Don  Juan's  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 
A  noble  stream,  and  call'd  the  Guadalquivir. 


His  father's  name  was  Jose  —  Don,  of  course, 
A  true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  stain 
Of  Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 
Through  the  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain; 
A  better  cavalier  ne'er  mounted  horse,       ; 
Or,  being  mounted,  e'er  got  down  again. 
Than  Jose,  who  begot  our  hero,  who       f^ 
Begot  —  but  thaf  s  to  come  —  Well,  to^renew:  ^ 

10. 

His  mother  was  a  learned  lady,  famed 
For  every  branch  of  every  science  known  — 
In  every  christian  language  ever  named,  * 
With  virtues  equall'd  by  her  wit  alone, 
She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 
And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 
Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 
In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 


142 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  1. 


II. 

Her  memory  was  a  mine:  she  knew  by  heart  i 

Ail  Calderon  and  greater  part  of  Lope, 

So  that  if  any  actor  miss'd  his  part 

She  could  have  served  him  for  tlie  prompter's  copy; 

For  her  Feinagle's  were  an  useless  art. 

And  he  h^self  obliged  to  shut  up  shop  ~  he 

Could  never  make  a  memory  so  fine  as 

That  which  adorn'd  the  brain  of  Donna  Inez. 

12. 

Her  favourite  science  was  the  mathematical. 
Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magoanimity, 
Her  wit  (she  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all. 
Her  serious  sayings  darkcn'd  to  sublimity; 
In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  I  call 
A  prodigy :  —  her  morning  dress  was  dimity, 
Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin. 
And  other  stofis,  with  which  I  won't  stay  puzzling. 

la 

She  knew  the  Latin  —  that  in,  '<the  Lord's  prayer," 
And  Greek  —  the  alphabet  —  I'm  nearly  sure; 
She  read  some  French  romances  here  and  there^ 
Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  pure ; 
For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  great  care, 
At  least  her  conversation  was  obscure ; 
Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a  problem. 
As  if  she  deem'd  that  mystery  would  ennoble  'em. 

14. 

^  She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue, 
And  said  there  was  analogy  between  'em ; 
She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song. 
But  I  must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  who've  seen  'cm; 
But  this  I  heard  her  say,  and  can't  be  wrong. 
And  all  may  think  which  way  their  judgments  lean  'em, 
"'Tis  stf  ange  —  the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  "1  afli," 
The  English  always  use  to  govern  d  —  n.** 

16. 

Some  women  use  their  tongues  —  she  look'd  a  lecture. 

Each  eye  a  sermon,  and  her  brow  a  homily. 

An  all-in-all-sufficient  self-director, 

Like  the  lamented  late  Sir  Samuel  Homilly, 

The  Law's  expounder,  and  the  State's  oorrcctor, 

Whose  suicide  was  almost  an  anomaly  — 

One  sad  example  more,  that  *'A1I  is  vanity,"  — 

(The  jury  brought  their  verdict  in  "Insanity.") 

10. 

^  In  short,  she  was  a  walking  oalenlation, 
Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  stepping  from  their  covers. 
Or  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  on  education* 
Or  "Coelebs'  Wife"  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers, 

.  Morality's  prim  personification. 
In  which  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers; 
To  others'  share  let  '^female  errors  fell," 
For  she  had  not  even  one  —  the  worst  of  alL 


17. 

Oh!  she  was  perfect  past  all  parallel  — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison; 

So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell. 

Her  guardian  angel  had  given  up  his  garrison; 

Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 

As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by  Harrison: 

in  virtues  nothing  earthly  could  surpass  her. 

Save  thine  "incomparable  oil,"  Macassar! 

la 

Perfect  she  was,  but  as  perfection  is 
Insipid  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours. 
Where  our  first  parents  never  learn'd  to  kiss 
Till  they  were  exiled  from  their  earlier  bowers. 
Where  all  was  peace,  and  innoodhce,  and  bliss 
(I  wonder  how  they  got  through  the  twelve  hours), 
Don  Jose,  like  a  lineal  son  of  Eve, 
Went  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 

He  was  a  mortal  of  tibe  careless  kind, 
/With  no  great  love  for  learning,  or  the  learn'd, 
Who  chose  to  go  where'er  he  had  a  mind. 
And  never  dream'd  his  lady  was  conoern'd ; 
The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 
To  see  a  kingdom  or  a  house  o'erturn'd, 
Whisper'd  he  had  a  mistress,  some  said  twe. 
But  for  domestic  quarrels  om  will  do. 


1 


20. 


Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
A  great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities; 
Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a  saint  to  bear  it. 
And  such,  indeed,  she  was  in  her  moralities; 
But  then  she  had  a  devil  of  a  spirit. 
And  sometimes  mix'd  up  fencies  with  realities, 
And  let  few  opportunities  escape 
Of  getting  her  liege  lord  into  a  scrape. 

31. 

This  was  an  easy  dkattcr  with  a  man 

Oft  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard; 

And  even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can, 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  days,  so  unprepared, 

Tliat  you  might  **brain  them  with  their  lady's  fan ;" 

And  sometimes  ladies  hit  exceeding  hard, 

And  fans  turn  into  felchions  in  feir  hands, 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

22. 

'Tis  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 

With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education. 

Or  gentlemen,  who,  though  well-bom  and  bred. 

Grow  tired  of  soientifio  conversation: 

I  don't  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 

I'm  a  plain  man  and  in  a  single  station, 

But  —  Oh !  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual. 

Inform  us  tinlji;Juwa  they  not  hon^peok'd  you  all? 


CAKTO  L 


DON  JUAN. 


143 


23. 

.  Don  J<Me  and  his  lady  qnarrcird  —  why. 
Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine, 
ThoQgfa  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try ; 
Twas  sorely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine :  ^ 
I  loathe  that  low  vice  — -  cariosity ;  •^ 

But  if  there's  any  thing  in  which  I  shine, 
Tis  in  arranging^  ail  my  friends'  affairs. 
Hot  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  oares. 

And  90 1  interfered,  and  with  the  best 
Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind ; 
I  think  the  foolish  people  were  possessed, 
For  neither  of  them  could  I  ever  find, 
Althoogh  their  porter  afterwards  confess'd  — 
Botthafs  no  matter,  and  the  worst's  behind, 
For  little  Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 
A  pail  of  housemaid's  water  unawares. 

A  little  curly-beaded,  good-for-nothing,  ^ 

And  mischfefHnaking  monkey  from  his  birth ,-  w 
m  His  parents  ne'er  agreed  except  in  doting   ^^ 
*  Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth ; 
Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been  but  both  in 
Their  senses,  they'd  have  sent  young  master  forth 
To  school,  or  had  him  soundly  whipp'd  at  home, 
To  teach  him  manaers  for  the  time  to  eome. 


90L 

Doo  Jose  and  the  Donna  Inez  led     i     ^ 
For  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  lifl,  ^ 
Wishing earh  nttiei^'ii^ divorced,  but  dead; 
They  lived  respectably  as  man  and  wife, 
Their  conduct  was  exeeediagly  well-bred. 
And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife, 
Until  at  length  the  smotber'd  fire  broke  out, 
And  pot  the  boaincas  past  all  kind  of  doubt. 

27. 

For  Ines  calFd  some  druggists  and  physicians. 
And  tried  to  prove  her  loving  lord  was  m«</. 
But  u  he  bad  some  lodd  intermissions, 
She  next  decided  be  was  only  bmd; 
Ytt  when  they  ask'd  her  for  her  depositions. 
No  sort  of  expfamatioo  could  behad, 
Save  that  her  duty  both  to  aaao  and  God 
Required  this  ooodod  ^  which  seem'd  very  odd. 

i  She  kept  a  journal,  where  his  fnOU  were  noted, 
And  open'd  certain  trunks  of  books  and  letters,  J 
All  which  might,  if  oeeasion  served,  be  quoted ; 
Aad  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 

i  Besides  her  good  old  grandmother  (who  doted) ; 

E carers  of  her  ease  became  repeaters, 
advocates,  inquisitors,  aad  judges, 
for  amoaenietit,  others  for  old  gmdges. 


29. 

And  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  bore 

With  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes, 

Just  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore. 

Who  saw  their  spouses  kill'd,  and  nobly  chose 

Never  to  say  a  word  about  them  more  — 

Calmly  she  heard  each  calumny  that  rose. 

And  saw  his  agonies  with  such  sublimity. 

That  all  the  world  exdaim'd,  "What  magnanimity !" 

30. 

No  doubt,  this  patience,  when  the  world  is  damning  us, 
Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends; 
'Tis  also  pleasant  to  be  deem'd  magnanimous,  0^ 
The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends ; 
And  what  the  lawyers  call  a  *'maitu  animus," 
Conduct  like  this  by  no  means  comprehends : 
Revenge  in  person's  certainly  no  virtue. 
But  then  'tis  not  my  ikult,  U  others  hurt  you. 

31. 

And  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories. 

And  help  them  with  a  lie  or  two  additional, 

Tm  not  to  blame,  as  you  well  know,  no  more  is 

Any  one  else  —  they  were  become  traditional. 

Besides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories 

By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  just  were  wishing  aU : 

And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection  — 

Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects  for  dissection,    j^  ^ 

32. 

Their  friends  had  tried  at  recon<^iation. 
Then  their  relations,  who  made  matters  worse 
('Twere  hard  to  tell  upon  a  like  occasion 
To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse  — 
I  can't  say  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation) : 
The  lawyers  did  their  utmost  for  divorce. 
But  scarce  a  fee  was  paid  on  either  side 
Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 


He  died :  and  most  unluckily,  because. 
According  to  all  hints  I  could  collect. 
From  counsel  learned  in  those  kinds  of  laws 
(Although  their  talk's  obscure  and  circumspect). 
His  death  contrived  to  spoil  a  charming  cause; 
A  thousand  pities  also  with  respect 
To  public  feeling,  which  on  this  occasion 
Was  manifested  in  a  great  sensation. 

34. 

But  ah!  he  died;  and  buried  with  him  lay 
The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyer's  fees; 
His  house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent  away, 
A  Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mistresses, 
A  priest  the  other  —  at  least  so  they  say: 
I  ask'd  the  doctors  after  his  disease. 
He  died  of  the  slow  fever  called  the  tertian, 
And  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 


144 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  I 


\ 


95. 

Yet  Jose  was  an  honourable  man. 

That  I  must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well ; 

I  Therefore  his  frailties  I'll  no  farther  scan. 
Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  tell; 
And  if  his  passion  now  and  then  outran 
Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peaceable 
As  Numa's  (who  was  also  named  Pompilius), 
He  had  been  ill  brought  up^  and  was  born  bilious. 

36. 

Whatever  might  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth, 
Poor  fellow!  hehadmany  things  to  wound  him; 
Let's  own,  since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth; 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which  found  him 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 
Where  all  his  household-gods  lay  shiver'd  round  him; 
No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride 
Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons  —  so  he  died. 


\ 


87. 


/ 


Dying  intestate,  Juan  was  sole  heir 

To  a  chancery-suit,  and  messuages,  and  lands. 

Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care. 

Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands : 

Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair, 

And  answer'd  but  to  nature's  just  demands: 

An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 

Is  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another.  " 

38. 

Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 
Resolved  that  Juan  should  be  quite  a  paragon. 
And  worthy  of  the  noblest  pedigree 
.    (His  sire  was  of  Castile,  his  dam  from  Arragon) : 
J    Then  for  accomplishments  of  chivalry, 

In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  war  again, 
He  learned  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gunnery. 
And  how  to  scale  a  fortress  —  or  a  nunnery. 

A  But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired, 
And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  all 
The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired, 
1  Was  that  his  breeding  should  be  strictly  moral; 
Much  into  all  his  studies  she  inquired. 
And  so  they  were  submitted  first  to  her,  aU, 
Arts,  sciences,  no  branch  was  made  a  mystery 

*  To  Juan's  eyes,  excepting  natural  history. 


\ 


40. 

The  languages,  especially  the  dead, 
The  sciences,  and  most  of  all  the  abstruse, 
<   The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 
To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use. 
In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read ; 
But  not  a  page  of  any  thing  that's  loose, 
^      Or  bints  continuation  of  the  species, 
^  Was  ever  suifer'd,  lest  he  should  grow  vioions. 


41. 

His  classic  studies  made  a  little  puzzle. 
Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesses. 
Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  a  bustle, 
But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  bodices; 
His  reverend  tutors  had  at  times  a  tussle, 
And  for  their  ^neids,  Iliads  and  Odysseys, 
Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology. 
For  Donnti  Inez  dreaded  the  mythology. 

42. 

Ovid's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him, 
Anacreon's  morals  are  a  still  worse  sample; 
Catullus  scarcely  has  a  decent  poem; 
I  don't  think  Sappho's  Ode  a  good  example. 
Although  Longinus  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 
Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wings  more  ample: 
But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid  one 
Beginning  with  *'Formosum  Potior  Corydan," 

43. 

Lucretins'  irreligplon  is  too  strong 
For  earljfistomachs,  to  prove  wholesome  food{ 
I  can't  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong. 
Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good, 
For  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song, 
So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude ; 
And  then  what  proper  person  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  naoseouj  epigrams  (tfjifortia]? 

44. 

/juan  was  taught  from  out  the  best  edition. 
Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place. 
Judiciously,  from  out  the  schoolboy's  vision. 
The  grosser  parts;  but  fearful  to  deiaoe 
Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission, 

tAnd  pitying  sore  his  mutilated  case, 

'They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix. 
Which  saves,  in  &ct,  the  trouble  of  an  index; 

45. 

For  there  we  have  them  all  "at  one  fell  swoop,*' 

Instead  of  being  scatter'd  through  the  pages; 

They  stand  forth  marshall'd  in  a  handsome  troop. 

To  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages. 

Till  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  stoop 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages. 

Instead  of  standing  fltaring  altogether, 

lake  garden-gods  —  and  not  so  decent,  either. 

The  missal  too  (it  was  the  family-missal) 
Was  ornamented  in  a  sort  of  way 
Which  dncient  mass-books  often  are,  and  this  all 
Rinds  of  grotesques  illumined;  and  how  they, 
Who  saw  those  figures  on  the  margin  kiss  all. 
Could  turn  their  optics  to  the  text  and  pray 
Is  more  than  I  know  —  but  Don  Juan's  mother 
Kept  this  herself,  and  gave  her  son  another. 


CANTO  L 


DON  JUAN. 


145 


47. 

Sennons  be  read,  and  lectures  be  endnredy 

And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints ; 

To  Jerome  and  to  Chrysostom  inorcd. 

He  did  not  take  snoh  studies  for  restraints : 

Bat  how  fidth  is  aoqoired,  and  then  insured. 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 

As  Saint  Augustine,  in  his  fine  Confessions,  / 

Which  makt  the  r^der  envy  his  transgressions,   m 

46. 

This,  too,  was  a  seal'd  book  to  little  Juan  — 

I  can't  but  saj  that  his  mamma  was  right. 

If  inch  an  edncatimi  was  the  true  one. 

She  scaroely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 

Her  maids  were  old,  and'if  she  took  a  new  one      ^ 

YoQ  mlj^t  be  sure  she  was  a  perfect  fright,        v 

She  ifid  this  during  even  her  husband's  life  — 

I  reoommoid  as  mnch  to  every  wife. 


Yoang  Juan  wax'd  m  goodliness  and  grace; 
At  six  a  charming  child,  and  at  eleven  * 

^With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a  face 
^  e'er  to  man's  maturcr  growth  was  given : 
He  studied  steadily  and  grew  apace, 
And  seem'd,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven ; 
For  half  bis  days  were  pass'd  at  church,  the  other  y^ 
Between  his  tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

60. 

At  six,  I  said,  he  was  a  Gharming  child, 
At  twelve  he  was  a  fine  but  quiet  boy ; 
Ahhough  in  in&ncy  a  little  wild. 
They  tamed  lum  down  amongst  them;  to  destroy 
His  natural  spirit  not  in  vaui  they  toil'd. 
At  kast  it  seem'd  so;  and  his  mother's  joy 
Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady, 
Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 

51. 

I  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I  have  them  still, 
Hot  what  I  say  is  neither  here  nor  there : 
I  knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 
In  character  —  but  it  would  not  be  lair 
From  nrc  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill : 
He  and  bis  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair  — 
But  scandal's  my  aversion  — '  I  protest  ^^ 
Against  all  evil  speaking,  even  in  jest 

52. 

por  my  part  I  say  nothing  —  nothing  —  but 
jTlKf  I  win  say  —  my  reasons  are  my  own  — 
[That  if  I  bad  an  only  son  to  put 

school  (as  God  be  praised  that  I  have  none) 
not  with  Donna  Inez  I  would  shut 
up  to  learn  bis  catechism  alone; 
—  no  —  I'd  send  him  oat  betimes  to  college, 
r  there  It  was  I  pick'^d  up  my  own  knowledge. 


6S. 

iPor  there  one  learns  —  'tis  not  for  me  to  boast. 
Though  I  acquired  —  but  I  pass  over  that. 
As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I  since  have  lost: 
I  say  that  there's  the  place  —  bat "  Verbtun  sat," 
I  think  I  plck'd  up,  too,  as  well  as  most, 
Knowledge  of  matters  —  but  no  matter  what  — 
>  I  never  married  —  but,  I  think,  I  know 
That  sons  should  not  be  educated  so. 

64. 

Toung  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 
Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit;  he  seem'd 
Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a  page; 
And  every  body  but  his  mother  deem'd 
Him  almost  man;  hut jhf?  flf w  in  n  rngr; 
And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  might  have  scream'd) 
If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precocious 
'  Was  in  her  eyes  a  thing  the  most  atrocious. 

66. 

Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 
Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion, 
There  was  the  Donnajulu,  whom  to  call 
Pretty  were  but  to  give  a  feeble  notion 
Of  many  charms,  in  her  as  natural 
As  sweetness  to  the  flower,  or  salt  to  ocean, 
Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  bis  bow  to  Cupid 
(But  thisJast  simile  is  trite  and  stupid). 

66. 

The  darkness  of  her  oriental  eye 
Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin ; 
(Her  blood  was  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by; 
In  Spain,  you  knoiy,  this  is  a  sort  of  sin.) 
When  proud  Granada  fell,  and,  forced  to  fly, 
Boabdill  wept,  of  Donna  JuUa's  kin 
Some  went  to  Africa,  some  stay'd  in  Spain, 
Her  great  great  grandmamma  chose  to  remain* 

67. 

She  married  (I  forget  the  pedigree) 
With  an  Hidalgo,  who  transmitted  down 
His  blood  less  noble  than  such  blood  should  be; 
At  such  alliances  his  sires  woidd  frown. 
In  that  point  so  precise  in  each  degree 
,  That  they  bred  in  and  in,  as  might  be  shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins  —  nay,  their  aunts  and  nieces, 
Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

68. 

This  heathenish  cross  restored  the  breed  again, 
Ruin'd  its  blocd,  but  much  improved  its  flesh: 
For,  from  a  root,  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain, 
Sprung  up  a  branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh ; 
The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughters  plain : 
But  there's  a  rumour  which  I  fain  would  hush  — 
'Tis  said  that  Donna  Julia's  grandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  than  law. 
10 


146 


DON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  1 


I 


I 


50. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improving  still  through  every  generation, 
Until  it  centred  in  an  only  son 
Who  left  an  only  daughter ;  my  narration 
May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 
Could  be  but  Julia  (whom  on  this  occasion 
I  shall  have  much  to  speak  about),  and  she 
Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 


ea 

Her  eye  (I'm  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 

Was  large  and  dark,  suppreteing  halTits  fire 

Until  she  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  disguise    , 

Flash'd  an  expression  more  of  pride  than  ire. 

And  love  than  either ;  and  there  would  arise 

A  something  in  them  which  was  not  desire. 

But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 

Which  struggled  through  and  chaflten'd  down  the  whole^^ 

61. 

Her  glossy  bur  was  clustered  o'er  a  brow 
Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair,and  smooth; 
Her  eyebrows'  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow  ; 
Her  cheek  all  purple  with  the  beam  of  youth, 
Mounting,  at  times,  to  a  transparent  glow, 
AS  ifher  veins  ran  lightning;  she,  in  sooth, 
Possessed  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common:^. 
Her  stature  tall  —  I  hate  a  dumpy  woman,     ^^ 

02. 

Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a  man 
Of  fifty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  instead  of  such  a  one       .' 
'Twcre  better  to  have  two  of  five-an^rtwcnty. 
Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun : 
And  now  I  think  on't,  ''mi  vien  in  mente," 
Ladies,  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue. 
Prefer  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 


'Tis  a  sad  thing,  I  cannot  choose  but  say. 
And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun, 
Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay. 
But  will  keep  baking,  broiling,  burning  on. 
That  howsoever  people  fast  and  pray 
The  flesh  is  tVall,  and  so  the  soul  undone: 
What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery, 
Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate's  sultry. 

64. 

Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  north ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter-season 

Sends  sin,  without  a  rag  on,  shivering  forth 

('Twas  snow  that  brought  Saint  Anthony  to  reason) ; 

Where  juries  cast  up  what  a  wife  is  worth 

By  laying  whate'er  sum,  in  mulct,  they  please  on 

The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  price. 

Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 


66. 


Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 

A  man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 

^  Was  neither  much  beloved,  nor  yet  abbonr'd: 
They  lived  together  as  most  people  do, 
Suffering  each  other's  foibles  by  accord, 
And  not  exactly  either  one  or  two; 

*  Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  it,^ 
For  jidonsy  dislikes  the  world  to  know  it.  d^ 

66L 

Julia  was  —  yet  I  never  could  see  why  — 
With  Donna  Ines  quite  a  favourite  friend; 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy. 
For  not  a'  line  had  Julia  ever  penn'd : 
Some  people  whisper  (but,  no  doubt,  fhcy  lie, 
For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 
That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso's  marriage. 
Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carriage; 

67. 

And  that,  still  keeping  up  the  old  connexion. 
Which  time  had  lately  render'd  ouudi  more  diaste. 
^  She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection. 
And  certainly  this  course  was  much  the  best: 
She  flattcr'd  Julia  with  her  sage  protection. 
And  complimented  Don  Alfonso's  taste; 
And  if  she  could  not  (who  can?)  silence  scandal. 
At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slender  handle. 

68. 

I  can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  affair 
With  other  people's  eyes,  or  ifher  own 
Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 
Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown ; 
Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 
Indifferent  from  the  first,  or  callous  grown: 
I'm  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say, 
She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

69. 

Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 
Caress'd  him  often;  such  a  thing  might  be 
Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styled. 
When  she  had  twenty  years,  and  thirteen  he ; 
But  1  am  not  so  sure  I  should  have  smiled 
When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three: 


These  few  short  years  make  wondrous  alterai 
Particularly  amongst  sun-burnt  nations* 


ratiops^' 


70. 


Whate'cr  the  cause  miglit  be,  they  had  become 
Changed;  for  the  dame  grew  distant,  the  youth  shy. 
Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb. 
And  mudi  embarrassment  in  either  eye; 
There  surely  will  be  little  doubt  with  some 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why, 
But  as  for  Juan,  he  had  no  more  notion 
Than  ife  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 


UNTO  L 


DON  JUAN. 


147 


/ 


7L 

Yet  Julia's  Tcry  coldness  still  was  kind, 
And  tremaloasljr  grentle  her  small  hand 
Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 
A  little  pressure,  thrilling:,  and  so  bland 
And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 
'Twas  but  a  doubt;  but  ne'er  magician's  wand 
Wrought  cliange  with  all  Armida's  feiiry-art 
like  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan's  heart- 

72. 

And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no  more, 
She  look'd  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile, 
As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 
She  mast  not  own,  but  cherished  more  the  while, 
For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core; 
Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wile,  / 

And  will  not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth,  x/ 
And  k>ve  is  tani^t  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

78. 

Bat  passion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays, 
BTen  by  its  darkness;  as  the  blackest  sky 
Foretcis  the  hcayiesi  tempest,  it  displays 
p  Its  workings  through  the  vainly-guarded  eye, 
And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 
Itself,  'tis  still  the  same  hypocrisy: 
Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  bate, 
Are  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  too  late, 

74. 

Ilien  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression. 
And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft. 
And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgression. 
Tremblings  when  met,  and  restlessness  when  left; 
Ail  these  are  little  preludes  to  possession. 
Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  bereft. 
And  merely  tend  to  show  how  greatly  love  is 
Embanass'd  at  first  starting  with  a  novice.      ^' ' 

76. 

Poor  Julia's  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state ; 

She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 

The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  mate, 

For  honour's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue*s  sake: 

Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great. 

And  almost  might  have  made  a  Tarquin  quake; 

She  pray'd  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace. 

As  bdng  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

76. 

She  vow'd  she  never  would  see  Juan  more. 
And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother, 
And  look'd  extremely  at  the  opening  door. 
Which,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let  in  another; 
Grateful  she  was,  andyct  a  little  sore  — 
Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 
^is  surely  Juan  now  —  No!  I'm  afraid 
;  That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  pray'd. 


77. 

She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 
Should  rather  fece  and  overcome  temptation; 
That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 
Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensation ; 
That  is  to  say  a  thought  beyond  the  common 
Preference,  that  we  must  feel  upon  occasion. 
For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 
But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 

78. 

And  even  if  by  chance  —  and  who  can  tell? 

The  Devil's  so  very  sly  —  she  should  discover 

That  all  within  was  not  so  very  well, 

And  if,  still  free,  that  such  or  such  a  lover 

Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife  can  quell         |X^ 

Such  thoughts,  and  be  the  better  when  they're  over ; 

And,  if  the  man  should  ask,  'tis  but  denial: 

I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make  triaL 

70. 

And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine, 
Bright  and  immaculate,  unmix'd  and  pure, 
Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine, 
And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 
Platonic,  perfect,  ''just  such  love  as  mine:' 
Thus  Julia  said  —  and  thought  so,  to  be  sure. 
And  so  I'd  have  her  think,  were  I  the  man 
On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 

80. 

Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 
Between  young  persons  without  any  danger,  ^^ 
A  hand  may  first,  and  then  a  lip  be  kiss'd; 
For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I'm  a  stranger. 
But  hear  these  freedoms  form  the  utmost  list 
Of  all  o'er  which  such  love  may  be  a  ranger : 
If  people  go  beyond,  'tis  quite  a  crime. 
But  not  my  ikult  —  I  tell  them  all  in  time. 


v^ 


81. 

Love,  then,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits, 
Was  Julia's  innocent  determination 
In  young  Don  Juan's  favour,  and  to  him  its 
Exertion  might  be  useful  on  occasion; 
And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a  shrine  to  dim  its 
Ethcrial  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 
He  might  be  taught,  by  love  and  her  together, 
1  really  don't  know  what,  nor  Julia  either. 

83. 

Fraught  with  this  fine  intention,  and  wen  fenced  ^^ 

In  mail  of  proof —  her  purity  of  soul. 

She,  for  the  future  of  her  strength  convinced. 

And  tljat  her  honour  was  a  rock,  or  mole. 

Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 

With  any  kind  of  troublesome  control; 

But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 

Is  that  which  must  be  mention'd  in  the  sequel 


148 


DON  JUAN. 


CAMTOi 


83. 

Her  plan  she  deem'd  both  innocent  and  feasible, 

And,  snrcly,  with  a  stripling:  of  sixteen 

Not  scandaFs  fangs  conid  fix  on  mach  that* s  scizable ; 

Or  if  thej  did  ao,  satisfied  to  mean 

Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  peao^ble  - 

A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene !       .  / 

Christians  have  burnt  each  other,  quite  persuaded 

Tliat  all  the  Apostles  would  have  done  as  they  did. 

84. 

And  if,  in  the  mean  time,  her  husband  died. 

But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a  tbouglit  should  cross 

Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream !  (and  tlien  she  sigh'd) 

Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss; 

But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 

I  only  say  suppose  it  —  inter  not 

(This  should  be  entre  nous,  for  Julia  thought 

In  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for  nought) ; 

8& 

I  only  say  suppose  this  supposition: 
Juan  being  then  grown  up  to  man's  estate 
Would  folly  suit  a  widow  of  condition; 
Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too  late; 
And  in  the  interim  (to  pursue  tliis  vision) 
The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great, 
For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 
I  mean  the  seraph>way  of  those  above. 

86. 

So  much  for  Julia.  Now  we'll  turn  to  Juan, 
.  Poor  little  fellow!  he  had  no  idea 
Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one ; 
In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid's  Miss  Medea, 
He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a  new  one, 
But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could  be  a 
Tiling  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  all  alarming. 
Which,  with  a  little  patience,  might  grow  charming. 

87. 

Silent  and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow. 
His  home  deserted  for  the  lonely  wood. 
Tormented  witli  a  wound  he  could  not  know. 
His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude. 
Vm  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so, 
But  then  I  beg  it  may  be  understood 
By  solitude  I  mean  a  sultan's,  not 
A  hermit's,  with  a  haram  for  a  grot. 

88. 

'<0h  l^ve!  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this. 
Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss. 
And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine." 
The  bard  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss, 
With  the  exception  of  the  second  line, 
For  that  same  twining  "transport  and  security" 
Are  twisted  to  a  phrase  of  some  obscurity. 


The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 
To  the  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind. 
The  very  thing  which  every  body  feels. 
As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find. 
That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturb'd  at  meals  "^ 
Or  love :  —  I  won't  say  more  about  ''entwined" 
Or  ''transport,"  as  we  knew  all  that  before. 
But  beg  "Security"  will  bolt  the  door. 

90. 

Young  Juan  wanderM  by  the  glassy  brooks. 
Thinking  unutterable  things;  he  threw 
Himself  at  length  within  tlic  leafy  nooks 
Where  the  wild  branch  of  tlie  cork-forest  grew; 
There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books. 
And  every  now  and  then  we  read  them  throng, 
,  So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible. 
Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintelligibte; 

91. 

He^  Juan  (and  not  Wordsworth),  so  pursued 
His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 
Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood. 
Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 
Of  its  disease;  he  did  the  best  he  oould 
With  things  not  very  subject  to  control. 
And  turn'd,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 
^  Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

92. 

He  thought  about  himself,  and  the  whole  earth. 

Of  man,  the  wonderfol,  and  of  the  stars, 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth; 

And  then  he  tliought  of  earthquakes  and  of  wars. 

How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth. 

Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 

To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  skies; 

And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

93. 

In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  disocm 

Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high. 

Which  some  are  bom  with,  but  the  most  part  Icam 

To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  why: 

'Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concern 

His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky; 

If  yon  think  'twas  philosophy  that  this  did, 

I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

94. 

He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers. 

And  heard  a  voice  in  alt  the  winds ;  and  then 

He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers. 

And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men: 

He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  foi^got  the  hours, 

And  when  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again, 

He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner  «- 

He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 


CANTO  L 


D()n  JUAN. 


149 


05. 

Somedmes  be  tarn'd  to  gpase  upon  his  book, 
Boscan,  or  Garcilasso;  ~  by  the  wind 
Bven  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look. 
So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 
Over  the  mystic  leaf  his  soul  was  shook, 
As  if' twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale. 
According  to  some  good  old  woman's  tale. 

96. 

Thus  would  he  while  his  lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted; 
Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poet's  lay, 
Could  yield  his  spirit  that  for  which  it  panted,  — 
A  bosom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay, 
And  hear  the  heart  beat  with  the  love  it  granted, 
With  —  several  other  things,  which  I  forget, 
Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

97. 

Those  lonely  walks  and  lengthening  reveries 

Could  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia's  eyes ; 

She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  case ; 

Bat  that  which  chiefly  may  and  must  surprise. 

Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 

Her  only  son  with  question  or  surmise : 

Whether  it  was  she  did  not  see,  or  would  not,     ^ 

Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not.         V 

98. 

This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  'tis  very  common : 
For  instance  —  gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'erstep  the  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the Which  commandment  is't  they  break? 

(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man 
Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mistake ;) 
I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous, 
They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladles  tell  us. 


y 


A  real  husband  always  is  suspicious, 

Bat  still  no  less  suspects  in  the  wrong  place. 

Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes, 

Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace 

By  harbouring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious; 

The  last  indeed's  infallibly  the  case : 

And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off  wholly. 

He  wonders  at  thdr  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

100. 

^  Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  short-sighted ; 

;   Though  watchful  as  the  lynx,  tiiey  ne'er  discover. 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds,  delighted. 
Toong  Hopeful's  igj^ess,  or  Miss  Fanny's  lover, 
Tm  some  eonfoniMBpiacapade  has  blighted        \/ 
The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over; 
And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears, 
Aad  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 


I 


y 


101. 

But  Inez  was  so  anxious  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  I  must  tliink,  on  this  occasion, 

She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 

For  leaving  Juan  to  his  new  temptation ; 

But  what  that  motive  was,  I  sha'n't  say  here: 

Perhaps  to  finish  Juan's  education. 

Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eyes. 

In  case  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize. 

102. 

It  was  upon  a  day,  a  summer's  day;  — 

Snmmer'.s  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season, 

And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  May ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason; 

But  whatsoe'er  the  cause  is,  one  may  say, 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason,     [in  — 

That  there  arc  months  which  nature  grows  more  merry 

March  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have  its  heroine.         *^ 

103. 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  day  ^  the  sixth  of  June:  — 
I  like  to  b^  particular  in  dates. 
Not  only  of  the  age,  and  year,  but  moon : 
They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  where  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tunc. 
Then  spur  away  o'er  empires  anil  o'er  states, 
Leaving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology, 
Excepting  the  post-obits  of  theology. 

104. 

'Twas  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  hour 
Of  half-past  six  —  perhaps  still  nearer  seven, 
When  Julia  sate  within  as  pretty  a  bower 
As  e'er  held  hour!  in  that  heathenish  heaven 
Described  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon-Moore, 
To  whom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been  given, 
With  all  the  trophies  of  triimaphant  song  — 
He  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long ! 

105. 

She  sate,  but  not  alone;  I  know  not  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place. 
And  even  if  I  knew,  I  should  not  tell  — 
People  should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case; 
No  matter  how  or  why  the  thing  befell. 
But  there  were  she  and  Juan  face  to  face  — 
When  two  such  faces  are  so,  'twould  be  wise. 
But  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

106. 

How  beautiful  she  look'd !  her  conscious  heart 

Glow'd  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong. 

Oh  Love  1  how  perfect  is  thy  mystic  art. 

Strengthening  the  weak,  and  trampling  on  the  strong;   */ 

How  self-deceitful  is  the  sagcst  part 

Of  mortals  whomjthy  lure  hath  led  along! 

The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense  -» 

So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocence. 


150 


DON  JUAN. 


CISTO  I 


107. 

She  tboug^ht  of  her  own  strength,  and  Jaan's  youth. 

And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears. 

Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth. 

And  then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  years: 

I  wish  these  last  had  not  occurred,  in  sooth, 

Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears, 

And  through  ail  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny, 

Sounds  ill  in  love,  whatc'er  it  may  in  money. 

109. 

When  people  say,  "I've  told  yovt fifty  limes/' 
They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  do; 
When  poets  say,  "I've  writtenyj%  rhymes," 
They  make  you  dread  that  they'll  recite  them  too; 
In  gangs  of^i/ty^thievcs  commit  their  crimes; 
Ki fifty  love  for  love  Is  rare,  'tis  true; 
But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 
A  good  deal  may  be  bought  for  fifty  Louis. 

109. 

Julia  had  honour,  virtue,  truth,  and  love, 
:  For  Don  Alfonso;  and  she  inly  swore, 
J  B3'  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above, 
She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore. 
Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove; 
And  while  she  ponder'd  this,  besides  much  more, 
One  hand  on  Juan's  carelessly  was  thrown. 
Quite  by  mistake  —  she  thought  it  was  her  own; 

110. 

Unconsciously  she  lean'd  upon  the  other,  * 
Which  play'd  within  the  tangles  of  her  hair; 
And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  not  smother 
She  secm'd,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 
'Twas  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 
\   To  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair. 

She  who  for  many  years  had  watch'd  her  son  so  — • 
I'm  very  certain  mine  would  not  have  done  so. 

111. 

The  hand,  which  still  held  Juan's,  by  degrees 
Gently,  but  palpably,  confirm'd  its  grasp, 
As  if  it  said :  "detain  me,  if  yon  please;" 
Yet  there's  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 
His  fingers  with  a  pure  Platonic  squeeze; 
She  would  have  shrunk  as  from  a  toad  or  asp, 
Had  she  imagined  such  a  thing  conid  rouse 
A  feeling  dangerous  to  a  prudent  spouse. 

I  cannot  know  what  Juan  thought  of  this, 

But  what  he  did,  is  much  what  you  would  do ; 

His  young  lip  thank'd  it  with  a  grateful  kiss, 

And  then,  abash'd  at  its  own  joy,  withdrew 

[n  deep  despair,  lest  he  had  done  amiss, 

Cove  is  so  very  tumid  when  'tis  new :    ^j 

She  blush'd  and  frown'd  not,  but  she  strove  to  speak, 

And  held  her  tongue,  her  voice  was  grown  so  weak. 


113. 

The  sun  set,  and  up  rose  the  yellow  moon : 
The  devil's  in  the  moon  for  mischief;  they 
Who  call'd  her  chastk,  mctbinks,  began  too  sodn 
Their  nomenclature;  there  is  not  a  day. 
The  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June, 
Sees  half  the  business  in  a  wicked  way         v^ 
On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonshine  smile  ^ 
And  then  she  looks  so  modest  all  the  while. 

114. 

There  b  a  dangerous  silence  in  that  hour, 
A  stillness  which  leaves  room  for  the  ftill  soul 
To  open  all  itself,  without  the  power 
Of  calling  wholly  back  its  self-control; 
The  silver-light  which,  hallowing  tree  and  tower. 
Sheds  beauty  and  deep  softness  o'er  the  whole. 
Breathes  also  to  the  heart,  and  o'er  it  throws 
A  loving  languor,  which  is  not  repose. 

11&. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juan,  half  embraced 

And  half  retiring  from  the  glowing  arm, 

Which  trembled  like  the  bosom  where  'twas  placed; 

Yet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  harm. 

Or  else  'twere  easy  to  wfthdraw  her  waist; 

But  then  the  situation  had  its  charm. 

And  then God  knows  what  next  —  I  can't  go  on : 

I'm  almost  sorry  that  I  e'er  b^goa. 

lie. 

Oh  Plato!  Plato!  you  have  paved  the  way. 
With  your  confounded  fantasies,  to  more 
Immoral  conduct  by  the  ikncied  sway  y 

Your  system  feigns  o'er  the  controlless  core 
Of  human  hearts,  tlian  all  the  long  array 
Of  poets  and  romancers :  —  You're  a  bore,  ' 
A  charlatan,  a  coxcomb  —  and  have  been. 
At  best,  no  better  than  a  go-between. 

117. 

And  Julia's  voice  was  lost,  except  in  sighs. 

Until  too  late  for  useftil  conversation ; 

The  tears  were  gushing  from  her  gentle  eyes, 

I  wish,  indeed,  they  had  not  had  occasion; 

But  who,  alas !  can  love,  and  then  be  wise? 

Not  that  remorse  did  not  oppose  temptation, 

A  little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented, 

And  whispering:  "I  will  ne'er  consent"  —  oonsented. 

118. 

'Tis  said  that  Xerxes  offer'd  a  reward 
To  those  who  could  invent  him  a  new  pleasure; 
Mctbinks  the  requisition's  rather  hard. 
And  must  have  cost  his  majesty  a  traasure: 
For  my  part,  I'm  a  moderate-minded  bard, 
Fond  of  a  little  love  (which  I  call  leisure) ; 
I  care  not  for  new  pleasures,  as  the  old 
Are  quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  hold. 


CANTO  L 


DON  JUAN. 


151 


119. 

OitPleaiiire!  jonVe  indeed  a  pleasant  thin^r,  / 

\lthougVbiie  muuit  hfijUuovi^d  ^  jU2]^  vr 

I  make  a  resolution  ever^  spring 

Of  reforma^oa  en  the  year  ni&  Aot ; 

dot,  somehow,  this  my  vestal  vow  takes  wing. 

Yet  still,  I  trust,  it  may  be  kept  throughout : 

Vm  verry  sorry,  very  much  ashamed, 

And  mean,  next  winter,  to  be  quite  reelaim'd. 

120. 

Heie  my  chaste  Muse  a  liberty  must  take  — 

Start  not !  still  chaster  reader  —  she'll  be  nice  henoe- 

Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake : 

This  liberty  is  a  poetic  license. 

Which  some  irregularity  may  make 

la  the  design,  and  as  1  haxfi  A  bigb  sense  ^ 

Of  Aristotk  andtlioBdtesr  '^s  fit 

to  beg  his  pardon  when  I  err  a  bit 

121. 

This  license  is  to  bope  the  reader  will 

Suppose  from  June  the  sixth  (the  fatal  day, 

Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill, 

For  want  of  foots,  would  all  be  thrown  away), 

Bat  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  still 

In  sight,  that  several  months  have  pass'd ;  we'll  say 

Twas  in  November,  but  Tm  not  so  sure 

About  the  day  •—  the  era's  more  obscure. 

l2^ 

Well  talk  of  that  anon.  —  'Tis  sweet  to  bear 
At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 
Bj  distance  mellow'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep ; 
Tb  sweet  to  see  the  evening>star  appear; 
Tis  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night- winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf;  'tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on'ooean,  span  the  sky ; 

123. 

Tis  sweet  to  bear  the  watch-dog's  fionest  bark 
Bay  deep-rooath'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home; 
Tb  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come; 
TIs  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 
Or  hill'd  by  falling  waters;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds. 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words ; 

124. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 
In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth 
Purple  and  gushing ;  sweet  are  our  escapes 
FrOBi  oiTic  revelry  to  rural  mirth ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps ; 
Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth ; 
Sweet  is  revenge  —  especially  to  women, 
PHbge  to  soldiers  prize-money  to  seamen ; 


126. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy;  and  passing  sweet  ^ 

The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady 

Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who've  made  "us  youth"  wait  too  —  too  long  already 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country-seat, 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady. 

That  ail  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 

Next  owner  for  their  double^damn'd  post-obits; 

12a 

'Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels 

By  blood  or  ink ;  'tis  sweet  to  put  an  end 

To  strife ;  'tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels. 

Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend ; 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels; 

Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world ;  and  dear  the  schoolboy-spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  foigot; 

127. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  alt,         X 

Is  first  and  passtonate  love  —  it  stands  alone,      **^ 

Like  Adam^s  recollection  of  his  fall; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluck'd— all's  known  — 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 

Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filch'd  for  na  from  heaven. 

128. 

Man's  a  strange  animal,  and  makes  strange  use      y 

Of  his  own  nature  and  the  various  arts, 

And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts: 

This  is  the  agejof  oddities  let  loose, 

Where  difierent  talents  find  their  different  marts ; 

You'd  best  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you've  lost  your 

Labour,  there's  a  sure  market  for  imposture. 

120. 

What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen ! 

(Signs  of  true  genius,  and  of  empty  pockets) 

One  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine. 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them  in  their  sockets; 

But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 

A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets. 

With  which  the  Doctor  paid  off  an  old  pox. 

By  borrowing  a  new  one  from  an  ox. 

130. 

Bread  has  been  made  (indifferent)  from  potatoes. 
And  galvanism  has  set  some  corpses  grinning, 
But  has  not  answer'd  like  the  apparatus 
Of  the  Humane  Society's  beginning, 
By  which  men  are  unsuffocated  gratis ;  — 
What  wondrous  new  machines  have  late  been  spinning! 
I  said  the  e^mall-pox  has  gone  out  of  late; 
Pcrliaps  it  may  be  follow'd  by  the  great. 
> 


152 


DON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  I 


131. 

'Tis  said  the  great  came  from  America; 

Perhaps  it  may  set  oat  on  its  return,  — 

The  population  there  so  spreads,  they  say 

'Tis  grown  high  time  to  thin  it  in  its  turn,  — 

With  war,  or  plague,  or  famine,  any  way. 

So  that  civilisation  they  may  learn; 

And  which  in  ravage  the  more  loathsome  evil  is  — 

Their  real  lues,  or  oar  pseudo-syphilis? 

Id2. 

I/''     This  is  the  patent-age  of  new  inventions 
For  jdlling  bodies,  and  for  saving  soaJs, 
All  propagated  with  tlie  best  intentions: 
Sir  Humphry  Davy's  lantern,  by  which  coals 
Are  safely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mentions, 
Tombuctoo-travcls,  voyages  to  the  Poles, 
Are  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true. 
Perhaps,  as  shooting;  them  at  Waterloo. 

133. 

Man 's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what. 

And  wOnderfnl  beyond  all  wondrous  measure; 

Tis  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that  y. 

Pleasure  '&  a  sin,  and  SQinetim<c9Liin  Is. a_pjefisare ;  \/ 

Few  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  at, 

But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure. 

The  path  is  through  perplexing  ways,  and  when 

The  goal  is  gained,  wejclie,  you  know  —  and  tlieo 

134. 

What  then  ?  —  I  <lo  iioUcno w,  no  more  do  you  — 

And  so  goodnight  —  Return  we  to  our  story : 

'Twas  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few. 

And  the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary. 

And  clap  a  white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue,  ^ 

And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  promontory. 

And  the  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock, 

And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o'clock. 

135. 

'Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  night; 
No  moon,  no  stars,  the  win(}  was  low  or  loud 
By  gusts,  and  many  a  sparkling  hearth  was  bright 
With  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  family  crowd; 
There's  something  cheerful  in  that  sort  of  light,    i/ 
Even  as  a  summer  sky's  without  a  cloud: 
I'm  fond  of  fire,  and  crickets,  and  all  that, 
A  lobster-salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat 


^Twas  midnight  —  Donna  Julia  was  in  bed, 

Sleeping,  most  probably,  —  when  at  her  door 

Arose  a  clatter  might  awake  the  dead. 

If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before  — 

And  that  they  have  been  so  we  all  have  read. 

And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more  — 

The  door  was  festen'd,  but,  with  voice  and  ^st^ 

First  knocks  were  heard,  then  "Madam — Madam^hist! 


137. 

*'For  God's  sake.  Madam— Madam— here's  my  master. 

With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back  — 

Was  ever  heard  of  such  a  curst  disaster? 

'Tis  not  my  fault  —  I  kept  good  watch  —  Alack ! 

Do,  pray,  undo  the  bolt  a  little  faster  — 

They're  on  the  stair  just  now,  and  in  a  crack 

Will  all  be  here;  perhaps  he  yet  may  fly  — 

Surely  the  window's  not  so  very  high!" 

13a 

By  this  time  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived 

With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great  number; 

The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived, 

And  therefore  paused  not  to  disturb  the  slumber 

Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 

By  stealth  herjiusband's  temples  to  encumber: 

Examples  of  this  kind  arc  so  contagious,' 

Were  one  not  punished,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

139. 

I  can't  tell  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 

Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head : 

But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condition 

It  surely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred. 

Without  a  word  of  previous  admonition, 

To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed, 

And  summon  lackeys,  arm'd  with  fire  and  sword, 

To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abhorr'd. 

140. 

Poor  Donna  Julia!  starting  as  from  sleep 
(Mind  —  that  I  do  not  say  —  she  had  not  slept). 
Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep; 
Her  maid  Antonia,  who  was  an  adept. 
Contrived  to  fling  the  bed-clothes  in  a  heap. 
As  if  she  had  just  now  fkrom  out  them  orepU 
I  can't  tell  why  she  should  take  all  tlus  trouble 
To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  double. 

141. 

But  Julia  mistress,  and  Antonia  maid, 
Appear'd  like  two  poor  harmless  women,  who 
Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men,  afiraid, 
Had  thought  one  man  might  be  deterr'd  by  two. 
And  therefore  side  by  side  were  gently  laid. 
Until  the  hours  of  absence  should  run  through, 
And  truant  husband  should  return,  and  ss^ 
'*My  dear,  I  was  the  first  who  came  away." 

142. 

Now  Julia  found  at  leng^th  a  voice,  and  cried, 

"In  Heaven's  name,  Don  Alfonso,  what  d'ye  mean? 

Has  madness  seized  you?  would  that  I  had  died 

Ere  such  a  monster's  victim  I  had  been ! 

What  may  this  midnight-violence  betide, 

A  sudden  fit  of  drunkenness  or  spleen? 

Dare  you  suspect  me,  whom  the  thought  would  kill? 

Search,  then,  the  room!"  —  Alfonso  said,  "I  will/» 


CiNTO  I 


DON  JUAN. 


153 


143. 

He  searched,  ikey  searched,  and  rummaged  every  where. 
Closet  and  clotbcs'-press,  chest  and  window-seat, 
And  found  mach  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 
Of  stockuags,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete, 
With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair, 
To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 
Arras  they  prick'd  and  curtains  with  their  swords, 
And  wounded  several  shutters,  and  some  boards, 

144. 

Under  the  bed  they  search'd,  and  there  they  found  — 
No  matter  what  —  it  was  not  that  they  sought; 
They  open'd  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 
Had  signs  or  foot-marks,  but  the  earth  said  nought; 
And  then  they  stared  each  other's  faces  round: 
'Tis  odd,  not  one  of  all  these  seekers  thought. 
And  seems  to  me  almost  .a  sort  of  blunder^ 
Of  looking  in  the  bed  as  well  as  under. 

14&. 

Daring  this  inqiusition  Julia's  tongue   ~ 

Was  not  asleep  —  '^es,  search  and  search/'  she  cried, 

''Insolt  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong! 

It  was  for  this  that  I  became  a  bride ! 

For  this  in  silence  I  have  suffered  long 

A  husband  like  Alfonso  at  my  side; 

But  now  I'll  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 

ff  there  be  law,  or  lawyers,  in  all  Spain. 

146. 

^68,  Don  Alfonso!  husband  now  no  more. 
If  ever  yoa  indeed  deserved  the  name, 
Vt  worthy  of  your  years  ?  —  you  have  threescore, 
Fifty,  or  sixty  —  it  is  all  the  same  — 
Is't  wise  or  fitting  causeless  to  explore 
For  facts  against  a  viituous  woman's  fame? 
Ungrateful,  peijured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso ! 
How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 

147. 

'^  it  for  this  I  have  disdain'd  to  hold 
The  eommon  privileges  of  my  sex  ? 
That  I  have  diosen  a  confessor  so  old 
And  deaf,  that  any  other  it  would  vex. 
And  never  once  he  has  had  cause  to  soold, 
But  found  my  very  innocence  perplex 
So  much,  be  always  doubted  I  was  married  — 
How  sorry  you  will  be  when  I've  miscarried ! 

148. 

• 

"Was  it  for  this  that  no  Cortejo  ere 

I  yet  have  chosen  from  out  the  youth  of  Seville? 

b  it  for  this  I  scarce  went  any  where, 

Bzeept  to  buU>fights,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel? 

Is  it  for  this,  whate'cr  my  suitors  were, 

I  fiivoor'd  none  —  nay,  was  almost  uncivil? 

ii  it  fi»r  this  that  General  Count  O'Reilly, 

Who  took  Algiers,  declares  I  used  him  vilely? 


149. 

''Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Caszani 
Sing  at  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  vain  ? 
Did  not  his  countryman.  Count  Corniani, 
Call  mc  the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spain? 
Were  there  not  also  Russians,  English,  many  ?  — 
The  Count  Strongstroganoff  I  put  in  pain, 
And  Lord  Mount  Coffeeiio^|j)p,  the  Irish  peer, 
Who  kiU'd  himself  for  love  (with  wine)  last  year. 

150. 

''Have  I  not  had  two  bishops  at  my  feet  ? 

The  Duke  of  Ichar,  and  Don  Fcrnan  Nunez, 

And  is  it  thus  a  faithful  wife  you  treat? 

I  wonder  in  what  quarter  now  the  moon  is : 

I  praise  your  vast  forbearance  not  to  beat 

Me  also,  since  the  time  so  opportune  is  — 

Oh,  valiant  man!  with  sword  drawn  and  oook'd  trigger. 

Now,  teU  me,  don't  you  cut  a  pretty  figure? 

151. 

"Was  it  for  this  you  took  your  sadden  journey, 
Under  pretence  of  business  indispensible. 
With  that  sublime  of  rascals  your  attorney. 
Whom  I  see  standing  there,  and  looking  sensible 
Of  having  play'd  the  fool?  though  both  I  spurn,  he 
Deserves  the  worst,  liis  conduct 's  less  defensible, 
Because,  no  doubt,  'twas  for  his  dirty  fee, 
And  not  from  any  love  to  you  nor  me. 

153. 

"If  he  comes  here  to  take  a  deposition, 

By  all  means  let  the  gentleman  proceed ; 

You've  made  the  i^artment  in  a  At  condition: 

There's  pen  and  ink  for  you,  sir,  when  you  need  — 

Let  every  thing  be  noted  with  precision, 

I  would  not  you  for  nothing  should  be  fee'd  — 

But,  as  my  maid's  undress'd,  pray  turn  your  spies  out*' 

"Ob !"  sobb'd  Antonia,  "I  could  tear  their  eyes  out" 

153. 

"There  is  the  closet,  there  the  toilet,  there 

The  anti-chamber  —  search  them  under,  over : 

There  is  the  sofk,  there  the  great  arm-chair. 

The  chimney  —  which  would  really  hold  a  lover. 

I  wish  to  sleep,  and  beg  you  will  take  care 

And  make  no  further  noise  till  you  discover 

The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure  — 

And,  when  'tis  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleasure. 

154. 

"And  now,  Hidalgo !  now  that  you  have  thrown 
Doubt  upon  me,  confusion  over  all. 
Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  kflfywn 
Who  is  the  man  you  search  for?  how  d'ye  call 
Him?  what's  his  lineage?  let  him  but  be  shown  — 
I  hope  he's  young  and  handsome  —  is  he  tall? 
Tell  me  —  and  be  assured,  that  since  you  stain 
My  honour  thus,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 
10* 


154 


DON  JUAN. 


CAMTO  L 


165. 

"At  least,  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years  — 
At  that  age  he  would  be  too  old  for  slaujirhter, 
Or  for  so  young  a  husband's  jealous  fears  — 
(Antonia !  let  me  have  a  glass  of  jivater.) 
I  am  ashamed  of  having  shed  these  tears, 
They  are  unworthy  of  my  father's  dauglitcr; 
My  mother  dream'd  not  in  my  natal  hour 
That  I  should  fall  into  a  monster's  power. 

156. 

''Perhaps  'tis  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous, 

You  saw  that  she  was  sleeping  by  my  side 

When  you  broke  in  upon  us  with  your  fellows: 

Look  where  you  please  —  we've  nothing,  sir,  to  hide; 

Only  another  time,  I  trust,  you'll  tell  us, 

Or  for  tlie  sake  of  decency  abide 

A  moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 

DressM  to  receive  so  much  good  company. 

157. 

''And  now,  sir,  I  have  done,  and  say  no  more; 
The  little  I  have  said  may  serve  to  show 
The  guileless  heart  in  silence  may  grieve  o'er 
The  wrongs  to  whose  exposure  it  is  slow :  — 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience  as  before, 
'Twill  one  day  ask  you  why  you  used  me  so? 
God  grant  you  feci  not  then  the  bitterest  grief!  — 
Antonia!  where's  my  pocket-handkerchief?" 

158. 

She  ceased,  and  tnm'd  upon  her  pillow ;  pale 
She  lay,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  their  tears, 
Like  skies  that  rain  and  lighten;  as  a  veil, 
Waved  and  o'ershading  her  wan  cheek,  appears 
Her  streaming  hair;  the  black  curls  strive,  but  fail, 
To  hide  the  glossy  shoulder  which  uprears 
Its  snow  through  all;  —  her  soft  lips  lie  apart. 
And  louder  than  her  breathing  beats  her  heart 

159. 

The  Senhor  Don  Alfonso  stood  confused ; 
Antonia  bustled  round  the  ransack 'd  room, 
And,  turning  up  her  nose,  with  looks  abused 
Her  master,  and  his  myrmidons,  of  whom 
Not  one,  except  the  attorney,  was  amused ; 
He,  like  Achates,  faithful  to  the  tomb, 
So  there  were  quarrels,  cared  not  for  the  cause. 
Knowing  they  must  be  settled  by  the  laws. 

160. 

With  prjring  snub-nose,  and  small  eyes,  he  stood, 
\    Following  Antonia's  motions  here  and  there, 
With  much  suspicion  in  his  attitude; 
For  reputations  he  had  little  care; 
So  that  a  suit  or  action  were  made  good. 
Small  pity  had  he  for  the  young  and  fair. 
And  ne'er  believed  in  negatives,  till  these 
Were  proved  by  competent  false  witnesses. 


161. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks. 
And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a  foolish  figure; 
When,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks. 
And  treating  a  young  wife  with  so  much  rigour. 
He  gain'd  no  point,  except  some  self-rebukes. 
Added  to  those  his  lady  with  such  vigour 
Had  pour'd  upon  bim  for  the  last  half  hour, 
Quick,  thick,  and  heavy  —  as  a  thunder-shower. 

162. 

At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  cxeose. 
To  which  the  sole  reply  were  tears  and  sobs. 
And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 
Prologue  is  always  certain  throes  and  throbs. 
Gasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose:  — 
Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job's; 
He  saw  too,  in' perspective,  her  relations, 
And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

163. 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer, 

But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 

The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer. 

With  "Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more. 

Or  madam  dies."  —  Alfonso  mutter'd  "D— n  her," 

But  nothing  else,  the  time  of  words  was  o'er ; 

He  cast  a  rueftil  look  or  two,  and  did, 

He  knew  not  wherefore,  that  which  he  was  bid. 

164. 

With  him  retired  his  **po$t€  comitatu$/* 
The  attorney  last,  who  linger'd  near  the  door. 
Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 
Antonia  let  him  —  not  a  little  sore 
At  this  most  strange  and  uncxplain'd  "Kiahu^* 
In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 
An  awkward  look ;  as  he  revolved  the  case. 
The  door  was  fastcn'd  in  his  legal  face. 

165. 

No  sooner  was  it  bolted,  than  —  Oh  shame! 
Oh  sin!  Oh  sorrow!  and  Oh  womankind ! 
How  can  you  do  such  things  and  keep  your  fame. 
Unless  this  world,  and  t'other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfilch'd  good  name! 
But  to  proceed  —  for  there  is  more  behind: 
With  much  heart-felt  reluctance  be  it  said. 
Young  Juan  slipp'd,  half-smother'd,  from  the  bed. 

166, 

He  had  been  hid  —  I  don't  pretend  to  say 
How,  nor  can  I  indeed  describe  the  where  — 
Young,  slender,  and  pack'd  easily,  he  lay. 
No  doubt,  in  little  compass,  round  or  square; 
But  pity  him  I  neither  must  nor  may 
His  suffocation  by  that  pretty  pair; 
'Twere  better,  sure,  to  die  so,  than  be  shut 
With  maudlin  Clarence  in  his  Alalmsey-butt 


CANTO  L 


PON  JUAN. 


155 


167. 

And,  secondly,  Sity  not,  because 
He  had  no  business  to  commit  a  sin. 
Forbid  by  hearenly,  fined  by  human  laws,  — 
At  least  'twas  rather  early  to  begin; 
Bat  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 
So  much  as  when  we  call  our  old  debts  in 
At  sixty  years,  and  draw  the  accounts  of  evil, 
And  find  a  deuced  balance  with  the  devil. 

•  16a 

Of  his  position  I  can  give  no  notion: 
Tis  written  in  the  Hebrew  Chronicle, 
How  the  physicians,  leaving  pill  and  potion, 
Prescribed,  by  way  of  blister,  a  young  belle, 
When  old  King  David's  blcod  grew  dull  in  motion, 
And  that  the  medicine  answer'd  very  well; 
Perhaps  'twas  in  a  difierent  way  applied. 
For  David  lived,  but  Juan  nearly  died. 

169. 

What* s  to  be  done?  Alfonso  will  be  back 
The  moment  he  has  sent  his  fools  away. 
Antonia's  skill  was  pat  apon  the  rack. 
But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play  — 
And  how  to  parry  the  rcnew'd  attack  ? 
Besides,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day : 
Antonia  puzzled ;  Julia  did  not  speak. 
But  press'd  her  bloodless  lip  to  Juan's  cheek. 

170. 

He  tom'd  bis  lip  to  hers,  and  with  his  band 
Gall'd  back  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair; 
Bven  then  their  love  they  could  not  all  command. 
And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair : 
Antonia's  patience  now  was  at  a  stand  — 
*CoBie,  come,  'tis  no  time  now  for  fooling  there," 
She  whisper'd  in  great  wrath  —  ''I  must  deposit 
This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet: 

171. 

Tray  keep  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night  — 
Who  can  have  put  my  master  in  this  mood? 
What  will  become  on't?  —  I'm  in  such  a  fright ! 
The  devil's  in  (he  urchin,  and  no  good  — 
Is  this  a  time  for  giggling  ?  this  a  plight? 
Why,  don't  you  know  that  it  may  end  in  blood? 
Tooll  lose  your  life,  and  I  shall  lose  my  place, 
Hy  mistress  all,  for  that  half-girlish  face. 

172. 

■   "Had  It  but  been  for  a  stout  cavalier 
.  Of  twenty-five  or  thirty  —  (Come,  make  haste) 
,  But  for  a  child,  what  piece  of  work  is  here ! 
^  I  rcaOy,  madam,  wonder  at  your  taste  — 
(Come,  sir,  get  in)  —  my  master  must  be  near. 
There,  for  the  present,  at  the  least  he's  fest, 
And,  if  we  can  but  till  the  morning  keep 
Our  counsel  —  (Juan,  mind,  you  must  not  sleep." 


173. 

Now,  Don  Alfonso  entering,  but  alone, 
Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid : 
She  loiter'd,  and  he  told  her  to  be  gone. 
An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obcy'd; 
However,  present  remedy  was  none, 
And  no  great  good  scem'd  answer'd  if  she  stay'd: 
Regarding  both  with  slow  and  sidelong  view. 
She  snofi'd  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 

174. 

Alfonso  paused  a  minute  —  then  begun 
Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late  proceeding; 
He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done, 
To  say  the  best,  it  was  extreme  ill-breeding. 
But  there  were  ample  reasons  for  it,  none 
Of  which  he  specified  in  this  his  pleading: 
His  speech  was  a  fine  sample,  on  the  whole. 
Of  rhetoric,  which  the  leam'd  call  "rigmarole" 

176. 

Julia  said  nought;  though  all  the  while  there  rose 
A  ready  answer,  which  at  once  enables 
A  matron,  who  her  husband's  foible  knows, 
By  a  few  timely  words  to  turn  the  tables. 
Which,  if  it  does  not  silence,  still  must  pose,  / 

Even  if  It  should  comprise  a  pack  of  fables ;         ^ 
'Tis  to  retort  with  firmness,  and  when  he 
Suspects  with  one,  do  yon  rq>roaGh  with  three. 

176. 

Julia,  in  foct,  had  tolerable  grounds, 

Alfonso's  loves  with  Inez  were  well  known; 

But  whether  'twas  that  one's  own  guilt  confounds  ^ 

But  that  can't  be,  as  has  been  often  shown ; 

A  lady  with  apologies  abounds: 

It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprang  alone 

From  delicacy  to  Don  Juan's  ear. 

To  whom  she  knew  his  mother's  hme  was  dear. 

177. 

There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two: 
^^  Alfonso  ne'er  to  Juan  had  alluded, 
''^Mention'd  his  jealousy,  but  never  who 
Had  been  the  happy  lover,  he  concluded, 
Conceal'd  amongst  his  premises ;  'tis  true, 
His  mind  the  more  o'er  this  its  mystery  brooded; 
To  speak  of  Inez  now  were,  one  may  say, 
'^  Like  throwing  Juan  In  Alfonso's  way. 

178. 

A  hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough ;  y^ 

Silence  is  best,  besides  there  is  a  tact      "^ 

(That  modern  phrase  appears  to  me  sad  stuff, 

But  it  will  serve  to  keep  my  verse  compact) 

Which  keeps,  when  push'd  by  questions  rather  rough, 

A  lady  always  distant  from  the  fact  — 

The  charming  creatures  lie  with  such  a  grace, 

There's  nothing  so  becoming  to  the  fhoe. 


156 


BON  JUAN. 


CANTO  I 


179. 

'  They  blush,  and  we  believe  them:  at  least  I 
Have  always  done  8o;  'tis  of  no  great  ose, 
In  any  case,  attempting  a  reply, 
For  then  thdr  eloquence  grows  quite  profuse; 
And  when  at  length  they  are  out  of  breath,  they  sigh. 
And  cast  their  languid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 
A  tear  or  two,  and  then  we  make  it  up ; 
And  then  —  and  then  —  and  then  —  sit  down  and  sap. 

1(^. 

Alfonso  closed  his  speech,  and  bcgg'd  her  pardon, 
Which  Julia  half  withheld,  and  then  half  granted. 
And  laid  conditions,  he  thought,  very  hard  on» 
Denying  several  little  things  he  wanted: 
He  stood,  like  Adam,  lingering  near  his  garden. 
With  useless  penitence  perplex'd  and  haunted, 
Beseeching  she  no  farther  would  refuse. 
When  lo !  he  stumbled  o'er  a  pair  of  shoes. 

181. 

A  pair  of  shoes!  —  what  then?  not  much,  if  they 
Are  such  as  fit  with  lady*6  feet,  but  these 
(No  one  can  tell  how  much  I  grieve  to  say) 
Were  masculine;  to  see  them  and  to  seize 
Was  but  a  moment's  act.  —  Ah !  Well-«-day ! 
My  teeth  begin  to  chatter,  my  veins  freese  — 
Alfonso  first  examined  well  their  fashion. 
And  then  flew  out  into  another  passion. 

las. 

He  left  the  room  for  his  relinquished  sword, 
And  Julia  instant  to  the  closet  flew. 
"Fly,  Juan,  fly !  for  Heaven's  sake  ^  not  a  word  — 
The  door  is  open  —  you  may  yet  slip  through 
The  passage  you  so  often  have  explored  — 
Here  is  the  garden-key  —  Fly  —  fly  —  Adieu  ! 
Haste  »  haste !  —  I  hear  Alfonso's  hurrying  feet  — 
Day  has  not  broke  —  there's  no  one  in  the  street" 

183. 

None  can  say  that  this  was  not  good  advice. 

The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late; 

Ofall  experience 'tis  the  usual  price,      ^/ 

A  sort  of  income-tax  laid  on  by  Fate : 

Juan  had  reach'd  the  room-door  in  a  trice. 

And  might  have  done  so  by  tlic  garden-gate, 

But  met  Alfonso  in  his  dressing-gown. 

Who  threaten'd  death  —  so  Juan  knock'd  him  down. 

184. 

Dire  was  the  scufile,  and  out  went  the  light, 
Antonia  cried  out  <<Rape !"  and  Julia  "Fire  I" 
But  not  a  servant  stirr'd  to  aid  the  fight. 
Alfonso,  pommeird  to  his  heart's  desire, 
Swore  lustily  he'd  be  revenged  this  night; 
And  Juan,  too,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher; 
His  blood  was  up;  though  young,  he  was  a  Tartar, 
And  not  at  all  disposed  to  prove  a  ndartyr. 


185. 

Alfonso's  sword  had  dropp'd  ere  he  oc^  draw  it. 

And  they  continued  battling  hand  to  hand, 

For  Juan  very  luckily  ne'er  saw  it ; 

His  temper  not  being  under  great  command, 

If  at  that  moment  he  had  chanced  to  claw  it, 

Alfonso's  days  had  not  been  in  the  land 

Much  longer.  —  Think  of  husbands',  lovers'  lives! 

And  how  you  may  be  doubly  widows  -^  wives! 

186. 

Alfonso  grappled  to  detain  the  foe. 
And  Juan  throttled  him  to  get  away, 
And  blood  ('twas  from  the  nose)  began  to  flow; 
At  last,  as  they  more  faintly  wrestling  lay, 
Juan  contrived  to  g^ve  an  awkward  blow. 
And  then  his  only  garment  quite  gave  way ; 
He  fled,  like  Joseph,  leaving  it  —  but  there, 
I  doubt,  all  likeness  ends  between  the  pair. 

187. 

Lights  came  at  length,  and  men  and  maids,  who  foud 
An  awkward  spectacle  their  eyes  before; 
Antonia  in  hysterics^  Julia  swoon'd, 
Alfonso  leaning,  breathless,  by  the  door; 
Some  half-torn  drapery  scatter'd  on  the  ground. 
Some  blood,  and  several  footsteps,  but  no  more: 
Juan  the  gate  gain'd,  tum'd  the  key  about. 
And  liking  not  the  inside,  lock'd  the  out. 

188. 

Here  ends  this  Canto.  —  Need  I  sing  or  say, 
How  Juan,  naked,  favour'd  by  the  night 
(Who  favours  what  she  should  not),  found  his  way, 
And  reach'd  his  home  in  an  unseemly  plight? 
The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next  day, 
The  nine  days'  wonder  which  was  brought  to  light, 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  for  a  divorce, 
^Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

189. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceedings. 

The  depositions,  and  the  cause  at  fiill. 

The  names  ofall  the  witnesses,  the  pleadings 

Of  counsel  to  non-suit  or  to  annul. 

There's  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  readings 

Are  various,  but  they  none  of  them  are  dull ; 

The  best  is  that  in  short-hand,  ta'en  by  Gumcy, 

Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a  journey. 

190. 

But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  train 
Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 
That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 
At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals, 
First  vow'd  (and  never  had  she  vow 'd  in  vain) 
To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  candles  ; 
And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies, 
She  sent  her  son  to  be  shipp'd  off  from  Cadis. 


CANTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


157 


m. 

She  had  resolved  that  he  shoald  tnyel  through 

All  European  climes  by  land  or  sea. 

To  mend  his  former  morals,  and  get  new,    y 

Bspedally  in  France  and  Italy »  X 

(At  least  this  is  the  thing  most  people  do).  ^ 

Joita  was  sent  into  a  convent;  she 

Grieved,  but  perhaps  her  feelings  may  be  better 

Shown  in  the  following  copy  of  her  letter: 

192. 

'They  teO  me 'tis  decided;  yoa  depart: 
Tis  wise  —  'tis  welU  but  not  the  V^^a  a  pain ; 
I  have  no  forther  claim  on  your  yoang  heart, 
Mine  is  the  victim,  and  woold  be  again; 
To  love  too  madi  has  been  the  only  art 
I  used ;  —  I  write  in  haste,  and  if  a  stain 
Be  on  this  sheet,  'tis  not  what  it  appears  *- 
Hy  eyeballs  bora  and  throb,  bat  have  no  tears. 

19a 

H  loved,  I  love  yon,  for  this  love  hove  lost 
State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esteem, 
Aad  yet  cannot  regret  what  it  bath  cost, 
So  dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream ; 
Yet,  if  I  name  my  guilt,  'tis  not  to  boast,  -^ 
None  can  deem  harsblier  of  me  than  I  deem : 
I  trace  this  scrawl  because  I  cannot  rest  — 
I've  nothing  to  reproach  or  to  request 

194. 

<^an's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 
^^  woman'slvliole  existence ;'  inan  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart. 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 
Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart, 
And  few  there  are  whom  these  can  not  estrange : 
Men  have  all  these  resources ;  we  bat  one  ~ 
To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone. 

19&. 

^on  will  proceed  In  pleasure  and  in  pride. 
Beloved  and  loving  many;  all  is  o'er 
For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 
If  y  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart's  core; 
These  I  could  bear,  but  cannot  cast  aside 
The  paasion,  which  still  rages  as  before, 
And  so  fkrewell  —  forgive  me,  love  me  —  No, 
That  word  is  idle  now  ^  but  let  it  go. 

190. 

*Vy  breast  has  been  all  weakness,  is  so  yet; 
But  still,  I  think,  I  can  collect  my  mind; 
Xy  bfcKKl  still  rushes  where  my  spirit's  set, 
kB  roll  the  waves  before  the  settled  wind; 
[y  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget  — 
^o  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind: 
shakes  the  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole, 
vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix'd  souL 


197. 

^\  have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still. 

And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet, 

And  yet  I  may  as  well  the  task  fulfil, 

My  misery  can  scarce  be  more  complete : 

I  had  not  lived  till  now,  could  sorrow  killi 

Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  faXn  the  blow  would  meet, 

And  I  must  even  survive  this  last  adieu, 

And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you  I" 

198. 

This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper, 
With  a  neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new ; 
Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper 
It  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do, 
And  yet  she  did  not  let  one  tear  escape  her; 
The  seal  a  sun-flower:  "EUe  vaus  swUparUnU," 
The  motto,  cut  upon  a  white  cornelian; 
The  wax  Was  superfine,  its  hue  vermilion. 

199. 

This  was  Don  Juan's  earliest  scrape;  but  whether 
I  shall  proceed  with  his  adventures  is 
Dependant  on  the  public  altogether; 
We'll  see,  however,  what  they  say  to  this 
(Their  favour  in  an  author's  cap's  a  feather, 
And  no  great  mischi^s  done  by  their  caprice) ; 
And,  if  their  approbation  we  experience^ 
Perhaps  they'll  have  9ome  more  about  a  year  hence. 

960. 

My  poem's  epic,  and  is  meant  to  be 
Divided  in  twelve  books;  each  book  containing, 
With  love,  and  war,  a  heavy  gale  at  sea,      • 
A  list  of  ships,  and  captains,  and  kings  reigning. 
New  characters ;  the  episodes  are  three :    >^ 
A  panoramic  view  of  hell 's  in  training, 
After  the  style  of  Virgil  and  of  Homer,        >• 


So  that  my  name  of  Epic 

901. 

All  these  things  will  be  specified  in  time,^ 
With  strict  regard  to  Aristotle's  Rules, 
The  pade  miftiim  of  the  true  sublime, 
Which  makes  so  many  poets  and  some  fools; 
Prftse-poets  like  blank-verse,  I'm  fond  of  rhyme,  ^ 
Good  workmen  never  quarrel  with  their  tools; 
I've  got  my  mythological  machinery. 
And  very  handsome  supernatural  scenery. 

902. 

There's  only  one  slight  difierence  between 
Me  and  my  epic  brethren  gone  before. 
And  here  the  advantage  is  my  own,  I  ween ; 
(Not  that  I  have  not  several  ments  more, 
BuT  ibis  \vlU  more  peculiarly  be  seen;) 
They  so  embellish,  that  'tis  quite  a  bore 
Their  labyrinth  of  fables  to  thread  through. 
Whereas  this  story's  actually  true. 


/ 


158 


DON  JUAN. 


ciinx>i 


909. 

If  any  person  doubt  it,  I  appeal 

To  history,  tradition,  and  to  facte,  ^ 

To  newspapers,  whose  truth  ail  know  and  feel, 

To  plays  in  five^  and  operas  in  three  acts; 

All  these  confirm  my  statement  a  good  deal, 

But  that  which  more  completely  fiedth  exacts 

Is,  that  myself,  and  several  now  in  Seville, 

Saw  Joan's  last  elopement  with  the  deviL 

904. 

If  ever  I  should  condescend  to  prose, 
ru  write  poetical  commandments,  which 
Shall  supersede  beyond  all  doabt  all  those 
That  went  before;  in  these  I  shall  enrich    ' 
My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one  knows. 
And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch : 
ril  call  the  work  ''Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  oym  Aristotle.'' 

306. 

Thou  sbalt  believe  in  Milton,  Bryden,  Pope; 

Thou  shalt  not  set  up  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Sonthry ; 

Because  the  first  is.crajtaMl  beyoiid  all  hope, 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint  and  moathcy: 

With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope. 

And  Canipbeirs  Hippocrene  is  somewhat  droothy : 

Thou  sbalt  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 

Commit  —  flirtation  with  the  mnse  of  Moore. 

90QL 

Thou  Shalt  not  covet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 
His  Pegasus,  nor  any  thing  that's  his : 
Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness,  like  *<tbe  Blues" 
(There's  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of  this) : 
Thou  shalt  not  write,  in  short,  but  what  I  choose: 
This  is  true  criticism,  and  yoa  may  kiss  — 
Exactly  as  you  please,  or  not  —  the  rod, 
But  if  you  don't,  TU  lay  it  on,  by  G  -<  d  1 

007. 

If  any  person  should  presume  to  assert 
This  story  is  not  moral,  first,  I  pray. 
That  they  will  not  cry  out  before  they're  hurt ; 
Then,  that  they'll  read  it  o'er  again,  and  say 
(But,  doubtless,  nobody  will  be  so  pert) 
That  this  is  not  a  moral  tale,  though  gay; 
Besides,  in  canto  twelfth,  I  mean  to  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked  people  go. 

ao6. 

If,  after  all,  tliere  should  be  some  so  blind 
To  their  own  good  this  warning  to  despise. 
Led  by  some  tortuosity  of  mind. 
Not  to  believe  my  verse  and  their  own  eyes. 
And  cry  that  they  "the  moral  cannot  find," 
I  tell  him,  if  a  clergyman,  he  lies  — 
Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make. 
They  also  lie  too  ^  under  a  mistake. 


9oa 

The  public  approbation  I  expect. 

And  beg  they'll  take  my  word  about  the  moral. 

Which  I  with  their  amusement  will  connect 

(So  children  cutting  teeth  receive  a  coral) ; 

Meantime;  they'll  doubtless  please  to  recolleot 

My  epical  pretensions  to  the  lauel : 

For  fear  some  pradish  readers  should  grow  skittbh, 

I've  bribed  my  gnmdmother's  review  — -  the  British. 

I  sent  it  in  a  letter  to  the  editor. 

Who  thank'd  me  duly  by  retam  of  post  — 

I'm  for  a  haiKlsome  aitide  his  creditor; 

Yet  if  my  gentle  Mose  he  please  to  roast, 

And  break  a  promise  after  having  made  it  her. 

Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost. 

And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey. 

All  I  can  say  is  —  that  he  had  the  money. 

211. 

I  think  that  willi  this  holy  new  allianoe 
I  may  insure  the  public,  and  defy 
All  other  magazines  of  art  or  sdence. 
Daily,  or  monthly,  or  three-monthly ;  I 
Have  not  essay'd  to  multiply  their  clients. 
Because  they  tell  mc  'twere  in  vain  to  try, 
And  that  the  Edinbargh-Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat  a  dissenting  author  very  martyrly. 

213. 

"N(m  efp  koc/errmm  eaUdrnjunmUk 

Qnuuie  PUmeo^"  Horaee  said,  and  so 

Say  I,  by  which  quotation  there  is  meant  a 

Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 

(Long  ere  I  dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Brcnta) 

I  was  most  ready  to  return  a  blow, 

And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 

In  my  hot  youth  —  when  Geoi^ge  the  Third  was  King. 

213. 

But  now,  at  thirty  years,  my  hair  is  gray 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forty  ? 

I  thought  of  a  peruke  the  other  day). 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener;  and,  in  short,  I        y^ 

Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  while  'twas  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort;  I 

Have  spent  my  life,  both  interest  and  principal. 

And  deem  not,  what  I  deem'd,  my  sool  invincible. 

214. 

No  more  —  no  more  —  Oh !  never  more  on  me 
The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew. 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 
Extracts  emotions  beautiftil  and  new, 
Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the  bee: 
Tbinkst  thou  the  honey  witb  those  objects  grew? 
Alas!  'twas  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 


CAKTO  U. 


DON  JUAN. 


159 


216. 

No  more  —  no  move  —  Oh  I  nerer  morey  my  heart, 
Canst  thoQ  be  my  soJe  world,  my  nniverae! 
Once  all  in  ail,  hot  now  a  thing  apart, 
Tboa  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  corse: 
The  illnsion's  gone  for  ever,  and  thoa  art 
Insensible,  I  trust,  bat  none  the  worse; 
And  in  thy  stead  IVe  got  a  deal  of  judgment, 
Thongfa  HeaTCA  knows  how  it  ever  fonnd  a  lodgment 

My  days  of  love  are  over;  me  nQ  jnore 

the  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow, 

Can  make  the  fool  of,  which  they  made  before  —    ' 

In  short,  I  most  not  lead  the  life  I  did  do : 

The  credolons  hope  of  mntnal  minds  is  o'er; 

The  copious  use  of  daret  is  forbid,  too; 

So,  for  a  good  old-gentlemanly  vice, 

I  think  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 

317. 

Ambidon  was  my  idol  which  vrntlvoken 
Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow  and  of  Pleasure; 
And  the  two  last  have  left  me  many  a  token 
O'er  which  reflection  may  be  made  at  leisure : 
Now,  like  Friar  Bacon's  braecn  head,  I've  spoken* 
••Time  is.  Time  was,  Tune's  past:"  a  chymio  treasure 
Is  glittering  youth,  which  I  have  spent  betimes  — 
\Iy  heart  in  passion,  and  my  head  on  rhymes. 

918. 

What  IS  the  end  of  Fame?  'tis  but  to  fill 

A  certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper : 

Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a  hill. 

Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in  vapour; 

For  this  men  write,  speak,  preach,  and  heroes  kill. 

And  bards  bam  what  they  call  their  '^midnight-taper,'' 

To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust, 

A  name,  a  wretched  picture^  and  worse  bust 


219. 

What  are  the  hopes  of  man?  Old  Egypt's  King, 

Cheops,  erected  the  first  pyramid 

And  largest  thinking  it  was  jost  the  thing 

To  keep  his  memory  whole,  and  mummy  hid ; 

But  somebody  or  other,  rummaging, 

Burglariously  broke  his  coffin's  lid: 

Let  not  a  monument  give  you  or  me  hopes, 

Since  not  a  pinch  of  dust  remains  of  Cheops. 

220. 

But  I,  being  fond  of  true  philosophy, 

Say  very  often  to  myself:  <<Alas ! 

All  things  that  hare  been  born  were  born  to  die, 

And  flesh  (whidi  Death  mows  down  to  hay)  is  grass; 

You've  pass'd  your  youth  not  so  unpleasantly, 

And  if  you  had  it  o'er  again  —  'twould  pass  — 

So  thank  your  stars  that  matters  are  no  worse,       x^  -' 

And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind  your  purse." 


But  for  the  present,  gentle  reader  I  and 

Still  gentler  purchaser !  the  bard  —  thaf  s  I  — 

Must,  with  permission,  shake  you  by  the  hand, 

And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  good  bye! 

We  meet  again,  if  we  should  understand 

Each  other;  and,  if  not  I  shall  not  try 

Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  sample  — 

'Twere  well  if  others  foUow'd  my  example. 

228. 

<<Go,  little  book,  from  this  my  solitude! 

I  cast  thee  on  the  waters,  go  thy  ways ! 

And  if,  as  I  believe,  thy  vein  be  good, 

The  world  will  find  thee  after  many  days." 

When  Southey's  read,  and  Wordsworth  understood, 

I  can't  help  putting  in  my  claim  to  praise  — 

The  four  first  rhymes  are  Southey's,  every  line: 

For  God's  sake,  reader !  take  them  not  for  mine. 


N 


CANTO     11. 


1. 

Om  ye!  who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  EngHind,  Germany,  or  Spain, 
I  pray  yc  flog  them  upon  all  occasions ;     ^ 
ilt  mends  their  morals ;  never  mind  the  pain : 
iTbe  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations,  ^ 

^  In  Joan's  case,  were  but  employed  in  vain,         -.  ./^ 
Since  in  a  way,  that's  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 
Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty. 


Had  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school.  . 
In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth, 
His  daily  task  bad  kept  his  fancy  cool, 
At  least  had  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north;  • 
Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule. 
But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth  - 
A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 
Puzzled  his  tutors  rery  much,  of  course. 


160 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  D 


J 


I  oan't  say  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all. 

If  all  things  be  considered :  first,  there  was 

His  lady-mother,  mathematical, 

A never  mind;  his  tutor,  an  old  ass;        r 

A  pretty  woman  —  (tliat's  quite  natural,  *^i>\' 
Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass) ; 
A  husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife  —  a  time,  and  opportunity. 


Well  —  well,  the  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis, 
And  all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails, 
And  live  and  die,  make  love,  and  pay  our  taxes,- \'i>'\~ 
And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails; 
The  king  commands  us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us, 
The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales, 
A  little  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame, 
Fighting,  devotion,  dust  —  perhaps  a  name.  ^^ 


I  said,  that  Juan  had  been  sent  to  Cadiz  — 

A  pretty  town,  I  recollect  it  well  — 

'Tis  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learnM  to  rebel). 

And  such  sweet  girls  —  I  mean  such  graceful  ladies, 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom  swell ; 

I  can't  desoribe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike, 

Nor  liken  it  —  I  never  saw  the  like : 


An  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 
New  broke,  a  camclcopard,  a  gazelle. 
No  •«  none  of  these  will  do;  ^  and  then  their  garb ! 
Their  veD  and  petticoat  •«  Alas!  to  dwell 
Upon  such  things  would  very  near  absorb 
A  eanto  —  then  their  feet  and  ancles !  —  well, 
Thank  Heaven  Fve  got  no  metaphor  quite  ready 
(And  so,  my  sober  Muse  —  come,  lef  s  be  steady  — 


Chaste  Muse!  —  well,  if  you  must,  you  must)  —  the  veil 
Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand. 
While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  yon  pale. 
Flashes  into  the  heart:  *^  All  sunny  land 
Of  love!  when  I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 
To  —  say  my  prayers  —  but  never  was  there  plann'd 
A  dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a  volley, 
Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzioli. 


But  to  our  tele:  the  Donna  Tnez  sent 

Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark  ; 

To  stay  there  had  not  answer'd  her  Intent, 

But  why?  —  we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark  — 

'Twas  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was  meant, 

As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah's  ark. 

To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth. 

And  s^nd  him  like  a  dove  of  promise  forth. 


9. 

Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 

Aooording  to  direction,  then  received 

A  lecture  and  some  money:  for  four  springs 

He  was  to  travel;  and,  though  Inez  grieved 

(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings), 

She  hoped  he  would  improve  —  perhaps  believed : 

A  letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 

Of  good  advice  —  and  two  or  three  of  credit. 

la 

In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 
Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday-school 
For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 
(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,or  the  fool; 
Inftints  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day. 
Dunces  were  whipp'd  or  set  upon  a  stool: 
The  great  success  of  Juan's  education 
Spurr'd  her  to  teaofa  another  generatioii. 

11. 

Juan  embark'4  —  fhc  ship  got  under  way. 
The  wind  was  fhir,  the  water  passing  rough ; 
A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay. 
As  I,  who've  cross'd  it  oft,  know  well  enough ; 
And,  standing  upon  deck,  the  dashing  spray 
Flics  in  onc*s  face,  and  makes  it  weather-tough : 
And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again. 
His  first  —  perhaps  his  last  —  forewell  of  Spain. 

13  . 

I  can't  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 
To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through 
The  growing  waters  —  it  unmans  one  quite ; 
Especially  when  life  is  rather  new : 
I  recollect  Great-Britain's  coast  looks  white. 
But  almost  every  other  country's  blue, 
When,  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance, 
We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

13. 

So  Juan  stood  bewilder'd  on  the  deck: 

The  wind  sung,  cordage  strain'd,  and  sailors  sworc^ 

And  the  ship  creak'd,  the  town  became  a  speck. 

From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore.  — 

The  best  of  remedies  is  a  beef-steak 

Against  sea-sickness;  try  it,  sir,  before 

You  sneer,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  true< 

For  I  have  found  it  answer  —  so  may  you. 

14. 

Don  Juan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the  stern. 
Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far : 
First  partings  Ibrm  a  lesson  hard  to  learn, 
Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go- to  war; 
There  is  a  sort  of  unexpress'd  concern, 
A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 
At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 


UNTO  IL 


DON  JUAN. 


161 


16. 

Bat  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave  — 
His  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  no  wife,     'J 
So  that  he  had  mnch  better  causeTo  grievse    \ 
Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life ; 
And,  if  we  now  and  then  a  sigh  must  heave 
At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 
No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  endears  — 
That  i%  till  deeper  grie&  congeal  our  tears. 

la 

So  Joan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel's  water,  still  remembering  Sion : 
rd  weep,  hot  mine  is  not  a  weeping  Muse, 
And  such  light  griefs  are  not  a  thing  to  die  on ; 
Toimg  men  should  travel,  if  bat  to  amnse     <y 
Themselves ;  and  the  next  time  their  servants  tic  on 
Behind  their  carriages  their  new  portmantean, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto. 

17. 

And  Joan  wept,  and  mnch  he  sigh'd,  and  thought, 
Hrliile  his  salt  tears  droppM  into  the  salt  sea, 
^'Sweets  to  the  sweet;"  (I  like  so  mnch  to  quote: 
Ton  most  excuse  this  extract,  'tis  where  she, 
The  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave)  and,  sobbing  often,  he 
Reflected  on  his  present  situation, 
And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

18. 

•farewell,  my  Spain !  a  long  farewell  !*'  he  cried, 
'^Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thcc  no  more, 
But  die,  as  many  an  exUcd  heart  hath  died. 
Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore: 
Fferewell,  where  Guadalquivir's  waters  glide  \ 
Farewell,  my  mother!  and,  since  all  is  o'er, 
Farewell,  too,  dearest  Julia !"  (here  he  drew 
Her  letter  out  agun,  and  read  it  through) 

19. 

"And  oh!  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  I  swear  ^ 
Bat  that's  impossible,  and  cannot  be  — 
Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air, 
Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to  sea, 
Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh !  my  fair! 
1^  think  of  any  thing,  excepting  thee ;  ; 

\h,  niiad  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic"  —     'y' 
'(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch,  and  he  grew  se^-sick) 

20. 

j'^Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth  —  (here  he  fell  sicker) 
ph,  Julia !  what  is  every  other  woe?  — 
^or  God's  sake,  let  me  have  a  glass  of  liquor  ^ 
Uro!  Battista!  help  me  down  below !) 

my  love!  —  (you  rascal,  Pedro,  quicker)  — 
Julia !  —  (this  cursed  vessel  pitches  so)  — 
leloved  Julia!  hear  me  still  beseeching"  — 
perehe  grew  inarticulate  with  retching) 


i 


21. 

He  felt  that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart, 

Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas !  attends. 

Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art. 

The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends. 

Or  death  of  those  we  doat  on,  when  a  part 

Of  us  dies  with  them,  as  each  fond  hope  ends : 

No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetio, 

But  the  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 


22. 

Love's  a  capricious  power;  I've  known  it  hold 
Out  through  a  fever  caused  by  its  own  heat. 
But  be  much  puzzled  by  a  cough  and  cold. 
And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat  \ 
Against  all  noble  maladies  he's  bold. 
But  vulgar  illnesses  don't  like  to  meet. 
Nor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh, 
Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 

23. 

But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 
About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels; 
Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein, 
Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 
And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reigd. 
Sea-sickness  death:  his  love  was  perfect,  how  else 
Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows  roar. 
Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before? 

24. 

The  ship,  called  the  most  holy  '*Trinidada," 
Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn ; 
For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 
Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  born : 
They  were  relations,  and  for  them  he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  hy 
His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

2& 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 
A  tutor,  the  licenciate  Pedrillcu— 
Who  several  languages^d  understand. 
But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow, 
And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long'd  for  land. 
His  headache  being  increased  by  every  billow; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  birth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

26. 

'Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 
Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gale; 
And  though  'twas  not  much  to  a  naval  mind. 
Some  landsmen  would  have  look'd  a  little  pale,       / 
For  sailors  are,  in  feet,  a  different  kind : 
At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  saU, 
For  the  sky  showed  it  would  come  on  to  blow. 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 
11 


I^ 


162 


DON  JUAN. 


C4KI0  A 


27. 

At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  sadden  shift 
Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,     v^ 
Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward  rift,       ^  ^ 
Started  the  stern-post,  also  shattered  the  \ 

Whole  of  her  stcrn-frame,  and  ere  she  could  lift 
Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy 
The  rudder  tore  away:  'twas  time  to  sound 
The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found. 

28. 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 
,  Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  part  of  tlie  cargo,  and  what  not. 
But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet; 
At  last  they  did  get  at  it  really,  but 
Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet : 
The  water  rush'd  through  in  a  way  quite  puzzling. 
While  they  tlirust  sheets,  shirts  Jackets,  bales  of  muslin, 


Into  the  opening;  but  all  such  ingredients 

Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone  down, 

Despite  of  all  their  efforts  and  expedients. 

But  for  the  pumps :  I*m  glad  to  make  them  known 

To  all  the  brother-tars  who  may  have  need  hence, 

For  fift^  tons  of  water  wereupthrown 

By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  undone 

But  for  the  maker.  Mi.  Mann^  of  London. 

30. 

As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem'd  to  abate, 
And  then  the  leak  they  reckoned  to  reduce, 
And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three  feet  yet 
Kept  two  hand-  and  one  chain-pump  still  in  use. 
The  wind  blew  fresh  again :  as  it  grew  late 
A  squall  came  on,  and,  while  some  guns  broke  loose, 
A  gust  —  which  all  descriptiTe  power  transcends  — 
Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam-ends. 

3L 

There  slie  lay,  motionless,  and  seem'd  upset; 
The  water  left  the  hold,  and  wash'd  the  decks. 
And  made  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget; 
For  they  remember  battles,  fires,  and  wredcs. 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret. 
Or  bce^ksUhfir  hopes^  or  hearts,  or  heads,  or  necks^;^ 
Thus  drownings  arc  much  talk'd  of  by  the  divers*' 
And  swimmers  who  may  chance  to  be  survivors. 

32. 

Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 
Both  main  and  mizen;  first  the  mizen  went. 
The  main-mast  followed :  but  the  ship  still  lay 
Like  a  mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 
Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and  they 
Eased  her  at  last  (although  we  never  meant 
To  part  with  all  till  every  hope  was  blighted), 
And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted. 


33. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 
Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet ; 
That  passengers  would  find  it  much  amiss 
Tglosf  theiriixgSt^asjyclljLS  spoil  their  diet; 
That  even  the  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Days  nearly  o'er,  might  be  disposed  to  riot. 
As  upon  such  occasion  tars  will  ask 
For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  nun  from  the  cask. 

34. 

There's  nought,  no  donbt^so  mniDh  the  spirit  calms 
As  rum  and  true  religion;  thus  it  was, 
Some  plundered,  some  drank  spirits,  some  sung  psalms, 
The  high  wind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass         [qualns 
The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  time;   fright  cured  the 
Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's  sea-sick  maws: 
Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  devotion, 
Clamour'd  in  ohoros  to  the  roaring  ocean. 

95. 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done,  but  for 
Our  Juan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his  years. 
Got  to  the  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a  pair  of  pistols ;  and  their  fears. 
As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his  door 
Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears, 
Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk, 
Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die  drunk. 

36. 

"Give  us  more  grog,"  they  cried,  "for  it  will  be 

All  one  an  hour  hence."  Juan  answer'd,  *'No ! 

'Tis  true  that  death  awaits  both  you  and  me. 

But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 

Like  brutes : "  —  and  thus- his  Haugerous  post  kept  he, 

And  none  liked  to  anticipate  the  blow ; 

And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor. 

Was  for  some  mm  a  disappointed  suitor. 

37. 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast. 

And  made  a  loud  and  pious  lamentation; 

Repented  all  his  sins,  and  made  a  last 

Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation; 

Nothing  should  tempt  him  more  (this  peril  paat) 

To  quit  his  academic  occupation. 

In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 

To  follow  Juan*s  wake  like  Sancho  Panca. 

38. 

But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once  more; 
Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lull'd:  the  masts  were  gone.  \ 
The  leak  increased;  shoals  round  her,  but  no  shore ; 
The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  before 
Their  desperate  efibrts  seem*d  all  useless  grown, 
A  glimpse  of  sunshime  set  some  hands  to  bale  — 
The  stronger  pump'd,  the  weaker  thrumm'd  a  saiL 


CINTO  U. 


DON  JUAN. 


163 


39. 

Under  the  yesscrs  keel  the  sail  was  pass*d, 
And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect ; 
But  with  a  Icak»  and  not  a  stick  of  mast, 
Nor  rag  of  canvass,  what  could  they  expect? 
Bat  still  'tis  best  to  straggle  to  the  last, 
lis  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  w recked :  | 

And  thongh  'tis  trne  that  man  can  only  die  once, 
Tis  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Golf  of  Lyons. 

4a 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hnrl'd  them,  and  from  tlience, 

Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away ; 

For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 

And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 

On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 

A  jory-mast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 

The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good  luck, 

Still  swam  —  though  not  exactly  like  a  duck. 

41. 

The  wind^  in  ihet,  perhaps  was  rather  less. 
But  the  ship  laboured  so,  they  scarce  oould  hope 
To  weather  out  much  longer;  the  distress 
Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 
Was  scant  enough:  in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used  —  nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in  sight, 
Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night 

42. 

Again  the  weather  tfareaten'd,  —  again  blew 
A  gale,  and  in  the  fore-  and  after-hold 
Water  appear'd;  yet,  though  the  people  knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 
Until  the  chains  and  leathers  yrere  worn  through 
Of  all  our  pumps :  —  a  wreck  complete  she  roH'd, 
At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings'  during  civil  war. 

43. 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain,  he 
Could  do  no  more;  he  was  a  man  in  years, 
And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  sea, 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be. 
Bat  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children. 
Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering.. 

44. 

'  The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 
Fast  by  the  head;  and>  all  distinction  gone. 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints  —  but  there  were  none 
To  pay  them  with ;  and  some  look'd  o'er  the  bow ; 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats ;  and  there  was  one 
That  bcgg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution. 
Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd  —  in  his  confusion. 


45. 

Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks,  some  put  on 

Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair; 

Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  sun, 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore  their  hair; 

And  others  went  on,  as  they  had  begun. 

Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 

That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea, 

Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

4& 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 
Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 
'Twas  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 
As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less; 
Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition; 
Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's  stress : 
Two  casks  of  biscuit  and  a  keg  of  butter 
Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 

47. 

But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 

Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet; 

Water,  a  twenty 'gallon-cask  or  so; 

Six  flasks  of  wine;  and  they  contrived  to  get 

A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below, 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met, 

But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  luncheon  — 

Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a  puncheon. 

4a 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 
Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale; 
And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad. 
As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail. 
And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 
Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail; 
And  two  boats  oould  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 
To  save  one  half  0ie  people  then  on  board. 


'Twas  twilight,  for  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters;  like  a  veil. 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frotvn 
Of  one  who  hates  us,  so  the  night  was  shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  their  faces  pale, 
And  hopeless  eyes,  which  o'er  the  deep  alone 
Gazed  dim  and  desolate;  twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  fhmiliar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

60. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 
With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh'd. 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be. 
Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  qnaff'd. 
And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee. 
Half  cpilcptical,  and  half  hysterical:  — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 


164 


DON  JUAN. 


CAMTO  IL 


61. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hen-coops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 
That  still  Goald  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  althoagh  of  no  great  use- 
There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars ; 
The  boats  put  off  overcrowded  with  their  crews ; 
She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port. 
And,  going  down  head-foremost  —  sunk,  in  short 

62. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell! 

Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave; 

Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful  yell. 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave ; 

And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell, 

And  down  she  snck'd  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

63. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rnsh'd, 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 
Of  echoing  thunder;  and  then  all  was  hush*d, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows ;  but  at  intervals  there  gush'd, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek  <—  the  bubbling  cry 
4bf  some  strong  swimmer  in  bis  agony. 

64. 

The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before. 
And  in  them  crowded  several  ofUbe  crew ; 
And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 
Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew 
There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any  shore; 
And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so  few  — 
Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat, 
Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got  i^Ioat. 

66. 

All  the  rest  perish'd ;  near  two  hundred  souls 
Had  left  their  bodies;  and,  what's  worse,  alas ! 
When  over  catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 
They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a  mass 
Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals. 
Because,  till  people  know  whaf  a  come  to  pass, 
They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead  — 
It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that's  said. 

66. 

Joan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 

Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a  place; 

It  seem'd  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care. 

For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 

Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo's  pair 

Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case: 

Battista,  though,  (a  name  call'd  shortly  Tita) 

Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 


67. 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save; 
But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss, 
Left  him  so  drunk,  he  jnmp'd  into  the  wave 
As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross. 
And  so  he  found  a  wine-and-watery  grave : 
They  could  not  rescue  him,  although  so  dose. 
Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute. 
And  for  the  boat  —  tlie  crew  kept  crowding  in  it 

68. 

A  small  old  spaniel,  —  which  had  been  Don  Jose's, 
His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  tliink. 
For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 
With  tenderness,  —  stood  howling  on  the  brinks 
Knowing,  (dogs  have  such  intellectual  noses!) 
No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink; 
And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  ere  he  stcpp'd 
Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap'cL 

60. 

He  also  stuffed  his  money  where  be  could 
About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo's  too. 
Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  he  would. 
Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say  or  do, 
As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  rencw'd; 
But  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get  through. 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill. 
Thus  re-embark'd  his  tutor  and  his  spanieL 

00. 

'Twas  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet. 
That  the  sail  was  becalm'd  between  the  seas, 
Though  on  the  wave's  high  top  too  much  to  set. 
They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze; 
Each  sea  cnrl'd  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept  them  wot. 
And  made  them  bale  without  a  moment's  ease. 
So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were  damp'd, 
And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp'd. 

61. 

Nine  souls  more  went  in  her :  the  long-boat  still 
Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast, 
Twa  blankets  stitch'd  together,  answering  ill 
Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast ; 
Though  every  wave  roll'd  menacing  to  fill. 
And  present  peril  all  before  surpass'd, 
They  grieved  for  those  who  perisli'd  with  Uio  cutter, 
And  also  for  the  biscuit-casks  and  butter. 

62. 

The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale :  to  ru  n 

Before  the  sea,  until  it  should  grow  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done : 

A  few  tea-spoonfuls  of  their  rum  and  wine  ^ 

Were  served  out  to  the  people,  who  begun 

To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the  bags, 

And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 


CANTO  a. 


DON  /UAN. 


165 


They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 
Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion ; 
They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case, 
One  half  sate  ap,  though  numb'd  with  the  immersion^ 
While  f  other  half  were  laid  down  in  their  place. 
At  watch  and  watch;  thns,  shiTcring  like  the  tertian 
Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fili'd  their  boat, 
With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great-coat 

64. 

.  Tia  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 
Prolongs  it;  this  is  obvious  to  physicians,  y   . 

When  patients,  neither  plagued  with  friends  nor  wife,  ' 

Survire  through  very  desperate  conditions. 
Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions : 
Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 
And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming  brevity. 

Tis  sai^  that  persons  living  on  annuities     -^r- 
Are  longer-lived  than  others,  —  God  knows  why. 
Unless  to  plague  the  grantors,  —  yet  so  true  it  is, 
That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never  die; 
Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is,  >^ 

And  tk^s  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply : 
In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way. 
Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

06. 

Tia  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat. 
They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 
And  stand,  like  rocks,  the  tempest's  wear  and  tear; 
And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot. 
Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and  there  — 
She  had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 
Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

67. 

Bat  man  is  a  carnivorous  production, 

And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a  day; 

He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction, 

Bot,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have  prey : 

AKhoogh  his  anatomical  construction 

Bears  vegetables  in  a  grumbling  way. 

Tour  labouring  people  think  beyond  all  question. 

Beef,  vealy  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

66. 

And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew; 
For  OB  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  calm. 
And  though,  at  first,  their  strength  it  might  renew, 
And,  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
LalTd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  blue 
Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a  qualm, 
Aod  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision, 
listead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 


I 


69. 

The  oonaequenoe  was  easily  foreseen  — 

They  ate  up  all  they  had,  and  drank  their  wine, 

In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 

On  what,  in  foot,  next  day  were  they  to  dine? 

They  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these  foolish  men! 

And  carry  them  to  shore ;  these  hopes  were  fine. 

But,  as  tbey  had  but  one  oar,  and  that  brittle. 

It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their  victual. 

70. 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of  air, 
And  Ocean  slnmber'd  like  an  unwcan'd  child : 
The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating  there. 
The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and  mild  — 
With  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a  pair) 
What  could  they  do?  and  hunger's  rage  grew  wild : 
So  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating. 
Was  kiird,  and  portion'd  out  for  present  eating. 

71. 

On  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide. 
And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 
The  creature' was  his  father's  dog  that  died,        j 
Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws,  \ 

With  some  remorse  received  (though  first  deniedV 
As  a  great  favour,  one  of  the  fore^^ws,  \ 

Which  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 
Devour'd  it,  longing  for  the  other  toa 

72. 

The  seventh  day,  and  no  wind  —  the  burning  sun   ■ 
Blister'd  and  scorchM,  and,  stagnant  on  the  sea, 
They  lay  like  carcasses ;  and  hope  was  none. 
Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not ;  savagely 
They  glared  upon  each  other  —  all  was  done, 
Water,  and  wine,  and  food,  —  and  you  might  see 
The  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 
(Although  they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish  eyes. 

73. 

At  length  one  whispered  his  companion,  who 

Whisper'd  another,  and  thus  it  went  round, 

And  then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew. 

An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound ; 

And  when  his  comrade's  thought  each  sufferer  knew, 

'Twas  but  his  own,  suppress'd  till  now,  he  found: 

And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood. 

And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellows'  food. 

74. 

But  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  day  shared 
Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  remain'd  of  shoes : 
And  then 'they  look'd  around  them,  and  despair'd, 
And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice  would  choosey 
At  length  the  lots  were  torn  up  and  prepared. 
But  of  materials  that  much  shock  the  Muse  — 
Having  no  paper,  for  the  want  of  better. 
They  took  by  force  from  Juan  Julia's  letter. 


166' 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  U 


75. 

The  lots  were  made,  and  mark'd,  and  mixM,and  handed, 

In  silent  horror,  and  their  distribution 

Lull'd  even  the  savage  hunger  which  demanded, 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollution; 

None  in  particular  had  sought  or  plann'd  it; 

'Twas  nature  gnaw'd  them  to  this  resolution, 

By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be  neuter  ^ 

And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan's  luckless  tutor. 

76. 

He  but  requested  to  be  bled  to  death  i 

The  surgeon  had  his  instruments,  and  bled  0- 

Pedrillo,  and  so  gently  ebb'd  his  breath, ) 

You  hardly  could  perceive  when  he  was  dead.^ 

He  died  as  born,  a  Catholic  in  faith,  \ 

Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they're  bred,  2, 

And  first  a  little  crucifix  he  kiss'd,  ^ 

And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist.^ 

77. 

The  surgeon,  as  there  was  no  other  fee, 
Had  his  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains ; 
But  being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,' he 
Preferred  a  draught  from  the  fest-flowing  veins: 
Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea, 
And  such  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  brains 
Regaled  two  sharks,  who  foilow'd  o'er  the  billow  — 
The  sailors  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pedrillo. 

7a 

The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four, 
Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  aniftal  food ; 
To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 
Ref^ising  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Feel  now  his  appetite  increased  much  more; 
'Twas  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should, 
Even  in  extremity  of  thdr  disaster. 
Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his  master. 

79. 

'Twas  better  that  he  did  not;  for,  in  fact. 
The  consequence  was  awful  in  the  extreme ; 
For  they,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act. 
Went  raging  mad  •—  Lord !  how  they  did  blaspheme ! 
And  foam  and  roll,  with  strange  convulsions  rack'd, 
Drinking  salt-water  like  a  mountain-stream, 
Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  screeching,  swearing. 
And,  with  hyaena-laughter,  died  despairing. 

80. 

Their  numbers  were  much  thinn'd  by  this  infliction. 
And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough.  Heaven  knows; 
And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollection. 
Happier  than.they  who  still  perceived  their  woes; 
But  others  pondcr'd  on  a  new  dissection, 
As  if  not  warn'd  sufficiently  by  those 
Who  had  already  perish 'd,  suffering  madly. 
For  having  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 


81. 

And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master's  mate, 
As  fattest;  but  he  saved  himself,  because. 
Besides  being  much  averse  from  such  a  fiite. 
There  were  some  other  reasons :  the  first  was. 
He  had  been  rather  indisposed  of  late. 
And  that  which  chiefly  proved  his  saving  claase. 
Was  a  small  present  made  to  him  at  Cadiz, 
By  general  subscription  of  the  ladies. 

83. 

Of  poor  Pedrillo  something  still  rcmain'd , 
But  was  used  sparingly,  —  some  were  afraid. 
And  others  still  their  appetites  constrained. 
Or  but  at  times  a  little  supper  made; 
All  except  Juan,  who  throughout  abstained, 
Che^ving  a  piece  of  bamboo,  and  some  lead : 
At  length  they  caught  two  boobies  and  a  noddy. 
And  then  they  left  off  eating  the  dead  body. 


And  if  Pedrillo's  fate  should  shocking  be^ 

Remember  Ugolino  condescends 

To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 

The  moment  after  he  politely  ends 

His  tale;  if  foes  be  food  in  hell,  at  sea 

'Tis  surely  fair  to  dine  upon  our  friends^ 

When  shipwreck's  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty. 

Without  being  much  more  horrible  than  Dante. 

84. 

And  the  same  night  there  fell  a  shower  of  rain. 

For  which  their  mouths  gaped,  like  the  cracks  of  earth 

When  dried  to  summer-dust;  till  taught  by  pain, 

Men  really  know  not  what  good  water's  worth : 

If  you  had  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 

Or  with  a  famish'd  boat's-crew  had  your  berth. 

Or  in  the  desert  heard  the  camel's  bell. 

You'd  wish  yourself  where  Truth  is  —  in  a  well. 

86. 

It  pour'd  down  torrents,  hut  they  were  no  richer, 
Until  they  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sheet,     . 
Which  served  them  as  a  sort  of  spongy  pitcher. 
And  when  they  deem'd  its  moisture  was-complete, 
They  wrung  it  out,  and,  though  a  thirsty  ditcher 
Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught  so  sweet 
As  a  full  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 
They  ne'er  till  now  had  known  the  joys  of  drinking. 

86w 

And  tlieir  baked  lips,  with  many  a  bloody  crack, 
Suck'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  stream'd; 
Their  throats  were  ovens,  their  swoln  tongues  were  black, 
As  the  rich  man's  in  hell,  who  vainly  scrcam'd 
To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 
A  drop  of  dew,  when  every  drop  had  scem'd         ^ 
To  taste  of  heaven  —  if  this  be  true,  indeed,    ^  / 
Some  Christians  have  a  comfortable  crc(?d. 


UVTO  It 


DON  JUAN. 


167 


87. 


There  were  two  fothers  in  this  ghajitly  crew. 
And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Wu  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view. 
Bat  he  died  early ;  and  when  he  was  gone. 
His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire^  who  threw 
One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  ^'Heaven's  will  be  done ! 
I  can  do  nothing,''  and  he  saw  Iiim  thrown 
'  Into  the  deep,  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

88. 

The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child, 

Of  a  soft  check,  and  aspect  delicate; 

Bat  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a  mild 

And  patient  spirit,  held  aloof  his  fate; 

Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled. 

As  if  to  win  a  part  from  off  the  weight 

He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 

With  the  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they  must  part 

89. 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 
Eu  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 
From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed; 
And  when  the  wished-for  shower  at  length  was  come, 
And  the  boy's  eyes,  which  the  dull  fihn  half  glazed, 
Brighten'd,  and  for  a  moment  scem'd  to  roam. 
He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag  some  drops  of  rain 
Into  his  dying  child's  mouth  —  but  in  vain. 

90. 

The  boy  expired  —  the  father  held  the  clay, 
And  look'd  upon  it  long,  and  when  at  last 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen  lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 
He  natch'd  it  wistfully,  until  away 
Twas  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  'twas  cast; 
Then  he  himself  sunk  down,  all  dumb  and  shivering. 
And  gave  no  signs  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering. 

91. 

Now  overhead  a  rainbow,  bursting  through  i 
The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  spanning  the  dark  sea,  2, 
Resting  Its  bright  base  on  the  quivering  blue^ 
And  all  ivithin  its  arch  appear'd  to  be  "2. 
Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  huet 
Wax*d  broad  and  waving  like  a  banner  free,  2 
Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that's  bent,  and  then  ^ 
Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck'd  men.    *^ 

92. 

It  changed,  of  course;  a  heavenly  camcleon, 

Th«  airy  child  of  vapour  and  the  sun, 

Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in  vermilion,  j 

Baptised  in  molten  gold,  and  swathed  in  dun. 

Glittering  like  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's  pavilion, 

And  blending  every  colour  into  one, 

JtMst  like  a  black  eye  in  a  recent  scuille, 

(For  sometimes  we  must  box  without  the  muffle). 


98. 


Our  shipwreck'd  seamen  thought  it  a  good  omen  — 
It  is  as  well  to  think' so,  now  and  then; 
'Twas  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and  Roman, 
And  may  become  of  great  advantage  wheA 
Folks  arc  discouraged;  and  most  surely  no  men 
Had  greater  need  to  nerve  themselves  again 
Than  these,  and  so  this  rainbow  look'd  like  hope  — 
Quite  a  celestial  kaleidoscope. 

94. 

About  this  time  a  beautiful  white  bird, 
Webfooted,  not  unlike  a  dove  in  size 
And  plumage  (probably  it  might  have  err'd 
Upon  its  course),  pass'd  oft  before  their  eyes, 
And  tried  to  perch,  although  it  saw  and  heard 
The  men  within  the  boat,  and  in  this  guise 
It  came  and  went,  and  flutter'd  round  them  till 
Night  fell :  ^  this  seem'd  a  better  omen  still. 

9& 

But  in  this  case  I  also  must  remark, 
'Twas  well  this  bird  of  promise  did  not  perch. 
Because  the  tackle  of  our  shatter'd  bark 
Was  not  so  safe  for  roosting  as  a  church ; 
And  had  it  been  the  dove  from  Noah's  ark. 
Returning  there  from  her  successful  search, 
Which  in  their  way  that  moment  chanced  to  fall. 
They  would  have  eat  her,  olive-branch.and  all. 

98. 

With  twilight  it  again  came  on  to  blow, 
But  not  with  violence ;  the  stars  shone  out, 
The  boat  made  way ;  yet  now  they  were  so  low. 
They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were  about;  . 
Some  fancied  they  saw  land,  and  some  said  <*No!" 
The  frequent  fog-banks  gavetStearCause  to  doubt  — 
Some  swore  that  the^jMaftTbreakers,  others  guns; 
And  all  uapatXiSQut  the  latter  once. 

97. 

As  morning  broke  the  light  wind  died  away, 

When  he  Who  had  the  watch  sung  out,  and  swore, 

If 'twas  not  land  that  rose  with  the  sun's  ray. 

He  wish'd  that  land  he  never  might  see  more: 

And  the  resinibb'd  their  eyes,  and  saw  a  bay, 

Or  thought  they  saw,  and  shaped  their  course  for  shore; 

For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew 

Distinct,  and  high>  and  palpable  to  view. 

98. 

And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tears, 

And  others,  looking  with  a  stupid  stare, 

Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 

And  seem'd  as  if  they  had  no  furtlicr  care; 

While  a  few  pray'd  —  (the  first  time  for  some  years)  — 

And  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  three  were 

Asleep ;  they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 

And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 


168 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  n 


09. 

The  day  before,  fast  sleeping:  on  the  water, 
They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk's-bill  kind, 
And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught  her, 
Which  yicldcd*a  day's  life,  and  to  their  mind 
Proved  even  still  a  more  nutricious  matter, 
Because  it  left  encouragement  behind: 
They  thought  that,  in  snch  perils,  more  than  chance 
Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deliverance.  \^  ^ 

100. 

The  land  appeared  a  high  and  rocky  coast. 

And  higher  grew  the  mountains  as  they  drew, 

Set  by  a  current,  toward  it :  they  were  lost 

In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 

To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  toss'd. 

So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that  blew; 

Some  thought  it  was  Mount  Aetna,  some  the  highlands 

Of  Candia,  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  ot  other  islands. 

101. 

Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore. 

Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale: 

Their  livingireight  was  now  reduced  to  four. 

And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could  not  avail 

To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 

Thougli  the  two  sharks  still  folio w'd  them,  and  dash'd 

The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splash'd. 

102. 

Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat  had  done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn'd  tliem  to 
Such  things,  a  mother  had  not  known  her  son 
Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew; 
By  night  chill'd,  by  day  scorch 'd,  thus  one  by  one 
They  perish'd,  until  withered  to  these  few. 
But  chiefly  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter. 
In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt-water. 

103. 

As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was  seen 
Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there. 
They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green. 
That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and  smoothed  the  air, 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  like  a  screen 
From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot  and  bare  — 
Lovely  seem'd  any  object  that  should  sweep 
Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 

104. 

The  shore  look'd  wild,  without  a  trace  of  man, 

Andgirtby  formidable  waves;  but  they 

Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they  ran. 

Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers  lay : 

A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray, 

Bat  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better, 

They  ran  the  boat  for  shore,  and  overset  her. 


105. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 
Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont; 
And  having  learn'd  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river, 
liad  often  turn'd  the  art  to  some  account. 
A  better  swunmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever, 
^He  eould,  perhaps,  have  pass'd  the  Hellespont, 
As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided)    ^ 
Leandcr,  Mr.  Bkenhead,  and  I  did. 

106. 

So  here,  though  faint,  emaciated,  and  stark, 
He  buoy'd  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to  ply 
With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was  dark, 
The  beacli  which  lay  before  him,  high  and  drj : 
The  greatest  danger  here  was  fk'om  a  shark, 
That  carried  off  his  neighbour  by  the  thigh ; 
As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 
So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  bat  him. 

107. 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar. 
Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  wash'd 
Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more. 
And  the  hard  wave  o'erwhelm'd  him  as  'twas  dashed 
Within  his  grasp;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The  waters  beat  while  be  thereto  was  lash'd  ; 
At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 
Roli'd  on  the  beach,  half  senseless,  from  the  sea ; 

108. 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung 
Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave. 
From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrong. 
Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave: 
And  there  he  lay,  full-length,  where  he  was  flung, 
Before  the  entrance  of  a  c]iff>worn  cave, 
With  jast  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain. 
And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps  in  vain. 

'  109. 

With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose. 
But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 
And  quivering  hand ;  and  then  he  look'd  for  those 
Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea. 
But  none  of  them  appear'd  to  share  his  woes, 
Save  one,  a  corpse  from  out  the  famish'd  three; 
Who  died  two  days  before',  and  now  liad  found 
An  unknown  barren  beach  for  burial-ground. 

110. 

And  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fhst. 
And  down  he  sank :  and  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 
Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass'd : 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretch'd  hand 
Droop'd  dripping  on  the  oar  (their  jury-mast). 
And,  like  a  wither'd  lily,  on  the  land 
His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay. 
As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  form'd  of  clay. 


aNTO  n. 


DON  JUAN. 


169 


in. 

How  long  in  hu  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 

He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 

For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim ; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass'd  away 

He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life, 

For  Death,  though  vanquish'd,  still  retired  with  strife. 

112. 

His  eyes  he  open'd,  shut;  again  unclosed. 
For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness;  he  thought 
He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 
And  felt  again  with  his  despair  overwrought, 
And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed, 
And  then  once  more  bis  feelings  back  were  brought, 
And  slowly  by  his  swinuning  eye  was  seen 
A  lorely  female  fiu)e  of  seventeen. 

113. 

Twas  beading  dose  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath; 
And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 
B^call'd  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death ; 
And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 
Each  pulse  to  aninlltion,  till  beneath 
Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
To  diese  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

114. 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  acaroe-clad  limbs;  and  the  fair  arm 
Raised  higher  the  foint  head  which  o'er  it  hung; 
And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 
Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead;  then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm; 
And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  tlirob  that  drew 
A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom  —  and  hers  too, 

116. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,  —  one 
Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  J>row  less  grave. 
And  more  robust  of  figure,  —  then  begun 
To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 
Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof  d  them,  which  the  sun 
Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 
She  was,  appeared  distinpt,  and  tall,  and  fieur. 

116. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 
That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 
'  Id  braids  behind,  and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould. 
They  nearly  reach 'd  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  command, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 


117. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn;  but  her  eyes 

Were  bhick  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue. 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk-shadow  lies 

Deepest  attraction,  for  when  to  the  view 

Forth  from  its  raven-fringe  the  full  glance  flies. 

Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew ; 

'Tis  as  the  snake,  late  coil'd,  who  pours  his  length,    i^ 

And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

118. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure  dye 

Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun; 

Short  upper-lip  —  sweet-lips !  that  make  us  sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such ;  for  she  was  one 

Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all's  done  -*     • 

I've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real,  « 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone-Ideal).  \ 

119. 

ril  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  'tis  just 

One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause : 

There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 

I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 

A  frequent  model ;  and  if  e'er  she  must 

Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling  laws, 

They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal  thought 

Ne'er  ppmpass'd^  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought. 

lao. 

And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave: 
Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the  Spanish, 
Simpler,  and  yet  of  colours  not  so  grave; 
For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women  banish 
Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  wave 
Around  them  (what  I  hope  will  never  vanish) 
The  basquina  and  the  mantiUa,  they 
Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

lai. 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case ; 
Her  dress  was  many-coloured,  finely  spun; 
Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round  her  face, 
But  through  tliem  gold  and  gems  profusely  shone; 
Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 
Flow'd  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious  stone 
Flash'd  on  her  little  hand;  but  what  was  shocking. 
Her  small  snow-feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocking. 

1^ 

The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike. 
But  of  inferior  materials :  she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike; 
Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry ;  and  her  veil,  in  form  alike. 
Was  coarser;  and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long;  her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 
11* 


170 


DON  JUAN 


123. 


And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheer'd  him  both 
With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions. 
Which  are  (as  I  must  own)  of  female  growth. 
And  have  ten  thousand  dch'cate  inyentions: 
They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 
A  thin^  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions, 
But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd  sinoe  Homer's 
Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new  comers. 

124. 

rn  tell  yon  who  they  were,  this  female  pair, 

\Lest  they  should  seem  prinoesscs  in  disguise; 
Sesides,  I  hate  all  mystery,  and  that  air, 
Of  clap-trap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize; 
And  so,  in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 
They  shall  appear  before  your  cuiious  eyes, 
Mistress  and  maid;  the  first  was  only  daughter 
Of  an  old  man  who  liYcd  upon  the  water. 

12ft. 

A  fisherman  he  bad  been  in  his  youth, 
And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he; 
But  other  speculations  were,  in  sooth. 
Added  to  his  connexion  with  the  sea, 
Perhaps  not  so  respectable,  in  truth: 
A  little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 
Left  him,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 
Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piasters. 

126. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  be  •—  though  of  men. 
Like  Peter  the  Apostle,  ~  and  he  fish'd 
For  waodcring  merchant-vessels,  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  he  wish'd; 
The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  gain 
He  sought  in  the  slave-market  too,  and  dish'd 
Full  many  a  morsel  for  that  Turkish  trade, 
By  which,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  may  be  made. 

127. 

He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  bad  bollt 
(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 
A  very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt. 
And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease; 
Heaven  knows  what  cash  he  got,  or  blood  he  spilt, 
A  sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please; 
But  this  I  know,  it  was  a  spacious  building. 
Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paint,  and  gilding. 

128. 
He  had  an  only  daughter,  oall'd  gfttH*^ 
The  greatest  heiress  of  the  Eastern  Isles : 
Besides,  so  very  beautiful  was  she. 
Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles: 
Still  in  her  teens,  and  like  a  lovely  tree 
She  grew  to  womanhood,  and  between  whiles 
Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 
How  to  accept  a  better  in  his  turn. 


120. 


CANTO  D.  ■ 


And  walking  out  upon  the  beach,  below 
The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  she  found, 
Insensible,  —  not  dead,  but  nearly  so,  — 
Don  Juan,  almost  famish'd,  and  half  drown'd; 
But  being  naked,  she  was  shock'd,  you  know, 
Yet  deem'd  herself  in  common  pity  bound. 
As  far  as  in  her  lay,  '*to  take  him  in, 
A  stranger,"  dying,  witli  so  white  a  skin. 

lao. 

But  taking  him  into  her  father'il  house 
Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  \o  save. 
But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse. 
Or  people  in  a  trance  into  their  grave; 
Because  the  good  old  man  had  so  much  'Vou^ /' 
Unlike  the  honest  Arab  tlileves  so  brave. 
He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger, 
And  sold  him  instantly,  when  out  of  danger. 

131. 

And  therefore,  with  her  maid,  she  thought  it  best 
(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 
Tb  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest: 
And  when,  at  last,  he  open'd  his  black  eyes. 
Their  charity  Increased  about  their  ffuest ; 
And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  Vsixe, 
It  open'd  half  the  turnpike-gates  to  heaven  ~ 
(St  Paul  says  'tis  the  toll  which  must  be  Kiven). 

132. 

They  made  a  fire,  but  sraeh  a  fire  as  they 

Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 

Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay. 

Some  broken  planks,  and  oars,  that  to  the  touch 

Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay, 

A  mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch ; 

But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty, 

That  there  was  fuel  to  have  furnish'd  twenty. 

133. 

He  had  a  bed  of  furs  and  a  pelisse, 

For  Haidce  stripped  her  sables  off  to  make 

His  couch ;  and,  that  he  might  be  more  at  ease. 

And  warm,  in  case  by  chance  he  should  awake, 

They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece. 

She  and  her  maid,  and  promised  by  day-break 

To  pay  him  a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish 

For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

134. 

And  thus  they  left  him  to  his  lone  repose: 

Juan  slept  like  a  top,  or  like  the  dead, 

Who  sleep  at  last,  pnrhaps,  (God  only  knows) 

Just  for  the  present ;  and  in  his  lull'd  head 

Not  even  a  vision  of  his  former  woei 

Throbb'd  in  accursed  dreams,  which  sometimes  spread 

Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years, 

Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  tears. 


CANTO  n 


DON  JUAN. 


171 


Young  Joan  slept  all  dreamless:  —  but  the  maid, 
Who  smoothed  his.  pillow,  as  she  left  the  den 
Look'd  hack  upon  him,  and  a  moment  staid, 
And  tam'd,  helieving  that  he  call'd  again. 
Heslnmber'd;  yet  she  thought,  at  least  she  said       y 
(The  heart  will  slip  even  as  the  tongue  and  pen),    ^ 
He  had  pronounced  her  name  —  but  she  forgot 
That  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not 

136. 

And  pensive  to  her  fothcr's  house  she  went, 
Bojdning  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 
Better  than  her  knew  what,  in  foct,  she  meant. 
She  being  wiser  by  a  year  or  two ;  ^ 

A  year  or  two 's  an  age  when  rightly  spent,  v^ 
And  Zoe  spent  hers,  as  most  women  do. 
In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  of  knowledge 
Which  is  acquired  in  Nature's  good  old  college. 

137. 

The  mom  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  stiU 
Past  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clash'd  upon 
His  rest;  the  rushing  of  the  neighbouring  rill, 
And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded  sun. 
Troubled  him  not,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill; 
And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none  ^ 
Had  suffered  more  —  his  hardships  were  Gomparatiye 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  narrative. 

188. 

Not  so  Haidee;  she  sadly  toss'd  and  tumbled. 

And  starte^jfttun  her  sleep,  and,  turning  o'er, 

Dream'd  of  a  thousand  wrecks,  o'er  which  she  stumbled, 

And  handsome  corpses  strew'd  upon  the  shore ; 

And  woke  her  maid  so  early  that  she  grumbled. 

And  caird  her  father's  old  slaves  up,  who  swore 

In  several  oaths  —  Armenian,  Turk,  and  Greek,  ~ 

They  knew  not  what  to  think  of  such  a  freak. 

130. 

Bat  up  she  got,  and  up  she  made  them  get. 
With  some  pretence  about  the  sun,  that  makes 
Sweet  skies  just  when  be  rises,  or  is  set; 
And  'tis,  no  doubt,  a  sight  to  see  when  breaks 
Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 
With  mist,  and  every  bird  with  him  awakes. 
And  night  is  flung  off  like  a  mourning-suit 
Worn  for  a  husband,  or  some  other  brute. 

140. 

I  lay,  the  sun  is  a  most  glorious  sight, 
Fve  seen  him  rise  ftdl  oft,  indeed  of  late 
I  have  sat  np  on  purpose  all  the  night, 
Whidi  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one's  fate ;    y 
And  so  all  ye,  who  would  be  in  the  right  ^ 

la  health  and  purse,  begin  your  day  to  date 
FWmi  day-break,  and  when  coffin'd  at  fourscore, 
ft^grave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four. 


I4L 

And  Haidee  met  the  morning  ikce  to  fiice ; 
Her  own  was  freshest,  thoftgh  a  feverish  (lush 
Had  dyed  it  with  the  headlong  blood,  whose  race 
From  heart  to  cheek  is  curb'd  into  a  blush, 
Like  to  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base. 
That  overpowers  some  Alpine-river's  rush. 
Checks  to  a  lake,  whose  waves  in  droles  spread; 
Or  the  Red  Sea  —  but  the  sea  is  not  red. 

142. 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island-vii:gin  came. 
And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew. 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 
And  young  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  with  dew, 
Taking  her  for  a  sister;  just  the  same 
Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two, 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 
Had  all  the  advantage  too  of  not  being  air. 

143. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepp'd, 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 

That  like  an  infant  Juan  sweetly  slept; 

And  then  she  stopp'd,  and  stood  as  If  in  awe 

(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 

Should  reach  his  blood;  then  o'er  him,  still  as  death. 

Bent  with  hush'd  lips  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn  breath. 

144. 

And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying,  u^ 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean'd ;  and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwreok'd  boy  was  lying, 
As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air : 
But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 
Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes  ^  lest  they  should  ask  it. 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket 

145. 

She  knew  that  the  best  fedings  must  have  victual. 
And  that  a  shipwreck'd  youth  would  hungry  be; 
Besides,  being  less  in  love,  sheyawn'd  a  little. 
And  felt  her  veins  chill'd  by  the  neighbouring  sea; 
And  so,  she  cook'd  their  breakfkst  to  a  tittle; 
I  can't  say  that  she  gave  them  any  tea. 
But  there  were  eggs,  fruit,  coffee,  bread,  fish,  honey. 
With  Sdo-win^  —  and  all  for  love,  not  money. 

14e. 

And  Zoe,  when  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 
The  coffee  made,  would  fkin  have  waken'd  Juan ; 
But  Haidee  stopp'd  her  with  her  quick  small  hand. 
And  without  word,  a  sign  her  finger  drew  on 
Her  lip,  which  Zoe  needs  must  understand; 
And,  the  fLX%i  breakfast  spoil'd,  prepared  a  new  one. 
Because  her  mistress  would  not  let  her  break 
That  sleep  which  secm'd  as  it  would  ne'er  awake. 


172 


nON  JUAN, 


CANTO  a 


147. 

For  still  he  lay,  and  on  his  thin  worn  oheek 

A  purple  hectic  play'd  like  dying  day 

On  the  snow-tops  of  distant  hills;  the  streak 

Of  sufferance  yet  upon  his  forehead  lay, 

Where  the  blue  veins  looked  shadowy,  shrunk,  and  weak ; 

And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray, 

Which  weigh'd  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt, 

Mix'd  with  the  stony  rapours  of  the  vault 

148. 

And  she  bent  o'er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 
Hush'd  as  the  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast, 
Droop'd  as  tbe  willow  when  no  winds  can  breathe, 
Luird  like  the  depth  of  ocean  when  at  rest, 
Fair  as  the  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in  its  nest; 
In  short,  he  was  a  very  pretty  fellow, 
Although  his  woes  had  turn'd  him  rather  yellow. 

149. 

He  woke  and  gased,  and  would  have  slept  again,  . 

But  the  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes  forbade  ^ 

Those  eyes  to  close,  though  weariness  and  pain 

Had  further  sleep  a  further  pleasure  made ; 

For  woman's  fhce  was  never  form'd  in  vain 

For  Juan^  90  that  even  when  he  pray'd 

He  turn'd  from  grisly  saints,  and  martyrs  hairy. 

To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

150. 

And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose. 

And  look'd  upon  the  lady  in  whose  cheek 

The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose. 

As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak ; 

Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose, 

Altliough  she  told  him,  in  good  modern  Greek, 

With  an  Ionian  accent,  low  and  sweet. 

That  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 

151. 

Now  Juan  could  not  understand  a  word, 
Being  no  Grecian;  but  he  had  an  ear. 
And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a  bird,     . 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear, 
That  finer,  simpler  music  ne'er  was  heard; 
The  sort  of  sound  we  echo  with  a  tear, 
Without  knowing  why  —  an  overpowering  tone. 
Whence  Melody  descends  as  from  a  throne. 

162. 

And  Juan  gased  as  one  who  is  awoke 

By  a  distant  organ,  doubting  if  be  be 

Not  yet  a  dreamer,  till  the  spell  is  broke 

By  the  watchman,  or  some  such  reality. 

Or  by  one's  early  valet'fl  curaedJu^ockj 

At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  to  me, 

Who  like  a  morning<slumber  —  for  the  night 

Shows  stars  and  women  in  a  better  light         ^ 


153. 

And  Juan,  too,  was  help'd  out  fVom  his  dream, 
Or  sleep,  or  whatsoe'er  it  was,  by  feeling 
A  most  prodigious  appetite :  the  steam 
Of  Zoe's  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 
Upon  his  senses,  and  the  kindling  beam 
Of  the  new  fire,  which  Zo'e  kept  up,  kneeling. 
To  stir  her  viands,  made  him  quite  awake 
And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a  beef-steak. 

154. 

But  beef  is  rare  within  these  oxiess  isles; 

Goat's  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mutton. 

And,  when  a  holiday  upon  them  smiles, 

A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on : 

But  this  occurs  but  seldom,  between  whiles. 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a  hut  on,, 

Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which 

This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  tbe  most  ricb. 

155. 

I  say  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can't  help  thinking 

That  the  old  fkblo  of  the  Minotaur  — 

From  which  our  modern  morals,  rightly  shrinking, 

Condemn  the  royal  lady's  taste  who  wore 

A  cow's  shape  for  a  mask  ^-  was  only  (sinking 

The  allegory)  a  mere  type,  no  more. 

That  Pasiphae  promoted  breeding  cattle, 

To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  in  battle. 

156. 

For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 
Fed  upon  beef —  1  won't  say  much  of  beer. 
Because  'tis  liquor  only,  and,  being  Cat 
From  this  my  subject,  has  no  business  here; 
We  know,  too,  they  arc  very  fond  of  war, 
A  pluusuie  —  Itkc  all  pleasures  —  rather  den  r ; 
So  were  the  Cretans  —  from  which  I  infer 
That  beef  and  battles  both  were  owing  to  her. 

157. 

But  to  resume.  The  languid  Juan  raised 

His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 

A  sight  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed. 

As  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw. 

Three  or  four  things,  for  which  the  Lord  he  praised. 

And,  feeling  still  the  famish 'd  vulture  gnaw. 

He  fell  upon  whatever  was  offer'd,  like 

A  priest  a  shark,  ^  alderman,  or  pike. 

158. 

He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied;  and  she. 
Who  watch'd  him  like  a  mother,  would  have  fed 
Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 
Such  appetite  in  one  she  had  doem'd  dead: 
But  Zoe,  being  older  than  Haidee, 
Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne'er  had  read) 
That  famish'd  people  must  be  slowly  nurst 
And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst 


DON  JUAN. 


173 


160. 

And  so  she  took  the  fibertjr  to  state, 
Rather  bj  deeds  than  words,  because  the  case 
Was  urgent,  that  the  gentleniaa,  whose  fate 
Had  made  her  mistress  quit  her  bed  to  trace 
The  sea-shore  at  this  hour,  must  leave  his  plate, 
Unless  he  wish'd  to  die  upon  the  place  — 
She  snatch'd  it,  and  refused  another  morsel, 
Saying,  he  had  gorged  enough  to  malce  a  horseiU. 


100. 

Kext  they  —  he  being  naked,- sare  a  tattcr'd 
Wr  of  scarce  decent  trowsers  —  went  to  work, 
And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rags  they  scattered, 
And  dress'd  him,  for  the  present,  like  a  Turk, 
Or  Greek  —  that  is,  although  it  not  much  mattered, 
Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk,  — 
They  fumish'd  him,  entire  except  some  stitches. 
With  a  dean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

161. 

And  then  &ir  Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at  speaking, 
But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend. 
Although  he  listenM  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 
Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have  made  an  end; 
And,  as  he  interrupted  not,  went  eking 
Her  speech  out  to  her  prot^  and  friend, 
Till,  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take. 
She  saw  be  did  not  understand  Romaic 

102. 

And  then  she  bad  recourse  to  nods,  and  signs. 
And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking  eye. 
And  read  (the  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 
Of  his  fidr  &ce,  and  found,  by  sympathy, 
The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 
And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a  long  reply; 
And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  exprest 
A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guess'd. 

103. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 
And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A  lesson  in  her  tongue  ;  but  by  surmise, 
No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look : 
As  be  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 
Toms  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 
Thus  Juan  leairn'd  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  Haidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

104. 

Tis  i^easing  to  be  sehool'd  in  a  strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes  —  that  is,  I  mean. 
When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young. 
As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have  been ; 
They  smile  so  when  one's  right,  and  when  one's  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 
Pkessare  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a  chaste  kiss*  — 
\  I  Icam'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this ; 


16&. 

That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and  Greek, 
Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers; 
Much  English  I  cannot  pretend  to  speak, 
Learning  that  language  chiefly  from  its  preachers, 
Barrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 
I  study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose  — 
I  hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those. 

106. 

As  for  the  ladies,  I  have  nought  to  say, 
A  wanderer  from  the  British  world  of  fashion, 
WJhcreIr  like  other  *'dogs,"  have  had  my  day, 
Lyte^otl^er  men  too,  may  have  had  my  passion  — 
But  that,  like  other  things,  has  pass'd  away: 
And  all  her  fools  whom  I  could  lay  the  lash  on, 
Foes,  firiends,  men,  women,  now  are  nought  to  me 
But  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be. 

107. 

Return  we  to  Don  Juan.  He  begun 

To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them ;  but 

Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun. 

Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be  shut 

More  than  within  the  bosom  of  a  nun : 

He  was  in  love  —  as  you  would  be,  no  doubt, 

With  a  young  benefactress,  —  so  was  she. 

Just  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 

168. 

And  every  day  by  day-break  —  ratlicr  early 
For  Juan,  who  was  somewhat  fond  of  rest  — 
She  came  into  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 
To  see  her  bird  reposing  in  his  nest; 
And  she  would  softly  stir  his  locks  so  curly. 
Without  disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  guest, 
Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  month. 
As  o'er  a  bed  of  roses  the  sweet  south. 

109. 

And  every  mom  his  colour  freshlier  came, 
And  every  day  help'd  on  his  convalescence; 
'Twas  well,  because  health  in  the  human  frame 
Is  pleasant,  besides  being  true  love's  essence ; 
For  health  and  idleness  to  passion's  flame 
Are  oil  and  gunpowder;  and  some  good  lessons 
Are  also  learnt  from  Ceres  and  firom  Bacchus, 
Without  whom  Venus  will  not  long  attack  us. 

170. 

While  Venus  fills  the  heart  (without  heart  really 

Love,  though  good  always,  is  not  quite  so  good) 

Ceres  presents  a  plate  of  vermicelli  — 

For  love  must  be  snstain'd  like  flesh  and  blood,  — 

While  Bacchus  pours  out  wine,  or  hands  a  jelly : 

Eggs,  oysters  too,  are  amatory  food ; 

But  who  is  their  purveyor  from  above 

Heaven  knows,  —  it  may  be  Neptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 


174 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  a 


171. 

When  Jaan  woke,  he  found  some  good  tilings  ready, 
A  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  the  finest  eyes 
That  ever  made  a  youthful  heart  less  steady, 
Besides  her  maid's,  as  pretty  for  their  size ; 
But  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  already, 
-And  repetition  *3  tiresome  and  unwise; 
Welt  —  Juan,  after  bathing  in  the  sea, 
CametibKa^'9  back  to  coffee  and  Haidee. 

172. 

Botli  were  so  young,  and  one  so  innocent. 
That  bathing  pass*d  for  nothing;  Juan  seem'd 
To  her,  as  'twere,  the  kind  of  being  sent. 
Of  whom  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream'd, 
A  something  to  be  loved,  a  creature  meant 
To  be  her  happiness,  and  whom  she  deem'd 
To  render  happy;  all  who  joy  would  win 
Must  share  it,  —  Happiness  was  born  a  twin. 

173. 

It  was  such  pleasure  to  behold  liim,  such 
Enlargement  of  existence  to  partake 
Nature  with  hitao,  to  thrill  beneath  his  touch. 
To  watch  him  slumbering,  and  to  see  him  wake: 
To  live  with  him  for  ever  were  too  much; 
But  then  the  thought  of  parting  made  her  quake: 
He  was  her  own,  her  ocean-treasure,  cast 
Like  a  rich  wreck  —  her  ^st  love  and  her  last. 

174. 

And  thus  a  moon  roHM  on,  and  fiiir  Hsddee 
Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 
Such  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 
Remain'd  unknown  within  his  craggy  nook : 
At  last  her  father's  prows  put  out  to  sea. 
For  certain  merchantmen  upon  the  look. 
Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  off  an  lo. 
But  three  Ragusan  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

175. 

Then  came  her  freedom,  for  she  had  no  mother. 
So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 

yw4^  oa  n  piarrig^y  wfttnan   or  SUCh  Other  ^ 

Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass. 
Without  even  the  incumbrance  of  a  brother. 
The  ft-eest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass: 
I  speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison. 
Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  garrison. 

176. 

Now  she  prolonged  her  visits  and  her  talk 

(For  they  must  talk),  and  he  had  leatnt  to  say 

So  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a  walk,  — 

For  little  had  he  wander'd  since  the  day 

On  which,  like  a  young  flower  snapp'd  from  the  stalk. 

Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay,  — 

And  thus  they  walk'd  out  in  the  afternoon. 

And  saw  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 


177. 

It  was  a  wild  and  breaker-beaten  coast, 
With  cliffs  above,  and  a  broad  sandy  shore,  ^ 
Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  by  anhost,      , 
With  here  and  there  a  creek,  whose  aspect  wore 
A  better  welcome  to  the  tempest-tost ; 
And  rarely  ceased  the  haughty  billow's  roar. 
Save  on  the  dead-long  summer-days,  which  make 
The  outstretch'd  ocean  glitter  like  a  lake. 

178. 

And  the  small  ripple  spilt  upon  the  beach 
Scarcely  o'erpass'd  the  cream  of  your  champaigne. 
When  o'er  the  brim  the  sparkling  bumpers  reach, 
That  spring-dew  of  the  spirit!  the  heart's  rain! 
Few  things  surpass  old  wine ;  and  they  may  preach 
Who  please,  —  the  more  because  they  preach  in  vain^- 
,Let  us  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughter,^ 
^^crmons  and  soda-water  the  day  after. 

179. 

Man,  bdng  reasonable,  must  get  drunk ;       / 
f  The  best  of  life  is  but  intoxication :  ^ 

Glory,  the  grape,  love,  gold,  in  these  are  sunk 
The  hopes  of  all  men,  and  of  every  nation; 
Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were  the  trunk 
Of  life's  strange  tree,  so  fruitful  on  occasion  : 
But  to  return,  —  get;irery  drunk;  and  when 
You  wake  with  head-ache,  you  shall  see  what  tiien. 

180. 

Ring  for  your  valet  —  bid  him  quickly  bring 
Some  hock  and  soda-water,  then  you'll  know 
A  pleasure  worthy  X.crxes  the  great  king; 
For  not  the  bless'd  sherbet,  sublimed  with  snow. 
Nor  the  first  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring. 
Nor  Burgundy  in  all  its  sunset-glow. 
After  long  travel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughter. 
Vie  with  that  draught  of  hock  and  soda-water. 

181. 

/iThe  coast  —  I  think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 
\^as  just  describing  —  Yes,  it  was  the  coast  — 
Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky. 
The  sands  untumbled,  the  blue  waves  untost. 
And  all  was  stillness,save  the  sea-bird's  cry. 
And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  billow  crost 
By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made  it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet 

182. 

And  forth  they  wander'd,  her  sire  being  gone. 
As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none. 
Save  Zo'e,  who,  although  with  due  precision 
She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 
Thought  daily  service  was  her  only  mission. 
Bringing  warm  water,  wreatiiing  her  long  tresses. 
And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dresses. 


CANTO  IL 


DON  JUAN. 


175 


183. 

It  was  the  ooolii^r  hoar,  jast  when  the  rounded 
Red  son  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill, 
Whidi  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth  it  bounded, 
Circling  all  nature,  hnsh'd,  and  dim,  and  still. 
With  the  Hr  moontain-crescent  half  surrounded 
Ob  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  ealm  and  chill 
Upon  the  other,and  the  rosy  sky. 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

184. 

And  thus  they  wander'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Orer  the  shining  pebbles  and^the  shells, 
Glided  along  the  smooth  and  hardened  sand, 
And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 
Work'd  by  the  storms,  yet  worked  as  it  were  plann'd, 
la  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofe  and  cells, 
Thcf  tumM  to  rest ;  and  each  clasp'd  by  an  arm, 
Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm. 

18fiu 

They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 
Spread  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright; 
They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  below, 
Whence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into  sight; 
They  heard  the  waycs  splash,  and  the  wind  so  low, 
And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  light 
Into  each  other  —  and,  beholding  this. 
Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss ; 

186. 

A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 

And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 

lato  one  focus,  kindled  from  above; 

Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days, 

Where  heart,  and  soul,  and  sense,  in  conoert  more, 

And  the  blood's  lava,  and  the  pulse  a  blaze. 

Each  kiss  a  heart-quake,  —  for  a  kiss's  strength,  ^ 

I  think  It  must  be  reckon'd  by  its  length. 

187. 

By  length  I  mean  duration ;  theirs  endured 

Heaven  knows  how  long — no  doubtthcy  never  reckoned; 

And  if  they  had,  they  could  not  have  secured 

The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second : 

They  had  not  spoken ;  but  they  felt  allured, 

As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other  beckon'd. 

Which,  being  join'd,  like  swarming  bees  they  clung — 

Their  hearts  the  flowers  from  whence  tl'ie  honey  sprung. 

188. 

TlMy  were  alone,  but  not  alone  as  they 
Who  shut  in  chambers  think  it  loneliness; 
The  silent  ocean,  and  the  starlight  bay, 
TIk  twilight-glow,  which  momently  grew  less. 
The  voioeles  sands,  and  dropping  caves,  tliat  lay 
▲round  them,  made  them  to  each  other  press, 
Jkm  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 
Bsve  tbcuB,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 


180. 

They  fear'd  no  eyes  nor  ears  on  that  lone  beach, 
They  felt  no  terrors  from  the  night,  tjiey  were 
AlHn  all  to  each  other :  though  their  speech 
Was  broken  words,  they  thought  a  language  there,  - 
And  all  the  burning  tongues  the  passions  teach 
Found  in  one  sigh  the  best  interpreter 
Of  Nature's  oracle  —  first  love,  —  that  all 
Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since  her  fell. 

190. 

Haidce  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask'd  no  vows. 
Nor  offer'd  any;  she  had  never  heard 
Of  plight  and  promises  to  be  a  spouse. 
Or  perils  by  a  loving  maid  incurr'd; 
She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows, 
And  flew  to  her  young  m^tc  like  a  young  bird ; 
And,  never  having  dreamt  of  falsehood,  she 
Had  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

191. 

She  loVed,  and  was  beloved  -^  she  adored. 
And  she  was  worshipp'd,  after  nature's  fashion; 
Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour'd. 
If  souls  could  die,  had  perish'd  in  that  passion;  — 
But  by  degrees  their  senses  were  restored. 
Again  to  be  o'ereome,  again  to  dash  on; 
And,  beating  'gainst  kU  bosom,  Haidee's  h'eart 
Felt  as  if  never  more  to  beat  apart 

19». 

Alas!  they  were  so  young,  so  beautiful, 
So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 
Was  that  in  which  the  heart  is  always  ftill, 
And,  having  o'er  itself  no  further  power, 
Prompts  deeds  eternity  can  not  annul. 
But  pays  off  moments  in  an  endless  shower 
Of  hell-fire  —  all  prepared  for  people  giving 
Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living. 

lOS. 

Alas!  for  Juan  and  Haidee!  they  were 
So  loving  and  so  lovely  —  till  then  never. 
Excepting  our  first  parents,  such  a  pair 
Had  run  the  risk  of  being  damn'd  for  ever; 
And  Haidee,  being  devout  as  well  as  fair. 
Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river. 
And  hqll  aud  purgatory  —  but  forgot  ^ 

Just  in  the  very  crisis  she  should  not.        ix^ 

194. 

They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 
Gleam  in  the  moonlight;  and  her  white  arm  clasps 
Round  Juan's  head,  and  his  around  hers  lies 
Half  buried  in  the  tresses  which  it  grasps ; 
She  sits  upon  his  knee,  and  drinks  his  sighs. 
He  hers,  until  they  end  in  broken  gasps ; 
And  thus  they  form  a  group  that's  quite  antique. 
Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 


176 


\  DON  JUAN. 


ClUTOD. 


V 


106. 

And  when  those  deep  and  burnin;  momentfl  pass'd, 
And  Juan  sunk  to  sleep  within  her  arms, 
She  slept  not,  but  all  tenderly,  though  fast, 
Siistain'd  his  head  upon  her  bosom's  charms; 
And  now  and  then  her  eye  to  heaven  is  cast. 
And  then  on  the  pale  cheek  her  breast  now  warms, 
Pillow'd  on  her  overflowing  heart,  which  pants 
With  all  it  granted,  and  with  all  it  grants. 

106. 

An  infant  when  it  gases  on  a  light, 

A  child  the  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, . 

A  devotee  when  soars  the  Host  in  sight. 

An  Arab  with  a  stranger  for  a  guest, 

A  sailor  when  the  prize  has  struck  in  fight, 

A  miser  filling  his  most  hoarded  chest,  \' 

Feel  rapture ;  but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping 

As  they  who  watch  o'er  what  they  love  while  sleeping. 

107. 

For  there  it  lies  so  tranquil,  so  beloved, 
All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living; 
So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved. 
And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  'tis  giving; 
All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  pass'd,  and  proved, 
Hnsh'd  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher's  diving; 
There  lies  the  thing  we  love  with  all  its  errors 
And  all  its  charms,  like  death  withnnt  ititenrors. 

108. 

The  lady  watch'd  her  lover  —  and  that  hour 
Of  Love's,  and  Night's,  and  Ocean's  solitude, 
O'erflow'd  her  soul  with  their  united  power; 
Amidst  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 
She  and  her  wave-worn  love  had  made  their  bower. 
Where  nought  upon  their  passion  could  intrude; 
And  all  the  stars  that  crowded  the  blue  space 
Saw  nothing  happier  than  her  glowing  face, 

100. 

Alas!  the  love  of  women!  It  is  known 
To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing;  ' 

For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown, 
And  if  'tis  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone ; 
And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring. 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing;  yet,  as  real 
Torture  is  theirs,  what  they  Inflict  they  feel. 

200. 

They  are  right;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft  unjust, 
is  always  so  to  women ;  one  sole  bond  I- 

Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 
Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting  hearts  despond 
Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 
Buys  them  in  marriage  —  and  what  rests  beyond  ? 
A  thankless  husband,  next  a  faithless  lover. 
Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all's  over. 


SOI. 

Some  take  a  knrer,  some  take  drams  or  prayers. 
Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation. 
Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their  cares. 
Losing  the  advantage  of  a  virtuous  station; 
Few  iAuasgea  e'er  can  better  their  afiiairs. 
Theirs  being  an  unnatural  situation. 
From  the  dull  palace  to  the  dirty  hovel : 
Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a  novel. 

202. 

Haidee  was  Nature's  bride,  and  knew  not  this; 
Haidee  was  Passion's  child,  born  where  the  San 
Showers  triple  light,  and  scorches  even  the  kiss  ^ 
Of  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters ;  she  was  one 
Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  that  she  was  his 
Who  was  her  chosen :  what  was  said  or  done 
Elsewhere  was  nothing  —  She  had  nought  to  fear, 
Hope,  care,  nor  love  beyond,  her  heart  beat  here. 

203. 

And  oh!  that  quickening  ofthe  heart,  that  beat! 
How  much  it  costs  us !  yet  each  rising  throb  V 
Is  in  its  cause  as  its  effect  so  sweet. 
That  Wisdom,  ever  on  the  watch  to  rob 
Joy  of  its  alchymy,  and  to  repeat 
Fine  truths ;  even  Conscience,  too,  has  a  tough  job 
To  make  us  understand  each  good  old  maxim. 
So  good  —  I  wonder  Castlereagh  don't  tax'ein. 

204. 

And  now  'twas  done  ^  on  the  lone  shore  were  pligbted 
Their  hearts;  the  stars,  their  nuptial  torches,  shed 
Beauty  upon  the  beautiful  they  lighted : 
Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave  their  bed. 
By  their  own  feelings  hallow'd  and  united. 
Their  priest  was  Solitude,  and  they  were  wed : 
And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young  eyes 
Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise. 

205. 

Oh  Love!  of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the  suitor, 
Titus  the  master,  Antony  the  slave, 
Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 
Sappho  the  sage  blue-stocking,  in  whose  grave 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be  neater — 
(Leucadia's  rock  still  overlooks  the  wave)  — 
Oh  Love  I  thou  art  the  very  god  of  evil,       / 
For,  after  all,  we  cannot  call  thee  devil.    ^ 

206. 

Thou  mak'st  the  chaste  connubial  state  precarious, 
And  jestest  with  the  brows  of  mightiest  men: 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Belisarius, 
Have  much  employ'd  the  muse  of  history's  pen; 
Their  lives  and  fortunes  were  extremely  various,  ^ 
Such* worthies  Time  will  never  see  again;  — 
Yet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  Iack*bolds, 
They  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cuckolds. 


CANTO  IL 


DON  JUAN. 


177 


207. 

Thoamak'st  philosophers:  there's  Epicaros 

And  AristippaS;  a  material  crew  ! 

Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allare  as 

By  theories,  quite  practicable  too; 

If  onJj  from  the  devil  they  would  insure  us, 

How  pleasant  were  the  maxim  (not  quite  new), 

"Bat,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avail  us?" 

So  said  the  royal  sage,  Sardanapalus. 

doa 

But  Joan !  had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia? 

And  should  he  have  forgotten  her  so  soon  ? 

I  can't  but  say  It  seems  to  me  most  truly  a 

Perplexing  question ;  but,  no  doubt  the  moon, 

Docs  these  things  for  us,  and  whenever  newly  a 

Palpitation  rises,  'tis  her  boon ; 

Else  how  the  devil  is  it  that  fresh  features 

Have  such  a  charm  for  us  poor  human  creatures? 

209. 

I  hate  inconstancy  —  I  loathe,  detest. 

Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the  mortal  made 

Of  rach  quicksilver'Clay  tliat  in  his  breast 

No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid; 

Love^  constant  love,  has  been  my  constant  guest, 

And  yet  last  night,  being  at  a  masquerade, 

I  saw  the  prefiTcst  creature,  fresh  from  Milan,  T 

Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a  villain.  7 

210. 

fBatsoon  Philosophy  came  to  my  aid, 
And  whisper'd  ''think  of  every  sacred  tie !" 
*^  will,  my  dear  Philosophy  1"  I  said, 
**Bnt  then  her  teeth,  and  then,  oh  Heaven!  ^her  eye! 
just  inquire  if  she  bejwiie.OE  maid, 

^neither  —  out  of  curiosity." 

ttop!"  cried  Philosophy,  with  air  so  Grecian, 
[Though  she  was  maskM  then  as  a  fidr  Venetian)  — 


211. 


"St(^ !"  so  I  stopped.  —  But  to  return 
Hen  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 
TlialnfffaairBtioM  due  wtrergnature's  rich 
Profnsionwitti  youngbeanity  covers  o'er 
^oine  fiivour'd  oEjecif ;"  and  as  in  the  niche 
Al&vely  statue  we  almost  adore. 
This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  real 
Isbut  a  height<»mig  of  the  <<beaa  ideal'' 


that  which 


212. 

'Tis  the  pcxccptioB  of  the  beautifri], 

A  fine  extension  of  the  faculties, 

I^latonic,  universal,  wonderful, 

Brawn  from  the  stars,  afid  filtered  through  the  skies. 

Without  which  life  would  be  extremely  dull ; 

InsLort,  itTsfEe  use  of  our  own  eyes, 

With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 

To  hint  that  flesh  is  form'd  of  fiery  dust. 


213. 


Yet 'tis  a  painful  feeling,  and  unwilling ;  y  *" 
For  surely  it  we  always  could  perceive  /  % 
In  the  same  object  graces  quite  as  killing  \  *^^^ 
As  when  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve^^^^*^ 

i,  many  a  ahillii 


lA 


I  shilling 


'Twould  save  us  many  a  heart-ache, 
(For  we  must  get  them  any  how,  or  grieve)  ; 
Whereas,  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  for  ever. 
How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as  liver ! 

214. 

The  heart  is  like  the  sky,  a  part  of  heaven, 

But  changes  night  and  day  too,  like  the  sky ; 

Now.  o'er  it  clouds  and  thunder  must  be  driven, 

And  darkness  and  destruction  as  on  high ; 

But  when  it  hath  been  sooroh'd,  and  pierced,  and  riven. 

Its  storms  expire  in  water-drops;  the  eye 

Pours  forth  at  last  the  heart's  blood  turn'd  to  tears. 

Which  make  the  Bngllsh  climate  of  our  years. 

216. 

The  liver  is  the  lasaret  of  bile, 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function, 

For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a  while. 

That  all  the  rest  creep  in  and  form  a  junction, 

Like  knots  of  vipers  on  a  dunghill's  soil. 

Rage,  fear,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge,  compunction. 

So  that  all  mischiefisi  spring  up  from  this  entrail. 

Like  earthquakes  from  the  hidden  fire  oall'd  <<centraL" 

216. 

In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding  more      "^ 
In  this  anatomy,  I've  finish'd  now  j 

Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before,         / 
That  being  about  the  number  I'll  allow 
Bach  canto  of  the  twelxg^or  twenty-four; 
And,  laying  down  my  pen,  i  mike  lujmSw, 
Leaving  Don  Juan  and  Haidee  to  plead 
For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign  to  read. 


/ 


12 


178 


DON  JUAN. 


CAMTO  m 


CANTO    m. 


1. 

JEJAiL,  Mp«<^^  gArffi^rg.^—  We  left  Juan  sleepiog, 

Pif  low'd  upon  a  fkir  and  happy  breast, 

And  watch'd  by  eyca  that  never  yet  knew  weeping, 

And  loved  by  a  yoang  heart,  too  deeply  blest 

To  feel  the  poison  through  her  spirit  orcepbg. 

Or  know  who  rested  there;  a  foe  to  rest 

Had  soird  the  onrrent  of  her  sinless  years, 

And  turn'd  her  pure  heart's  purest  blood  to  tears. 


oKliOve!  what  is  it  In  tbi»  world  of  ours        ^ 
Which  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  ?  Ah,  why     ^ 
With  cypress-branches  hast  thou  wreathed  thy  bowers. 
And  made  thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh  ? 
As  those  who  dote  on  odours  pluck  the  flowers, 
And  place  them  on  their  breast  —  but  place  to  die  — 
Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 
Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish. 

3.  ^ 

Inher  fij:st4?assion  woman  loves  her  loyer,    ^ 
In  all  the  others  all  she  loves  is  love, 
Whidi^grows  a  habit  she  can  ne'er  get  over, 
And  fits  her  loosely  —  like  an  easy  glove, 
As  you  may  find,  whene'er  you  like  to  prove  her: 
One  man  alone  at  first  her  heart  can  move; 
She  then  prefers  Jijm  in  the  plural  number^ 
Not  finding  that  the  additions  much  encumber. 

4. 

I  know  not  if  the  fault  be  men's  or  theirs; 

But  one  thing's  pretty  sure;  a  woman  planted  — 
I  (Unless  at  once  she  plunge  for  life  in  prayers)  — 
I  After  a  decent  time  must  be  gallanted ; 
1  Although,  no  doubt,  her  first  of  love-affairs 
I  Is  that  to  which  her  heart  is  \¥holIy  granted ;  u 

Yet  there  arc  some,  they  say,  who  have  had  nonty 
\^\  those  who  have  ne'er  end  with  only  one* 


'Tis  melancholy,  and  a  fearful  sign 
Of  human  frailty,  folly,  also  crime, 
That  love  and  marriage  rarely  can  combine,       y 
Although  they  both  are  born  in  the  same  clime; 
Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine  — 
A  sad,  sour,  sober  beverage  —  by  time 
Is  sharpen'd  from  its  high  celestial  flavour 
Down  to  a  very  homely  household  savour. 


6. 

There's  something  of  antipathy,  as  'twere. 

Between  their  present  and  their  future  state; 

A  kind  of  flatterv  that's  hardlv  fair 

Is  used  until  the  truth  arrives  too  late  — 

Yet  what  can  people  do,  except  despair? 

The  same  things  change  their  names  at  such  a  rate; 

For  instance  -V  passion  ifi^a  i5ISr!li^l2!2P'**'    / 

But  in  a  husband  is  pronounced  uxorious.     V 


Men  grow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  fond ; 

They  sometimes  also  get  a  little  tired 

(But  that,  of  course,  is  rare),  and  then  despond: 

The  same  things  cannot  always  be  admired ; 

Yet  'tis  '<so  nominated  in  the  bond," 

That  both  are  tired  till  one  shall  have  expired. 

Sad  thought!  to  lose  the  spouse  that  was  adorning 

Our  days,  and  put  one's  servants  Into  mourning. 

8. 

There's  doubtless  something  in  domestic  doings, 
Which  forms,  in  fact,  true  love's  antithesis; 
Romances  paint  at  ftill  letagth  people's  wooings. 
But  only  give  a  bust  of  marriages ; 
For  no  one  cares  for  matrimonial  cooings,' 
Theresa  aothing-yrong  in  a€Offnnbial  kiss : 
Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarch's  wif<% 
He  would  Kave  written  sonnets  all  bis  life? 

9. 

*^]  tragedies  are  finish'd  by  a  death,  < 

All  comedies  are  ended  by  a  marriage ; 

The  future  states  of  both,  are  left  to  faith, 

For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 

The  worlds  to  come  of  both,  or  fall  beneath. 

And  then  both  worlds  would  punish  their  miscarriage; 

So  leaving  each  their  priest  and  prayer-book  ready. 

They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady. 

10. 

The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage,  arc 

Dante  and  Milton,  and  of  both  the  affection 

Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,*for  some  bar 

Of  fault  or  temper  ruin'd  the  connexion 

(Such  things,  in  fttct,  it  jj^'t  ask  much  to  mar) ; 

But  Dante's  Beatrice  and  Milton's  £vc 

Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive 


CANTO  ni. 


DON  JUAN. 


179 


1 


11. 

Some  peraona  say  that  Dante  meant  theology 
By  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress  —  I, 
AitboQgh  my  opinion  may  require  apology. 
Deem  this  a  commentator's  phantasy, 
Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge  he 
Decided  thus,  and  show'd  good  reason  why; 
I  think  that  Bante's  more  abstruse  ecstatics 
Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics. 

Haid^  and  Juan  were  not  married,  bat 
The  fault  wjajheirs,  not  mine;  it  is  not  fair, 
Chaste  reader,  then,  in  any  way  to  pat  c  ' 

The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  wish  they  were ;    <  ' 
Then  if  you'd  have  them  wedded,  please  to  shat  / 
The  hook  which  treats  of  this  erroneous  pair, 
Before  the  consequences  grow  too  awful  — 
'Tis  dangerous  to  read  of  loves  unlawful, 

la 

Yet  they  were  happy,  —  happy  in  the  illicit 
ladolgence  of  their  innocent  desires; 
But  more  imprudent  grown  with  every  visit, 
Haidee  forgot  the  island  was  her  sire's; 
When  we  have  what  we  like,  'tis  hard  to  mite  it, 
At  least  in  the  beginning,  ere  one  tires ; 
Thus  she  came  often,  not  a  moment  losing, 
Whilst  her  piratical  papa  was  cruising. 


ir. 

The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way. 

Pieced  out  for  different  marts  in  the  Levant, 

Bxcept  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey. 

Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 

BieacLstiiffs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  teapot-tiay, 

Guitars  and  castanets  from  Alicant, 

All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  heathers, 

Robb'd  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers. 

18. 
A  monkey,  a  Duch  mastiff,  a  mackaw. 
Two  parrots,  with  a  Persian  cat  and  kittens. 
He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw  — 
A  terrier  too,  which  once  had  been  a  Briton's, 
Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca, 
The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a  pittance; 
These  to  secure  in  this  strong  blowing  weather. 
He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  altogether. 

19. 

Then  having  settled  his  maribe-afiieiirs, 

Despatching  single  cruisers  here  and  tliere. 

His  vessel  having  need  of  some  repairs, 

He  shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daughter  fiur 

Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares; 

But  that  part  of  the  coast  being  shoal  and  bare. 

And  rough  with  reefs  which  ran  out  many  a  mile, 

His  port  lay  on  the  other  aide  o'  the  isle. 


14. 

Let  not  his  mode  of  raising  cash  seem  strange,  ~ 

Altfaoogh  he  fleeced  the  flags  of  every  nsftion. 

For  into  a  prime-minister  but  change 

His  title,  ana  us  UDthing  but  taxation ; 

But  he,  more  modest,  took  an  humbler  range 

Of  life,  and  in  an  honester  vocation 

Pursued  o'er  the  high  seas  his  watery  journey, 

And  merely  practised  as  a  scaa^ttomey. 


1^ 
The  good  old  gentleman  had  been  detained 
By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important  captures; 
And,  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remained. 
Although  a  squall  or  two  had  damp'd  his  raptures, 
By  swamping  one  of  the  prizes;  he  had  cHainM 
His  prisoners,  dividing  them  like  chapters. 
In  nomber'd  lots;  they  all  had  cuffs  and  collars, 
And  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a  hundred  dollars. 

16. 

Some  he  disposed  of  off  Cape  Matapan, 
Among  hia  friends  the  Mainots;  some  he  sold 
To  his  Tunla  correspondents,  save  one  man 
TossM  overboard  unsaleable  (being  old) ; 
The  rest  —  save  here  and  there  some  richer  one, 
Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold,  — 
Were  link'd  alike ;  as  for  the  common  people  he 
Had  a  large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 


2a 

And  there  he  went  ashore  without  delay, 
Having  no  custom-house  nor  quarantine 
To  ask  him  awkward  questions  on  the  way 
About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had  been : 
He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down  next  day, 
With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen; 
So  that  all  hands  were  busy  beyond  measare, 
In  getting  out  goods,  ballast^  gnns,  and  treasure. 

31. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a  hill  ' 

Wliich  overlooked  the  white  walls  of  his  home. 
He  stopp'd.  ^-  What  singular  emotipns.fill 
Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to  roam ! 
With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill  — 
With  love  fbr  many,  and  with  fears  for  some; 
All  feelings  which  o'erleap  the  years  long  lost, 
And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  tlieir  starting-post 

22.  ^^ 

The  approach  of  home  to  husbands  and  to  sires. 

After  long  travelling  by  land  or  water, 

Most  naturally  some  small  doubt  inspires  — 

A  female  fiEunily's  a  serious  matter; 

(None  trusts  the  sex  more,  or  so  much  admires  — 

But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I  never  flatter) ; 

Wives  in  their  husbands'  absences  grow  subtler,-^ 

And  daughters  sometimea  run  off  with  the  botler.  1 


r 


180 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  m 


23. 

An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 
May  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses ; 
Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mouriy 
Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors'  kisses;  ^ 
The  odds  arc  that  he  finds  a  handsome  urn 
To  his  memory,  and  two  or  three  young  misses 
Born  to  some  friend,  who  holds  bis  wife  and  riches, 
And  that  his  Argus  bites  him  by  —  the  breeches. 

24. 

If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fair 

Has  in  his  absence  wedded  some  rich  miser; 

But  all  the  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser, 

He  may  resume  his  amatory  care 

As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her; 

And  that  his  sorrow  may  not  be  a  dumb  one. 

Write  odes  on  the  Inconstancy  of  Woman. 

2& 

And  oh  I  ye  gentlemen  who  hav#  already 
Some  chaste  liaison  of  the  kind  —  I  mean 
An  honest  friendship  with  a  married  lady  — 
The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 
To  last  >—  of  all  connexions  the  most  steady. 
And  the  true  Hymen  (the  first 's  but  a  screen)  — 
Yet  for  all  that  keep  not  too  long  away, 
FyeiaiQw^the  abscn^  wrr^nirM  fgnp  fjff^^  l-fllTt 

26. 

Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 

Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 

Ou  seeing  his  own  chimney-smoke,  felt  glad ; 

But  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 

Of  the  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 

Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion; 

He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss  of  her. 

But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than  a  philosopher, 

27. 

He  saw  his  wliite  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden-trees  all  shadowy  and  green; 
He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run. 
The  distant  dog-bark;  and  perceived  between 
The  umbrage  of  the  wood,  so  cool  and  dun. 
The  moving  figures  and  the  sparkling  sheen 
Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm),  and  various  dyes 
Of  coloured  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 


And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears. 
Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 
He  hears  —  alas !  no  music  of  the  spheres, 
But  an  unhallow'd,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling! 
A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 
The  cause  being  past  bis  guessing  or  unriddling; 
A  pipe,  too,  and  a  drum,  and  shortly  after, 
A  most  unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 


.  29. 

And  still  more  nearly  to  the  phioe  advancing, 
Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity,  [glancbf. 

Through  the  waved  branches ,  o'er  the  green-sward 
'>Iidst  other  indications  of  festivity. 
Seeing  a  troop  of  bis  domestics  dancing 
Like  Glervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  be 
Perceived  It  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial. 
To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 

30. 

And  further  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 
The  first  abd  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving. 
Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing;  each  too  having 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls  — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving) ; 
Their  leader  sang  —  and  bounded  to  her  song. 
With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin-throng. 

31. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays. 

Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine; 

Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gase, 

And  flasks  of^mian  and  of  Chian  wine, 

And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase; 

Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine, 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er, 

Dropp'd  in  their  kips,  scarce  pluck 'd,  their  mellow  store. 

33. 

A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram, 
There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowers; 
While  peaceful,  as  if  still  an  unwcan'd  lamb. 
The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 
His  sober  head,  majestically  tame, 
Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 
His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then, 
Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

33. 

Their  classical  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses. 
Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks. 
Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses. 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks, 
The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses. 
Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks; 
So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 

34. 

Afor,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 

To  a  sedate  gray  circle  of  old  smokers, 

Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales, 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers. 

Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails. 

Of  rocks  bewitch'd  that  open  to  the  knockers, 

Of  magic  ladies,  who,  by  one  sole  act. 

Transformed  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that's  a  fact). 


ckvfo  nt 


DON  JUAN. 


181 


36. 

Here  was  no  Jack  of  innooent  diversion 
For  the  imagination  or  the  senses. 
Song,  danoe,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 
AU  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  offence  is ; 
Bat  Lambro  saw  all  these  tilings  with  aversion^ 
Perceiying  in  his  absence  such  expenses, 
•  Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills, 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

aa. 

Ah!  what  is  man?  what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner  — > 
A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
b  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner; 
Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  Siren, 
That  lureSyto  flay  alive, the  young  beginner; 
Lambro's  reception  at  his  people's  banquet 
Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 

37. 

He  ^  being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 
(la  general  he  surprised  men  witli  the  sword) 
His  daughter  —  had  not  sent  before  to  advise 
Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr'd; 
And  long  he  paused  to  re-assurc  his  eyes. 
In  ihct  much  more  astouish'd  than  delighted 
To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

38. 

He  did  not  know  —  (alas!  how  men  will  lie)  — 
That  a  report  —  (especially  the  Greek)  — 
Avouch'd  his  death  (such  people  never  die). 
And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks. 
Bat  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  were  dry; 
The  bloom  too  had  return'd  to  Haidec's  cheeks. 
Her  tears  too  being  return'd  into  their  fount, 
She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

39. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and  fiddling, 
Which  tnrn'd  the  isle  into  a  place  of  pleasure; 
Tbe  servants  all  were  getting  drunk  or  idling, 
A  life  which  made  them  happy  beyond  measure. 
Her  fiither's  hospitality  scem'd  middling. 
Compared  with  what  Haldcc  did  with  his  treasure; 
i  Twas  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving, , 
While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from  loving. 

I  ^' 

I  Perhaps  you  think,  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 

I  He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 

I  There  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased ; 
Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act, 

,  The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 
To  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact, 
And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rate, 
He  sbow'd  the  roytA  penchants  of  a  pirate. 


41. 

You're  wrong.  —  He  was  the  mildest  manner'd  man 

That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat; 
,  '^ith  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman/^ 
'   You  never  could  divine  his  real  thougbtr 

No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  woman  can 

Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat ;  — 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety!  ^ 

He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 

42. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner-tray, 
Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighcst  guest, 
With  a  peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way. 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  exprcss'd, 
He  asked  the  meaning  of  this  holiday; 
The  vinous  Greek  to  whom  he  had  address'd 
His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 
The  questioner,  fiU'd  up  a  glass  of  wine , 

43. 

And,  without  turning  his  facetious  head, 

Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Bacchant  air, 

Presented  the  o'erflowing  cup,  and  said, 

^'Talking 's  dry  work,  I  have  no  time  to  spare.'' 

A  second  hiocup'd,  *'Onr  old  master's  dead, 

You'd  better  ask  our  mistress  who*s  his  heir." 

**Owr  mistress !"  quoth  a  third :  ''Our  mistress !  —  pooh ! 

You  mean  our  master  —  not  tbe  old,  but  new." 

44. 

These  rascals,  being  new  comers,  knew  not  whom 

They  thus  address'd  —  and  Lambro's  visage  fell  — 

And  o'er  his  eye  a  momentary  gloom 

Pass'd,  but  he  strove  quite  courteously  to  quell 

The  expression,  and,  endeavouring  to  resume 

His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 

The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron, 

Who  seem'd  to  have  turn'd  Haidee  into  a  matron. 

46. 

"I  know  not,"  quoth  the  fellow,  "who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came  —  and  little  care; 
But  this  I  know  that  this  roast  capon  's  fat. 
And  that  good  wine  ne'er  wash'd  down  better  fare; 
And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that. 
Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbour  there; 
He'll  answer  ail  for  better  or  for  worse,  . 

For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  converse.7 

46. 

I  said  that  Lambro  was  a  man  of  patience, 
And  certainly  he  show'd  the  best  of  breeding. 
Which  scarce  even  France,  the  paragon  of  nations, 
E'er  saw  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding; 
He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations, 
His  own  anxiety,  his  heart  too  bleeding. 
The  insults  too  of  every  servile  glutton, 
Who  all  the  time  were  eating  up  his  mutton. 


182 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  lU 


47. 

Now  in  a  person  used  to  much  command  — 
To  bid  men  come,  and  go,  and  come  ag^in  — 
To  see  his  orders  done  too  oat  of  band  — 
Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chain  — 
It  may  seem  strange  to  find  his  manners  bland; 
Yet  sucli  things  arc,  which  I  cannot  explain, 
Though  doubtless  he  who  can  command  himself 
Is  good  to  govern  —  almost  as  a  Gucif. 

4& 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash  or  so, 
But  never  in  his  real  and  serious  mood ; 
Then^alm,  concentrated,  and  still,  and  slow, 
He  lay  coil'd  like  the  boa  in  the  wood ; 
IVith  him  it  never  was  a  word  and  blow. 
His  angry  word  once  o'er,  he  shed  nojd&od, 
But  in  his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue, 
And  his  one  blow  left  little  work  for  two. 


He  ask'd  no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 
On  to  the  house,  but  by  a  private  way, 
So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded, 
So  little  they  expected  him  that  day; 
If  love  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 
For  Haidee's  sake,  is  more  than  I  can  say, 
But  certainly  to  one,  deem'd  dead,  returning. 
This  revel  seem'd  a  curious  mode  of  mourning. 

60. 

If  all  the  dead  could  now  return  to  life, 
(Which  God  forbid  V)  or  some,  or  a  great  many ; 
For  instance,  if  a  husband  or  his  wife 
(Nuptial  examples  are  as  good  as  any). 
No  doubt  whatever  might  be  their  former  strife, 
.  The  present  weather  would  be  much  more  rainy  — 
Tears  shed  into  the  grave  of  the  connexion 
Would  share  most  probably  its  resurrection. 

61. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house  no  more  his  home, 
A  thing  to  human  feelings  the  most  trying. 
And  harder  for  the  heart  to  overcome. 
Perhaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying; 
To  find  our  hearthstone  tum'd  into  a  tomb, 
And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lying  ^ 
The  ashes  of  our  hopes,  is  a  deep  grief. 
Beyond  a  single  gentleman's  belief 

62. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house  —  his  home  no  more. 
For  without  hearts  there  is  no  home  —  and  felt    i/^ 
The  solitude  of  passbg  his  own  door 
Without  a  welcome;  there  he  long  had  dwelt, 
There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  had  swept  o'er, 
There  his  worn  bosom  and  keen  eye  would  melt 
Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child. 
His  onlyshrine  offeelings  ande||]£id. 


63. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  strange  temperament, 
Of  mild  demeanour,  though  of  savage  mood. 
Moderate  in  all  his  habits,  and  content 
With  temperance  in  pleasure  as  in  food, 
Quick  to  perceive,  and  strong  to  bear,  and  meant 
^or  something  better,  if  not  wholly  good; 
His  country's  wrongs  and  his  despair  to  save  her 
Had  stung  him  from  a  slave  to  an  enslaver. 

V 

64. 

The  love  of  power,  and  rapid  gain  of  gold. 

The  hardness  by  long  habitude  produced. 

The  dangerous  life  in  wliich  he  bad  grown  old, 

The  mercy  he  had  granted  oft  AbUfifida^ 

The  sights  he  was  accustom'd  to  behold. 

The  wild  seas  and  wild  men  with  whom  he  cruised. 

Had  cost  his  enemies  a  long  repentance, 

And  made  him  a  good  friend^  but  bad  acquaintance. 

66. 

But  something  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Flash'd  o'er  his  soul  a  few  heroic  rays, 
Such  as  lit  onward  to  the  Golden  Fleece 
His  predecessors  in  the  Colchian  days ; 
'Tis  true  he  had  no  ardent  love  for  peace  — 
Alas!  his  country  show'd  no  path  to  praise:. 
Hate  to  the  world  and  war  with  every  nation) 
He  waged,  in  vengeance  of  her  degradation.  7 

68. 

Still  o'er  his  mind  the  influence  of  the  clime 
Shed  its  Ionian  elegance,  which  show'd 
Its  power  unconsciously  full  many  a  time;  — 
A  taste  seen  in  the  choice  of  his  abode,  / 
A  love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublim^J 
A  pleasure  in  the  gentle  stream  that  flow'd 
Past  him  in  crystal,  and  a  joy  in  flowers, 
Bedew'd  his  spirit  in  his  calmer  hours. 

67, 

But  whatsoe'er  he  had  of  love,  reposed 

On  that  beloved  daughter ;  she  had  been 

The  only  thing  which  kept  his  heart  unclosed 

Amidst  the  savage  deeds  he  had  done  and  seen ; 

A  lonely  pure  affection  unopposed : 

There  wanted  but  the  loss  of  this  to  wean 

His  feelings  from  all  milk  of  human  kindness. 

And  turn  him,  like  the  Cyclops,  mad  with  b^ndnes8. 

68. 

The  cubless  tigress  in  her  jungle  raging 
Js  dreadful  to  the  shepherd  and  the  flock ; 
The  ocean  when  its  yeasty  war  is  waging 
Is  awful  to  the  vessel  near  the  rock; 
But  violent  things  will  sooner  bear  assuaging. 
Their  fury  being  spent  by  its  own  shock, 
Than  the  stern,  single,  deep,  and  wordless  ire 
Of  a  strong  human  heart,  and  in  a  sire. 


CAHTO  IIL 


DON  JUAN. 


183 


00. 

It  is  a  hard,  alt1ioug:b  a  Gommon  case. 

To  find  oar  children  running  restive  —  they 

lo  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace, 

Our  little  selves  re-form'd  in  finer  clay ; 

Just  as  old  age  is  creeping  on  apace, 

And  clouds  come  o'er  the  sunset  of  our  day, 

They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 

But  in  good  company  —  the  gout  and  stone. 


60. 

Yet  a  fine  femily  is  a  fine  thing 

(Provided  (hey -don't  cofiifi  in  after  dinner) ; 

Ta  bcautiiu]  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children  up  (if  nursing  tticm  don't  thin  her)  ; 

Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  cling 

To  the  fire-side  (a  sight  to  touch  a  sinner). 

A  lady  with  her  daughters  or  her  nieces 

Shine  like  a  guinea  and  seven-shUling-pieoes. 

61. 

Old  Lambro  passed  unseen  a  private  gate. 
And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide; 
^Ccantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 
At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride: 
An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 
Before  them,  and  feir  slaves  on  every  side; 
Oems,  gold,  and  silver,  form'd  the  service  mostly, 
Hother  of  pearl  and  coral  the  less  costly. 

The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes ; 

Lamb  and  pistachio-nuts  —  in  short,  all  meats, 

And  saffron  soups,  and  sweetbreads ;  and  the  fishes 

Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  flounced  in  nets, 

Dress'd  to  a  Sybarite's  most  pampered  wishes ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbets 

Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  juice. 

Sqnecied  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  for  use. 

63 

These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal  ewer. 
And  firuits  and  date-bread-loaves  closed  the  repast, 
And  Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure. 
In  small  fine  China-cups  came  in  at  last  — 
Gold  cups  of  filigree,  diade  to  secure 

;  The  hand  from  burning,  anderneath  them  placed; 

ir Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saffron  too,  were  boil'd 
Up  with  the  coffee,  which  (I  think)  they  spoiled. 

64. 

L  The  hangings  of  the  room  were  tapestry,  made 
'  Of  velvet    panels,  each  of  different  hue, 
I  And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid; 
I  And  roood  them  ran  a  yellow  border  too ; 
^Ae  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  display'd, 
[jfabroider'd  delicately  o'er  with  blue, 
poft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  tetters, 
ilroBi  poetSy  or  the  moralists  thdr  betters. 


65. 

These  oriental  writings  on  the  wall. 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  arc  a  kind 

Of  monitors  adapted  to  recall, 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian  banquets,  to  the  mind 

The  words  which  shook  Bclshazzar  in  his  halt. 

And  took  his  kingdom  from  him.  —  You  will  find, 

Though  sages  may  pour  out  their  wisdom's  treasure, 

There  is  no  sterner  moralist  than  pleasure. 

ee. 

A  beauty  at  the  season's  close  grown  hectic, 

A  genius  who  has  drunk  himself  to  death, 

A  rake  tumM  methodistic,or  eclectic  — 

(For  that's  |he  name  they  like  to  pray  beneath)  — 

But  most,  an  alderman  struck  apoplectic. 

Arc  things  that  reaHy  take  away  the  breath, 

And  show  that  late  hours,  wine,  and  love,  are  able 

To  do  not  much  less  damage  than  the  table. 

^- 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 
On  crimson  satin,  bordcr'd  with  pale  blue ;  /    ■ 

Their  sofii  occupied  three  parts  complete  .    "^  . 

Of  the  apartment  —  and  appear'd  quite  new; 
The  velvet  cushions  —  (for  a  throne  more  meet)  — 
Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 
A  sun  emboss'd  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian- like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue, 

68. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain. 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour ;  Indian  mats 

And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain. 

Over  the  floors  were  spread;  gazelles  and  cats, 

And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  things,  that  gain 

Their  bread  as  ministers  and  fiivourites  —  (thaf  s 

To  say,  by  degradation)  —  mingled  there 

As  plentiful  as  in  a  court  or  &ir. 


There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
Witli  mother  of  pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand. 
Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rar9  woods  made. 
Fretted  with  gold  or  silver:  —  by  command. 
The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 
With  viands,  and  sherbets  in  ice,  and  wine  — 
Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

70. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidee's : 
She  wore  two  jclicks  —  one  was  of  pale  yellow; 
Of  azure,  pinl^,  and  white,  was  her  chemise  — 
'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  little  billow ; 
With  buttons  form'd  of  pearls  as  large  as  pease, 
All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fellow, 
And  the  striped  white  gauze-baracan  that  boand  her. 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flow'd  round  her. 


/ 


184 


DON  JUAN. 


CAI«TODL 


71. 


One  larg^e  g:o]d  bracelet  clasp'd  each  lovely  arm, 
LocklcRS  —  80  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretch'd  and  shut  it  without  harm. 
The  limb  which  it  adorn'd  its  only  mould: 
So  beautiful  —  its  very  shape  would  charm, 
And  clinging,  as  if  loth  to  lose  its  hold , 
The  purest  ore  inclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

72. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 

A  like  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  roll'd. 

Announced  her  rank;  twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand ; 

Her  hair  was  starr'd  with  gems :  her  veirs  fiiie  fold 

Below  her  breast  was  fastened  with  a  band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told; 

Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trowsers  farl'd 

About  the  prettiest  ancle  in  the  world. 

73. 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 
Flow'd  like  an  AIpine*torrent  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning-light,  —  and  would  conceal 
Her  person  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run, 
And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 
The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 
To  offer  bis  young  pinion  as  her  fern. 

74. 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life. 
The  very  air  seem'd  lighter  from  her  eyes , 
They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 
And  pure  as  l^syche's  ere  she  grew  a  wife  — 
Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  yon  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

75. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged 
(It  is  the  country's  custom),  but  in  vain ; 
For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fiinged, 
The  glossy  rebels  mock'd  the  jetty  stain. 
And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged  : 
Her  nails  were  touch'd  with  henna;  but  again 
The  power  of  art  was  turn'd  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

76. 

The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 
The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair; 
She  had  no  need  of  this,  day  ne'er  will  break 
On  mountun-tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her: 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake. 
She  was  so  like  a  vision;  I  might  err. 
But  Shakspeare  also  says  'tis  very  silly 
"To  gild  refined  gold,,  or  paint  the  lily." 


77. 


Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold, 
But  a  white  baracan,  an^  so  transparent 
The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold. 
Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  apparent ; 
His  turban,  fiirl'd  in  many  a  graccftd  fold. 
An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidce's  hair  in't 
Surmounted^as  its  clasp  —  a  growing  crescent. 
Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  bat  incessant 

78. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  mute, 
Dwarfii,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  ^jg**, 
Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete; 
The  last  was  of  great  fome,  and  liked  to  show  it: 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet  — 
And  for  his  theme  —  he  seldom  sung  below  it ; 
He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter. 
As  the  psalm  says,  "inditing  a  good  matter." 

79. 

He  praised  the  present  and  abused  the  past. 

Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 

An  eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 

He  turn'd,  preferring  pudding  to  no  praise  — 

For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 

By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays. 

But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  and  the  Pacha, 

With  truth  like  Sonthcy  and  with  verse  like  Crashaw. 

80. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes. 
And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle; 
His  polar-star  being  one  which  rather  ranges, 
And  not  the  fix'd  —  he  knew  the  way  to  wheedle: 
So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges; 
And  being  fluent  (save  indeed  when  fee'd  ill), 
He  lied  with  such  a  fervour  of  intention  — 
There  was  no  doubt  he  eam'd  his  laureate-pension. 

81. 

But  be  had  genius,  —  when  a  tnrnooat  baa  it, 

The  "Vates  irri^ilis"  takes  care 

That  withoutnotlce  few  full  moons  shall  pass  it; 

Even  good  men  like  to  make  the  pnblic  stare. 

Biit  to  my  subject  —  let  me  see  —  what  was  it? 

Ob !  —  the  third  canto  —  and  the  pretty  pair  — 

Their  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  and  modei 

Of  living  in  their  insular  abode.  * 


Thdr  poet,  a  sad  trimmer,  but  no  less 

In  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow. 

Had  been  the  favourite  of  full  many  a  i 

Of  men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half  meiloir; 

And  though  his  meaning  they  could  rarely  guess. 

Yet  still  they  deign'd  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 

The  glorious  meed  of  popular  applause. 

Of  which  the  first  ne'er  knows  the  second  oaose. 


CANTO  m. 


DON  JUAN. 


185 


83. 

Bat  now  being  lifted  into  high  society, 
And  having  pick'd  up  several  odds  and  ends 
Of  free  thoQghts  in  his  travels,  for  variety, 
He  deem'd,  being  in  a  lone  isle  among  friends, 
That,  without  any  danger  of  a  riot,  he 
Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends ; 
And,  singing  as  he  sung  in  his  warm  youth. 
Agree  to  a  short  armistioe  with  truth. 

84. 

He  liad  tiaveU'd  'mongst  the  Arabs,  Turks,  and  Franks, 

And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  nations  j 

And,  having  lived  with  people  of  all  ranks. 

Had  something  ready  upon  most  oooasions  — - 

Which  got  him  a  few  presents  and  some  thanks. 

He  nried  with  some  skill  his  adulations ; 

To  "do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,"  a  piece 

Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

8& 

Thu,  usually,  when  he  was  ask'd  to  slog. 

He  gave  the  different  nations  sometliing  national ; 

Twaa  all  the  same  to  him  —  ''God  save  the  King," 

Or  "(3i  tm/'  according  to  the  fashion  all; 

His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing. 

From  the  high  lyrical  to  the  low  rational: 

If  Piadar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 

Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

86. 

In  Fnnee,  for  instance,  he  would  write  a  chanson , 

Ib England,  a  six-canto-quarto-tale; 

b  Spain,  he'd  make  a  ballad  or  romance  on 

The  last  war  —  much  the  same  in  Portugal; 

h  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he'd  prance  on 

Would  be  old  Goethe's  —  (see  what  says  de  Stael) ; 

la  Baly,  he'd  ape  the  "Trecentist!;" 

In  Greece,  he'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  t'ye : 

,        The  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece !     ^/ 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung. 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 
Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Sternal  summer  gilds  them  yet. 
Bat  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

I        The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 
I  ooold  not  deem  myself  a  slave.  . 


A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations;  —  all  were  his! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  Uke  mine? 

'Tis  something  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race^ 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  fiice ; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 
For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 
Must  we  but  blush?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  I  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 
A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  aU? 
Ah !  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 
And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise,  ^  we  come,  wc  come !" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain :  strike  other  chords ; 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
Tou  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacrcon's  song  divine: 
He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  ttaor- 
Were  still,  at  leasts  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 
Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ;    ' 
not  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 
Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 
12* 


186 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  m. 


Fill  hi^h  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 
On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore. 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 
Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells ; 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 
Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  sooh  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep  — 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
DasK  d6wn  yon  cup  of  SamfaA  wine ! 

\ 

87. 

Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should  have  sung, 

The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse, 

If  not  like  Orplteus  quite,  when  Greece  was  young, 

Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done  much  worse ; 

His  strain  display'd  some  feeling  —  right  or  wrong; 

And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 

Of  others'  feeling ;  but  they  arc  such  liars. 

And  take  all  colours  —  like  the  hands  of  dyers. 


f 


sXil 


'.)  y 


I  But  wordsare  things,  and  a  small  drop  of  ink, 
!^  Falling  like  dew  upon  a  tnon^t,  pmritt^op 
"That  wbich  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions,  think ; 
'fis  strange,  tii<^  Sliurlesi  li'UtT  whiuli  mHii  Oikcs 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 
Of  ages;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man,  when  paper  —  even  a  rag  like  this, 
Survives  himself,  bis  tomb,  and  all  that's  his . 

89. 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a  blank, 

His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation. 

Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 

In  chronological  commemoration. 

Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank, 

Or  graven  stone,  found  in  a  barrack's  station, 

In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet, 

May  turn  his  name  up  as  a  rare  deposit  * 


90. 

An<lglory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile: 

'Tis  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  f?iiid  ^- 

Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind : 

Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  Whist  owes  to  Hoyle; 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 

To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving  knocks, 

Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

91. 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets  —  so  we  say; 
A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine: 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 
Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine ; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way. 
We're  told  this  great  higfa-priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college  —  a  harsh  sire  — <  odd  spouse, 
For  the  first*'Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

92. 

All  these  are,  certeg,  entertaining  huds, 

Like  Shakspoare's  stealing  deer.  Lord  Bacon's  bribes; 

like  Titus' youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts; 
Like  Bums  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes); 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks;  ^  but  although  tmtli  exacts 
These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story. 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

93. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Soutlicy,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "Pantisocrasy ;" 
Or  Wordsworth  uncxciscd,  unhired,  who  then 
Scason'd  his  pedlar-poems  with  democracy; 
Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Let  to  the  Morning-Post  its  aristocracy; 
When  he  and  Southcy,  following  the  same  path. 
Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 

94. 

Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  6gare, 
The  very  Botany-Bay  in  moral  geography ; 
Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  vigour, 
Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography. 
Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 
Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography ; 
A  clumsy  frowsy  poem,  call'd  the  ^^Bxcuniion," 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

95. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect; 

But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh  and  her  sect. 

Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind,  so  few  are  the  elect ; 

And  the  new  births  of  both  tl^ir  stale  virginities 

Have  proved  but  dropsies  taken  for  divinities. 


(UNTO  in 


DON  JUAN. 


187 


96. 

Bat  let  me  to  my  story:  I  mast  owd, 
If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression ; 
Letting  my  people  to  proceed  alone, 
While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression; 
Bot  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 
Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing  session : 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

07. 

I  know  that  what  our  neighkours  call  ''hnffueun" 
(We've  not  so  good  a  word,  but  have  the  tking 
In  that  complete  perfection  which  ensures 
Ad  epic  from  Bob  Southey  every  spring)  — 
Form  not  the  true  temptation  which  allures 
The  reader;  but  'twould  not  be  hard  to  bring 
Some  fine  examples  of  the  ipop^e. 
To  prove  its  grand  ingredient  is  eimni. 

We  learn  from  Horace,  Homer  sometimes  sleeps; 
We  feci  without  him,  Wordsworth  sometimes  wakes, 
To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps, 
With  his  dear  "  Waggoners'*  around  his  lakes ; 
He  wishes  for  "a  boat"  to  sail  the  deeps  — 
Ofocean?  — No,ofair;  and  then  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  "a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat 


nil* 

If  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  etherial  plain, 
And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "waggon," 
Could  be  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's  Wain  ? 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon? 
Or  if  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain, 
He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on. 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the  moon, 
Could  not  the  Uo^h^dBskior  a  balloon? 

100. 

•'Pedhirs,"  and  '*boats,"  and  ♦•waggons!"  Oh!  ye  shades 

Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this? 

That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 

Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast  abyss 

Floats  scum-like  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 

Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss  — 

The  "little  boatman"  and  his  "Peter  Bell" 

Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  "Acbitogbel !" 

101. 

T'  our  tale.  —  The  feast  was.  over,  the  slaves  gone, 

The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done. 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired ; 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone. 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight-sky  admired; 

Ave  Maria!  o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 

That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  thee  I 


102. 

Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour!  ^ 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 
Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest-leaves  seem'd  stirr'd  with  prayer. 

103. 

Ave  Maria !  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria !  'tis  the  hour  of  love ! 

Ave  Maria!  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above! 

Ave  Maria!  oh  that  face  so  fair! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  almighty  dove— 

What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  image  strike  — 

That  painting  is  no  idol,  'tis  too  like. 


v/ 


sX 


\ 


104. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say, 

In  nameless  print  —  that  I  have  no  devotion; 

But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray. 

And  you  shall  sec  who  has  the  properest  notion 

Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way; 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean. 

Earthy  air/stars,  —  all  that  springs  from  thtrgreat  whole, 

Who  hath  produ^,  and  wiUreoeive  the  soul.       ^""^^ 

106. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight!  —  in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine-forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  (low'd  o'er. 
To  where  the  last  Ctesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me. 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight-hour  and  thee ! 

loa 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer-lives  one  ceaseless  song. 

Were  the  sole  echos,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 

And  vesper-bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along ; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line. 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng. 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

107. 

Oh  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good  things  — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer. 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabour'd  steer; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household-gods  protect  of  dear, 
Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 
Thou  brin^t  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 


J 


188 


DON  JUAN. 


CAHTO  n. 


106. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart; 

•Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 

As  the  far  bell  of  yespcr  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay ; 

Is  this  a  foncy  which  our  reason  scorns? 

Ah !  sorely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns ! 

109. 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  jnstest  doom  • 

Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy 'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoyed, 

Some  hands  unseen  strcw*d  flowers  upon  his  tomb: 

Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 


110. 

But  I'm  digressing:  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons. 

To  do  with  the  transaction*  of  my  hero. 

More  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man  —  tiie  moon's! 

Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 

And  I  grown  one  of  many  ''wooden  spoons'' 

Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs  please 

To  dub  the  last  of  honours  in  degrees). 

111. 

I  feel  this  tediousness  wUl  never  do  — 
'Tia^^eing  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  (bis  long  canto  into  two; 
They'll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own 
The  fact,  excepting  some  experienced  few; 
And  then  as  an  improvement  'twill  be  shown : 
I'll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  is 
From  Aristotle /yoMtm.  —  See  lloufrtxijg. 


CANTO     IV. 


1. 

MoTHiMG  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 
In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  cud; 
For  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 
The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl'd  from  heaven  for  sinning; 
Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend. 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are.       v^ 


But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their  level, 

And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teacli  at  last 

Man,  —  and,  as  we  would  hope,  —  perhaps  the  devil. 

That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 

While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins  revel, 

We  know  not  this  —  tlie  blood  flows  on  too  fast; 

But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean. 

We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

3. 

As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow , 
And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same  opinion ; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow, 
And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion : 
Now  my  sere  fancy  «falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,"  and  imagination  droops  her  pinion, 
And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my  desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 


And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 
'Tis  that  I  may  not  weep ;  and  if  I  weep, 
'Tis  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 
Itself  to  apathy,  which  we  must  steep 
First  in  the  icy  depths  of  Lethe's  spring 
£re  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep ; 
Thetis  baptised  her  mortal  son  in  Styx ; 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  &x. 


Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line: 
I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine; 
But  the  fact  is  that  I  have  nothing  plann'd. 
Unless  it  was  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 


To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 

This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic; 

Puici  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 

Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotic, 

And  revell'd  in  the  fancies  of  tlic  time. 

True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants,  kings  despotic; 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 


CANTO  IT. 


DON  JUAN. 


189 


How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know  — 

Pf  rbapi  no  better  than  they  have  treated  me 

Who  have  impated  sach  designs  as  show 

Not  what  they  saw,  bat  what  they  wishM  to  see; 

Bat  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so, 

This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are  free: 

Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 

And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 


Toong  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts'  most  sweet  society; 
Eren  Time,  the  pitiless,  in  sorrow  cleft 
Whh  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms ;  he 
Sigh'd  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft, 
Thoogh  foe  to  love;  and  yet  they  could  not  be 
Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 
Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

Their  &ce8  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 
Pare  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail; 
The  blank  gray  was  not  made  to  blast  their  hair. 
But,  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow  nor  hail, 
Hey  were  all  summer :  lightning  might  assail 
And  shiver  tliem  to  ashes;  but  to  trail 
A  long  and  snakc-Iike  life  of  dull  decay 
Was  not  for  them  —  they  had  too  little  clay* 

10. 

Fhey  were  alone  once  more ;  for  them  to  be 
Thus  was  another  Bden ;  they  were  never 
Weary,  unless  when  separate;  the  tree 
Cot  from  its  forest-root  of  years  —  the  river 
Damm'd  from  its  fountain  —  the  child  from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  wean'd  at  once  for  ever,  -» 
Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn  apart ; 
Alas!  (here  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart  — 

11. 

The  heart  —  which  may  be  broken :  happy  they ! 
Thrice  fortunate !  who,  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay,  ' 

Break  with  the  first  fall :  they  can  ne'er  behold 
The  long  year  link'd  with  heavy  day  on  day. 
And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told; 
L  While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 

13. 

"Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore, 
And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this ; 
The  death  of  friends,  and  that  which  slays  even  more  - 
The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all  that  is. 
Except  mere  breath ;  and  since  the  silent  shore 
Awaits  at  test  even  those  whom  longest  miss 
The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps  the  early  grave 
Whidi  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 


13. 

Haid^e  and  Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead. 

The  heavens,  and  earth,  and  air,  scem'd  made  for  them: 

They  found  no  fault  with  Time,  save  that  he  fled; 

They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn: 

Each  was  the  other's  mirror,  and  but  read 

Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a  gem. 

And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 

Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  affection. 

14 

The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch. 

The  least  glance  better  understood  than  words. 

Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too  much; 

A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds, 

Known  but  to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 

As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  affords ; 

Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 

To  those  who  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or  ne'er  heard : 

1ft. 

All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children  still, 
And  children  still  they  should  have  ever  been; 
They  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  fill 
A  busy  character  in  the  dull  scene. 
But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 
A  nymph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 
To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  flowers. 
And  never  know  the  weight  3f  human  hours. 

16. 

Moons  changing  had  roll'd  on,  and  changeless  found 
Those  their  bright  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 
As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round; 
And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloys. 
For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 
By  the  mere  senses;  and  that  which  destroys 
Most  love,  possession,  unto  them  appear'd 
A  thing  which  each  endearment  more  endear'd. 

17. 

Oh  beautiful!  and  rare  as  beautiful! 

But  theirs  was  love  in  which  the  mind  delights 

To  lose  itself,  when  the  whole  world  grows  dull. 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and  sights, 

Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school. 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights. 

Where  Hymen's  torch  but  brands  one  strumpet  more, 

Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a  wh — ^re, 

IS. 

Hard  words;  har^h  truth;  a  truth  which  many  know. 
Enough.  —  The  faithful  and  the  iairy  pair. 
Who  never  found  a  single  hour  too  slow. 
What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care? 
Young  innate  feelings  all  have  felt  below. 
Which  perish  in  the  rest,  but  in  them  were 
Inherent;  what  we  mortals  call  romantic. 
And  always  envy,  though  we  deem  it  frantic. 


190 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  IV 


19. 

This  is  in  others  a  factitious  state, 

An  opium-dream  of  too  much  youth  and  reading, 

But  was  in  them  their  nature  or  their  fate : 

No  novels  e'er  had  set  their  jroung  hearts  bleeding, 

For  Haidee's  knowledge  was  by  no  means  great, 

And  Juan  was  a  boy  of  saintly  breeding; 

So  that  there  was  no  reason  for  their  loves 

3Core  than  for  those  of  nightingales  or  doves. 

«). 

They  gazed  upon  the  sunset;  'tis  an  hour 
Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes, 
For  it  had  made  them  what  they  were :  the  power 
Of  love  had  first  overwhelmed  them  from  such  skies, 
When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower. 
And  twilight  saw  them  link'd  in  passion's  ties; 
Charm'd  with  each  other,  all  things  diarm'd  that  brought 
The  past  still  welcome  as  the  present  thought. 

21. 

I  know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night. 
Even  as  they  gazed,  a  sudden  tremor  oame, 
And  swept,  as  'twere,  across  their  hearts'  delight, 
Like  the  wind  o'er  a  harp-string,  or  a  flame, 
When  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and  one  in  sight ; 
And  thus  some  boding  flash'd  through  either  frame. 
And  call'd  from  Juan's  breast  a  faint  low  sigh. 
While  one  new  tear  arose  in  Haidee's  eye. 

That  large  black  prophet-eye  seem'd  to  dilate 

And  follow  iar  tlie  disappearing  son. 

As  if  their  last  day  of  a  happy  date 

With  his  broad,  bright,  and  dropping  orb  were  gone; 

Juan  gazed  on  her  as  to  ask  his  iate  — 

He  felt  a  grief,  but  knowing  cause  for  none. 

His  glance  inquired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 

For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 

33. 

She  tnrn'd  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  in  that  sort 
Which  makes  not  others  smile;  then  turn'd  aside : 
Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seem'd  short, 
And  master'd  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride; 
When  Jnan  spoke,  too  —  it  might  be  in  sport  — 
Of  this  their  mutual  feeling,  she  replied  — 
"If  it  should  be  so,  —  but  —  it  cannot  be  — 
Or  I  at  least  shaU  not  survive  to  see." 

34. 

Jnan  would  question  further,  but  she  press'd 

His  lips  to  hers,  and  silenced  him  with  this. 

And  then  dismiss'd  the  omen  from  her  breast, 

Defying  augury  with  that  fond  kiss ; 

And  no  doubt  of  all  methods  'tis  the  best: 

Some  people  prefer  wine  —  'tis  not  amiss; 

I  have  tried  both ;  so  those  who  would  a  part  take    ^  y 

May  choose  between  the  iicadacbe  and  the  heartache. 


3& 

One  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 
Womafi  or  wine,  yotfH  have  io  nndergo ; 
Both  maladies  aretabe^esonottr  joys: 
But  which  to  choose  I  really  hardly  know; 
And  if  I  had  to  give  a  casting  voice, 
For  both  sides  I  could  niiany  reasons  show. 
And  then  decide,  without  great  wrong  to  either. 
It  were  much  better  to  have  both  than  neither. 

36. 

Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness. 

Which  mix'd  all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lover,  brother, 

All  that  the  best  can  mingle  and  expn?ss 

When  two  pure  hearts  are  pour'd  in  one  another. 

And  love  too  much,  and  yet  can  not  love  less; 

But  almost  sanctify  the  sweet  excess 

By  the  immortal  wish  aAd  power  to  bless. 

27. 

Mix'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in  heart. 
Why  did  they  not  then  die?  —  they  had  lived  too  long 
Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart; 
Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong. 
The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's  art 
For  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song; 
Love  was  born  with  them,  in  them,  so  intense. 
It  was  their  very  spirit  —  not  a  sense. 


They  should  have  lived  togctiier  deep  in  woods. 
Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale ;  they  were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 
Called  social,  where  all  vice  and  hatred  arc; 
How  lonely  every  free-born  creature  broods ! 
The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  pair; 
The  eagle  soars  alone ;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o*er  their  carrion,  just  as  mortals  do. 

39. 

Now  piUow'd,  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 

A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep, 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 

Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep; 

And  Haidee's  swec.t  lips  murmur'd  like  a  brook 

A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 

Stirr'd  with  her  dream  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air ; 

dO. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 
Within  an  Alpine-hollow,  when  the  wind 
Walks  over  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream, 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind  — 
O'erpowcring  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 
Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind ; 
Strange  state  of  being !  (for  'tis  still  to  be) 
Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seal'd  eyes  to  see. 


CANTO  IT. 


DON  JUAN. 


191 


31. 

She  dream'd  of  beiogr  alone  on  the  sea-shore. 
Chained  to  a  rock;  she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 
She  eoald  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  lood  roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her; 
And  o'er  her  upper-lip  they  seem'd  to  pour, 
Uotil  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 
Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high 
Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 


AnoD  —  Ae  was  released,  and  then  she  stray 'd 
0*er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet, 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 
And  something  roH'd  before  her  in  a  sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid; 
Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopped  to  meet 
Her  glance  norgra«p,  for  still  she  gaeed  and  grasp'd, 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp'd. 


The  dream  changed ;  in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 

Were  hung  with  marble-icides ;  the  work 

Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls,  [lurk ; 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed  and 

Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 

Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  turn'd  to  tears,  and  murk 

The  sharp  rocks  look'd  below  each  drop  they  caught, 

Which  frose  to  marble  as  it  fell,  she  thought. 

34. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet. 
Me  as  tiie  foam  that  froth'd  on  his  dead  brow. 
Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  dear,  (how  sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seem'd  they  now! ) 
Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quench'd  heart;  and  the  sea-dirges  low 
Rang  in  her  sad  oars  like  a  mermaid's  song, 
And  that  brief  dream  appeared  a  life  too  long. 

3& 

And  gasing  on  the  dead,  she  tfiougitt  his  face 

Faded,  oralter'd  into  something  new  — 

lake  to  her  fiitlier's  features,  till  each  trace 

More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew  — 

With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace; 

Aad  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view? 

Oh!  Powers  of  Heaven !  what  dark  eye  meets  she  there? 

Tis  —  'tis  her  other's  —  fix'd  upon  the  pair! 

96. 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  sec 
Hun  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 
Perefaanoe  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well : 
Dear  as  her  lather  had  been  to  Haidce, 
It  waa  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind  — 
I  have  seen  sacfa  —  but  must  not  call  to  mind. 


37. 

Up  Juan  sprung  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 
Snatch'd  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all : 
Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak, 
Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  ''Within  my  call 
A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word, 
Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 


And  Haidee  clung  around  him;  ''Juan,  'tis  — 
'Tis  Lambro  —  'tis  my  father !  Kneel  with  me  — 
He  will  forgive  us  — •  yes  —  it  must  be  —  yes 
Oh !  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain  •»  even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 
That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 
Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 
Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye  — 
Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood  : 
He  look'd  upon  her,  but  gave  no  repi}'; 
Then  turn'd  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die; 
In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

40. 

'*Toung  man,  your  sword ;"  so  Lambro  onoe  more  said: 

Juan  replied,  ''Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 

The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread. 

And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 

Replied,  '*Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head." 

Then  look'd  close  at  the  Oint,  as  if  to  see 

'Twas  fresh  —  for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock  — 

And  next  proceeded  quietly  io  cook. 

41. 

It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 
A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  olf,  or  so; 
A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near, 
If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  for  foe; 
Bat  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice, 
The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 

42. 

Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopp'd  this  Canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breath. 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before ; 

Stem  as  her  sire:  "On  me,"  she  cried,  ''let  death 

Descend  —  the  fbult  is  mine;  this  fatal  shore 

He  found  -» but  sougiit  not.  I  have  pledged  my  fiiith ; 

I  love  him  —  I  will  die  with  him :  I  knew 

Tour  nature^s  firmness  —  know  your  daugiitcr's  too." 


192 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  IT. 


43. 

A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 
And  tenderness,  and  infancy :  but  now 
She  stood  as  one  who  cbampion'd  human  fears  — 
Pale)  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  woo'd  the  blow; 
And  tall  beyond  her  sex  and  their  compeers. 
She  drew  up  to  lier  height,  as  if  to  show 
A  fairer  mark;  and  with  a  fix'd  eye  scann'd 
Her  father's  face  —  but  never  stopp'd  his  hand. 

44. 

He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him ;  'twas  strange 
How  like  they  lookM!  the  expression  was  the  same; 
Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change 
In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted  flame; 
For  she  too  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 
If  cause  should  be  —  a  lioness,  though  tame: 
Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  &oe 
Boil'd  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  raoe. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 

Their  statures  dlfifering  but  in  sex  and  years; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hands 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears; 

And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 

In  fix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears. 

And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed  both. 

Shows  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

46. 

The  fetber  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His  weapon,  and  replaced  it;  but  stood  stiU, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 
''Not  //'  he  said,  "have  sought  this  stranger's  ill; 
Not  i  have  made  this  desolation :  few 
Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill; 
But  I  must  do  my  duty  —  how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past. 

47. 

Let  him  disarm;  or,  by  my  father's  head. 
His  own  shall  roll  before  yon  like  a  ball !" 
He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said. 
And  blew ;  another  answer'd  to  the  call, 
And  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led. 
And  arm'd  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 
Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank; 
He  gave  the  word,  "Arrest  or  shiy  the  Frank." 

48. 

Then,  With  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daughter;  while  compress'd  within  his  grasp, 
'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew ; 
In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp  — 
His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil :  then  flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 
The  file  of  pirates;  save  the  foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  out  through. 


49. 

The  second  bad  his  cheek  laid  open;  but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool,  old  sworder,  took 
The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own  well  in ;  so  well,  ere  you  could  look. 
His  man  was  floor'd,  and  helpless  at  his  foot. 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 
From  two  smart  sabre-gashes,  deep  and  red  — 
One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

60. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment:  with  a  sign 
Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 
They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reach'd  some  galliots,  placed  in  line; 
On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches. 
They  stow'd  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

51. 

The  world  is  ftill  of  strange  vicissitudes. 
And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant: 
A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods, 
Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present, 
Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a  thing,  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent. 
Wounded  and  chain'd,  so  that  he  cannot  move. 
And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

52. 

Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 
Moved  by  the  Chinese  nymph  of  tears,  green  tea ! 
Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  prophetic; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 
I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic. 
That  I  must  have  recourse  to  bhick  Bohea : 
'Tis  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious. 
For  tea  and  ooflee  leave  us  much  more  serious , 

53. 

Unless  when  qualified  with  thee.  Cognac! 
Sweet  Naiad  of  the  Phlegethontic  rill ! 
Ah !  why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack. 
And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill? 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 
(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene'er  I  fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim. 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 

54. 

I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present  safe  — 
Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded; 
Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom  bounded? 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe, 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded: 
Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 
Where  all  is  Bden,  or  a  wilderness. 


CAMTO  IT. 


DON  JUAN. 


193 


6ft. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store  ' 

In  marble-fonts;  there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 

Gash  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er; 

Bat  tliere  too  many  a  poison-tree  has  root. 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 

And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's  foot. 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan ; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man.      U^ 

Afric  l«  all  the  snn's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled ;  full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth. 
The  IToorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour. 
And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth : 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower: 
Bat  her  large  dark  eye  show'd  deep  passion's  force, 
Though  sleeping,  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

67. 

Her  daughter^  temper'd  with  a  milder  ray, 
Like  summer-clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  &ir, 
Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 
Terror  to  earth,  and  temp(^to  the  air. 
Had  held  till  now  her  soft  md  milky  way, 
Bat  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 
The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Nnmidian  veins, 
Even  as  the  Simooms  weeps  the  blasted  plains. 

68. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he hiknself  o'ermaster'd  and  cut  down; 
His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own; 
Thus  much  she  view'd  an  instant  and  no  more,  — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan; 
On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 

69. 

A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er ; 
And  her  head  droop'd  as  when  the  lily  lies 
Oercharged  with  rain:  her  summon'd  handmaids  bore 
Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes ; 
Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store. 
But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 
'    Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

60. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  secm'd  absent  still; 
No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead; 
Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 
Ail  hope;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul, 
;  6he  had  so  much,  earth  oould  not  claim  the  whole. 


6U 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chisell'd,  still  lay  there. 
But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair; 
O'er  the  Laocoon's  all-cternal  throes, 
And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air; 
Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame. 
Yet  looks  not  life^  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

GSL 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  new; 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause, 
For^  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

ea. 

She  look'd  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye. 
On  many  a  token  without  knowing  what; 
She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why. 
And  reck'd  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat; 
Not  speechless  though  she  spoke  not ;  not  a  sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts ;  'dull  silence  and  quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served ;  she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

64. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not; 

Her  father  watch'd,  she  tum'd  her  eyes  away ; 

She  recognised  no  b^ng,  and  no  spot. 

However  dear  or  cherish'd  in  their  day; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot, 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  sh^lay; 

And  yet  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fiun  be  weaning 

Back  to  old  thoughts,  seem'd  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

66. 

At  last  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp; 

The  harper  came,  and  tuned  his  instrument; 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp. 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent. 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turn'd  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  re-sent; 

And  he  began  a  long  low  island-song 

Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

6a 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune ;  he  changed  the  theme, 

And  sung  of  love;  the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 

Her  recollection ;  on  her  flash *d  the  dream 

Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 

To  be  so  being;  in  a  gushing  stream 

The  tears  rush'd  forth  from  her  o'erclouded  brain. 

Like  mountain-mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

18 


194 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  IT 


67. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief!  —  thought  came  too  quick, 
And  whiri'd  her  brain  to  madness;  she  arose 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 
And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  apeak  or  shriek. 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  ck)se: 
Hers  was  a  phrensy  which  disdani'd  to  rave, 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

68. 

Yet  she  betray'd  at  times  a  gleam  ^faenae; 
Nothing  could  make  her  meet  tier  fatiber's  l«ce. 
Though  on  all  other  tUngs  with  looks  intense 
She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  codld  retrace; 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment;  no  pretesoe 
Avaird  for  either;  neither  change  of  place, 
Nor  tiofie,  nor  skill,  aor  remedy,  oodM  give  lier 
Senses  to  sleep  —  the  power  seem'd  gcme  for  ercr. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  wkher'd  thus;  «ttot. 
Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A  parting  pang,  tiie  spirit  from  her  pass'd : 
And  they  who  watck'd  her  nearest  could  not  know 
The  very  instajrt,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  fiicc  lAto  shadow,  dull  and  slow. 
Glazed  o'er  her  eyes  *->  the  beaatitui,  the  black  — 
Oh !  to  possess  such  lustre  ^  and  tlKn  lack  I 


/ 


ro. 

She  died,  but  uot  aloae ;  she  held  witbiu 
A  second  prineiplo  of  H(e,  which  might  <  • 

Have  dawn'd  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin;  ^^ 
But  closed  its  little  bdog  wkliout  light. 
And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  withered  with  one  bliglit; 
In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 
The  bieediog  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 


71. 

Thus  fived  —  thlis  died  she ;  ne^-er  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.  She  was  not  made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inter  weight  to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  arc  laid 
By  age  in  earth  ;  4icr  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful  ^  such  as  had  not  stay'd 
Long  with  her  destiuy ;  but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 
Its  dwelling  down,  its  tenants  pass'd  away ; 
NoDO  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there, 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay ; 
Ve  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair, 
No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 
What  was ;  no  dii^,  except  the  hoHow  sea's, 
Uourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cycladcs. 


73. 

But  many  a  Greek  nuiid  in  a  loving  song 
Sighs  o'er  her  name,  and  many  an  islander 
With  her  sire's  story  makes  the  night  less  long; 
Valour  was  his,  and  beauty  dwelt  with  her ; 
If  she  loved  rashly,  ber  life  paid  for  wr<mg  — 
A  heavy  price  must  all  pay  who  thus  err. 
In  some  shape ;  let  none  think  to  fly  the  danger. 
For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own  avenger.        ly ' 

Ti. 

But  let  me  change  tiria  theme,  wkidi  grows  too  sad. 

And  lay  this  sheet  of  sorrow  on  the  shelf; 

I  don*t  much  like  deseribing  people  mad, 

For  fear  of  aeeraing  rather  touch'd  myself  — 

Besides,  I've  no  more  on  this  head  to  add; 

And  as  my  H«8e  is  a  capricious  elf. 

We'll  put  about,  and  try  another  tack 

With  Juan,  left  hatf^dllM  some  staosas  back. 

76. 

Wounded  and  fisUer'd,  '"cabin'd,  cribb'd,  coulmed/* 
Some  days  and  nights  elapsed  before  that  be 
Could  altogether  call  die  past  to  mind; 
And  when  he  did,  he  found  ^nseif  at  sea. 
Sailing  six  knots  an  kour  bXre  the  wind; 
The  shores  of  Ilion  lay  beneath  their  lee  — 
Another  time  he  might  have  liked  to  see  'em. 
But  now  was  not  much  pleased  with  Cape  Sigaeum. 

76. 

There,  on  the  gre6n  and  vUlago-cottcd  hiii,  ia 
(Flank'd  by  the  Hellespont  and  by  tlic  sea) 
Entomb'd  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  AchiHes; 
Tliey  say  so  —  (Bryant  says  the  contrary): 
And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering  still,  ia 
The  tumulus  — of  whom?  Heaven  knows;  't  nay  be 
Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus,  — 
All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  us. 

77. 

High  banrowa,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 
A  vast,  uBtill'd,  and  mountain-skirted  plain, 
And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same. 
And  old  Soamander  (if 'tis  he),  remain ; 
The  situation  seems  still  form'd  for  fame  — 
A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 
With  ease;  but  where  I  sought  for  Uion's  walla, 
The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawU; 

7a 

Troops  of  untcnded  horses;  here  and  there 

Some  little  hamlets  with  new  names  uncouth; 

Some  shepherds  (unlike  Paris)  led  to  stare 

K.  moment  at  the  European  youth 

Whom  to  the  spot  their  schoolboy-feelings  bear; 

A  Turk,  with  beads  in  hand  and  pipe  in  month, 

Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion, 

Are  what  I  found  there  ^  but  tlic  devil  a  Phrygian. 


CANTO  IT. 


DON  JUAN. 


195 


79. 

I>oii  Jnan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 
IVom  his  dall  cabin,  found  himself  a  slare ; 
ForiorDy  and  gazing  on  the  deep  blue  surge, 
(Vershadow'd  there  b j  many  a  hero's  grave ; 
Weak  9tili  ivith  loss  of  blood,  be  scarce  eonld  urge 
A  few  brief  questions;  and  the  answers  gave 
No  yery  satisfactory  information 
About  his  past  or  present  situation. 

80. 

He  saw  some  feDow-captiTes,  who  appeared 
To  be  Italians  —  as  they  were,  in  fact : 
from  them,  at  least,  their  destiny  he  heard. 
Which  was  am  odd  one ;  a  troop  going  to  act 
la  Sidly  —  all  singers,  duly  rear'd 
la  their  vocation,  —  had  not  been  attack'd, 
In  sailing^  from  Livorno,  by  the  pirate, 
Bat  sold  by  the  hnpresario  at  no  high  rate. 

81. 

By  one  of  these,  the  buffo  of  the  party, 
Jam  was  told  about  their  curious  case ; 
For,  although  destined  to  the  Turkish  mart,  he 
Still  kept  his  spirits  up  —  at  least  his  face ; 
The  little  fellow  really  look'd  quite  hearty. 
And  bore  him  with  some  guety  and  grace, 
Sbowing  a  much  more  reconciled  demeanour 
Than  did  the  prima-donna  and  the  tenor. 

82. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  their  hapless  story. 
Saying :  'K)nr  Machiavelian  impresario. 
Making  a  signal  off  some  promontory, 
Hail'd  a  strange  brig;  Corpo  di  Caio  Mario! 
We  were  transferr'd  on  board  her  in  a  hurry. 
Without  a  single  scudo  of  sa)ario ; 
Bat,  if  the  Saltan  has  a  taste  for  song. 
We  will  revive  our  fortunes  before  long. 

83. 

The  prima-donna,  though  a  little  old, 

And  haggard  with  a  dissipated  life. 

And  subject,  when  the  house  is  thin,  to  cold, 

Ebs  some  good  notes ;  and  then  the  tenor's  wife. 

With  no  great  voice,  is  pleasing  to  behold; 

Last  carnival  she  made  a  deal  of  strife 

By  carrying  off  Count  Cesare  Cicogna 

From  an  old  Roman  princess  at  Bologna. 

84. 

"And  then  there  arc  the  dancers;  there's  the  Nini, 
With  more  than  one  profession  gains  by  all; 
Then  there's  that  laughing  slut  the  Pdegrini, 
She  too  was  fortunate  last  carnival 
And  made  at  least  five  hundred  good  zecchini. 
Bat  s^^nds  so  fast,  she  has  not  now  a  paul; 
And  tlien  there's  the  Grotesca  —  Such  a  dancer! 
Where  men  have  souls  or  bodies  she  niust  answer. 


85. 

"As  for  the  fignranti,  they  arc  like 

The  rest  of  all  that  tribe;  with  here  and  there 

A  pretty  person,  which  perhaps  may  strike, 

The  rest  are  hardly  fitted  for  a  fkir; 

There's  one,  though  tall  and  stiffcr  than  a  ptke, 

Yet  has  a  sentimental  kind  of  air 

Which  might  go  far,  but  she  don't  dance  with  vigour; 

The  more's  the  pity,  with  her  fkce  and  figure. 

86. 

''As  for  the  men,  they  are  a  middling  set ; 
The  Mnsico  is  but  a  crack'd  old  basin. 
But,  being  qualified  in  one  way  yet. 
May  the  seraglio  do  to  set  his  face  in. 
And  as  a  servant  some  preferment  get ; 
His  singing  I  no  further  trust  can  place  in : 
From  all  the  pope  makes  yeariy  't  would  perplex 
To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  tkirdscx. 

87. 

''The  tenor's  voice  Is  spoilt  by  affectation, 
And  for  the  bass,  the  beast  can  only  bellow ; 
In  fact,  he  had  no  singing-education. 
An  ignorant,  noteless,  timeless,  tuneless  fellow. 
But  being  the  prima-donna's  near  relation. 
Who  swore  his  voice  was  very  rich  and  mellow, 
They  hired  him,  though  to  hear  him  you'd  believe 
An  ass  was  practising  recitative. 

88.  '^^    \ 

"  'T  would  not  become  myself  to  dwell  upon 

My  own  merits,  and  though  young  —  I  sec,  Sir  —  you 

Have  got  a  travell'd  air,  which  shows  you  one 

To  whom  the  opera  is  by  no  means  new : 

You've  heard  of  Raucocanti  ?  —  I'm  the  man ; 

The  time  may  come  when  you  may  hear  me  too; 

You  was  not  last  year  at  the  fiiir  of  Lugo, 

But  next,  when  I'm  engaged  to  sing  there  —  do  go. 

89. 

"Oar  baritone  I  almost  had  forgot, 
A  pretty  lad,  but  bursting  with  conceit; 
With  graceful  action,  science  not  a  jot, 
A  voice  of  no  great  compass,  and  not  sweet, 
He  always  is  complaining  of  his  lot. 
Forsooth,  scarce  fit  for  ballads  in  the  street ;   ^ 
In  lovers'  parts  his  passion  more  to  breathe. 
Having  no  heart  to  show,  he  shows  his  teeth." 

90. 

Here  Raucocanti's  eloquent  recital 

Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate-crew. 

Who  came  at  stated  moments  to  invite  all 

The  captives  back  to  their  sad  berths;  each  threw 

A  rueful  glance  upon  the  waves  (which  bright  all 

From  the  blue  skies  derived  a  double  blue. 

Dancing  all  free  and  happy  in  the  sun), 

And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 


196 


DON  JUAN. 


CAHTO  IT. 


91. 

They  heard,  next  day,  that  in  the  Dardanelles, 
Waiting  for  his  sublimity's  firman  — 
The  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells. 
Which  every  body  does  without  who  can,  — 
More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  celli^. 
Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man. 
Were  to  be  chain'd  and  lotted  out  per  couple 
For  the  slave-market  of  Constantinople. 

02. 

It  seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out, 
There  chanced  to  be  an  odd  male  and  odd  female, 
Wlio  (after  some  discussion  and  some  doubt 
If  the  soprano  might  be  doom'd  to  be  male, 
They  placed  him  o'er  the  women  as  a  scout) 
Were  llnk'd  together,  and  it  happened  the  male 
Was  Juan,  who  —  an  awkward  thing  at  bis  age  -^ 
Pair'd  off  with  a  Bacchante  blooming  visage. 


With  Raueocanti  lucklessly  was  chain'd 
The  tenor;  these  two  hated  with  a  hate 
Found  only  on  the  stage,  and  each  more  pain'd 
With  this  his  tunefbl  neighbour  than  his  fate; 
Sad  strife  arose,  for  they  were  so  cross-grain'd, 
Instead  of  bearing  up  without  debate, 
That  each  pull'd  diflerent  ways  with  many  an  oath, 
"Arcades  ambo,"  id  est  —  blackguards  both. 

Juan's  companion  was  a  Romagnole, 
But  bred  within  the  March  of  old  Ancona, 
With  eyes  that  look'd  into  the  very  soul 
(And  other  chief  points  of  a  "bclla  donna"). 
Bright  —  and  as  black  and  burning  as  a  coal; 
And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion  shone  a 
Great  wish  to  please  —  a  most  attractive  dower. 
Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

96. 

But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him, 
For  sorrow  o'er  each  sense  held  stern  command; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim ; 
And  though  thus  chain'd,  as  natural  her  hand 
Touch'd  his,  nor  that  —  nor  any  handsome  limb 
(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand) 
Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  faith  feel  brittle; 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a  little. 

96. 

No  matter;  we  should  ne'er  too  much  inquire. 

But  facts  are  facts,  —  no  kniglit  could  be  more  true. 

And  firmer  faith  no  ladyc-Iove  desire; 

We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two. 

'Tis  said  no  one  in  hand  "can  hold  a  fire 

By  thought  of  frosty  Caucasus,"  but  few 

I  really  think;  yet  Juan's  then  ordeal 

Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 


97. 

.  Here  I  might  enter  on  a  chaste  description, 
Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth. 
But  hear  that  several  people  take  exception 
At  the  first  two  books  having  too  much  truth ; 
Therefore  I'll  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship  bo<hi. 
Because  the  pnblbher  declares,  in  sooth. 
Through  needles'  eyes  it  easier  for  the  oamel  ia     -.  y 
To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  fiunilies.  ' 

98. 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  me ;  I'm  fond  of  yielding. 

And  therefore  leave  them  to  the  purer  page 

Of  Smollet,  Prior,  Ariosto,  Fielding, 

Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an  age; 

I  once  had  great  alacrity  in  wielding 

My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage. 

And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 

Would  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it  shan't 

99. 

As  boys  love  rows,  my  boyhood  liked  a  squabble; 
But  at  this  hour  I  wish  to  part  in  peaoe. 
Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble, 
Whether  my  verse's  fame  be  doom'd  to  cease. 
While  the  right  hand  whicli  wrote  it  still  is  able. 
Or  of  some  centuries  to  take  a  lease; 
The  grass  upon  my  grave  will  grow  as  long, 
And  sigh  to  midnight- winds,  but  not  to  song. 

loa 

Of  poets  who  come  down  to  us  through  distance 
Of  time  and  tongues,  the  foster4>abe8  of  fame. 
Life  seems  the  smallest  portion  of  existence; 
Where  twenty  ages  gather  o'er  a  name, 
'Tis  as  a  snowball  which  derives  assistance 
From  every  flake,  and  yet  rolls  on  the  same^ 
Even  till  an  iceberg  it  may  chance  to  grow, 
But  after  all  'tis  nothing  but  cold  snow. 

lOL 

And  so  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal. 

And  love  of  glory 's  but  an  airy  lust, 

Too  often  in  its  fury  overcoming  all 

Who  would,  as  'twere,  identify  their  dust 

From  out  the  wide  destruction,  which,  entombing  M, 

Leaves  nothing  till  the  coming  of  the  just  — 

Save  change:  I've  stood  upon  Achilles'  tomb, 

And  heard  Troy  doubted;  time  will  doubt  of  Rome. 

102. 

The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb. 

Until  the  memory  of  an  age  is  fled, 

\nd,  buried,  sinks  beneath  its  offspring's  doom: 

Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read? 

Save  a  few  glean'd  from  the  sepulchral  gloom 

Which  once-named  myriads  nameless  lie  beneath. 

And  lose  their  own  in  universal  death. 


tUNTO  IT. 


DON  JUAN- 


197 


loa 

I  caoitor  bj  the  spot  each  afternoon 
Where  periah'd  in  his  fome  the  hero-boy, 
Who  lived  too  long  for  men,  but  died  too  soon 
For  hnman  vanity,  the  young  de  Foix ! 
A  broken  pillar,  not  uncoothly  hewn, 
Bat  which  neglect  is  hastening  to  destroy, 
Records  Ravenna's  carnage  on  its  face, 
While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  base. 

104. 

I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid: 
A  little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn, 
Protects  his  dust,  but  reycrencc  here  is  paid 
To  the  bard's  tomb,  and  not  the  warrior's  column: 
The  time  must  come,  when  both,  alike  decay'd, 
The  chieftain's  trophy,  and  the  poet's  volume, 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  wars  of  earth, 
Before  Pelides'  death,  or  Homer's  birth. 

lOS. 

With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented, 

With  hnman  filth  that  column  is  defiled. 

As  if  the  peasant's  coarse  contempt  were  vented 

To  show  his  loathing  of  the  spot  he  soil'd ; 

Thus  is  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 

Should  ever  be  those  blood-hounds,  from  whose  wild 

Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known 

Those  sufferings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone. 

106. 

Yet  there  will  still  be  bards;  though  ihme  is  smoke, 
Its  ftones  are  frankincense  to  human  thought ; 
And  the  unquiet  feelings,  which  first  woke 
Song  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then  they  sought; 
As  on  the  beach  the  waves  at  last  are  broke, 
Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought, 
Dash  Into  poetry,  which  is  but  passion, 
Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it  grew  a  fiishion. 

107. 

If  in  the  ocmrae  of  such  a  life  as  was 

At  once  adventurous  and  contemplative. 

Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  tiiey  pass,     y 

Acquire  the  deep  and  bitter  power  to  give    ^ 

Their  images  again^  as  in  a  glass. 

And  in  such  colours  that  they  seem  to  live; 

Tou  may  do  right  forbidding  them  to  show  'em, 

But  spoil  (I  think)  a  very  pretty  poem. 

106. 

Oh!  je,  who  make  the  fortunes  of  all  books ! 
Benign  oeruleans  of  the  second  sex ! 
Who  advertise  new  poems  by  your  looks,    * 
Tour  ^imprimatur"  will  ye  not  annex  ?  — 
What,  most  I  go  to  the  oblivious  cooks, 
Those  Cornish  plonderers  of  Parnassian  wreeks? 
Ah!  most  I  then  the  only  minstrel  be 
f^oaeribed  from  tasting  your  Castalian  tea? 


100. 

What  lean  I  prove  "a  lion"  then  no  more? 

A  ball-room-bard,  a  foolscap,  hot-press  darling, 

To  bear  the  compliments  of  many  a  bore, 

And  sigh  "I  can't  get  out,"  like  Yorick's  starling! 

Why  then  I'll  swoar,  as  poet  Wordy  swore 

(Because  the  world  won't  read  bim,  always  snarling), 

That  taste  is  gone,  that  fame  is  but  a  lottery. 

Drawn  by  the  blne-coat-misses  of  a  coterie. 

110. 

Oh !  "darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue," 

As  some  one  somewhere  sings  about  the  sky, 

And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you; 

They  say  your  stockings  are  so  (Heaven  knows  why, 

I  have  examined  few  pait-  of  that  hue) ; 

Blue  as  the  garters  which  serenely  lie 

Round  the  patrician  left^lcgs,  which  adorn 

The  festal  midnight  and  the  levee-morn. 

111. 

Yet  some  of  you  are  most  seraphic  creatures, 
But  times  are  alter'd  since,  a  rhyming  lover. 
You  read  my  stanzas,  and  I  read  your  features: 
And  —  but  no  matter,  all  those  things  are  over : 
Still  I  have  no  dislike  to  learned  natures. 
For  sometimes  such  a  world  of  virtues  cover; 
I  knew  one  woman  of  that  purple  school, 
The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  but  —  quite  a  fool. 

112. 

Humboldt,  "the  first  of  travellers,"  but  not 
The  last,  if  late  accounts  be  accurate, 
Invented,  by  some  name  I  have  forgot. 
As  well  as  the  sublime  discovery's  date, 
An  airy  instrument,  with  which  he  sought 
To  ascertain  the  atmospheric  state, 
Sy  measuring  "the  mtennfy  of  blue:*' 
Oh,  Lady  Daphne!  ^t  me  measure  you! 

113. 

But  to  the  narrative.  ^  The  vessel  bound 

With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital. 

After  the  usual  process,  might  be  found 

At  anchor  under  the  seraglio-wall; 

Her  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and  sound, 

Were  landed  in  the  market,  one  and  all, 

And  there,  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  Circassians, 

Bought  up  for  different  purposes  and  passions. 

114. 

Some  went  off  dearly :  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
For  one  Circassian,  a  sweet  girl,  were  given, 
Warranted  virgin ;  beauty's  brightest  colours 
Had  deck'd  her  out  in  all  the  hues  of  heaven : 
Her  sale  sent  home  some  disappointed  bawlers, 
Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  reach'd  eleven ; 
But  when  the  offer  went  beyond,  they  knew 
'Twas  for  the  SnKan,  and  at  onoe  withdrew. 


198 


DON  JUAN, 


CANTO  T 


lid. 

Twelve  negresses  from  Nubia  brought  a  price 
Which  tlie  West-Indian  market  scarce  would  bring; 
Though  Wilberforce,  at  last,  has  made  it  twice 
What  'twas  ere  abolition ;  and  the  thing 
Need  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 
Is  always  nsuvh  more  splendid  than  a  king: 
The  virtues,  €  ?en  the  most  exalted,xharity, 
Are  saving  —  vice  spares  notbuig  for  a  rarity. 


iia. 

But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop, 

How  some  were  bought  by  Pachas,  some  by  Jews. 

How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop, 

And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 

As  renegadoes;  while  in  hapless  group, 

Hopbg  no  very  old  vizier  miglit  choose. 

The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  piek'd  'em^ 

To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim : 


117. 


AH  this  mtak  be  reserved  for  further  song; 
Also  our  hero's  lot,  howe'er  unpleasant. 
(Because  this,  canto  baa  become  too  long) 
Must  be  postponed  di8epe«tly  for  the  present; 
I'm  sensible  redoadancy  is  wrong, 
But  could  BOt  fof  the  mMe  of  me  put  less  ia't : 
And  BOW  delay  the  pregieas  of  Don  Juan, 
Tilt  wh8t  kl  efttt'd  in  Omm  tlie  fifth  Duan. 


CANTO     V. 


Whkn  amatory  poets  sing  their  loves 
In  liquid  lines  mellifluoiisly  bland, 
And  praise  their  rhymes^  as  Venus  yokes  herdoves. 
They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand; 
The  greater  their  suooess  the  worse  it  proves^ 
As  Ovid's  verse  may  make  you  understand ; 
Even  Petrarch's  sel^  if  judged  with  due  seventy, 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity^ 


I  therefore  do  dbnooooe  all  amorous  writing, 
Except  in  such  a  way  as  not  toaitr^ocf 
Plain  —  simple  -»  short,  and  by  no  means  inviting. 
But  with  a  moral  to  each  error  tack'd, 
Form'd  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting; 
And  with  all  passidnsm their  turn attack'd; 
Now,  if  my  Pegasus  shQidd  not  be  shod  ill, 
This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 


The  European  with  tiie  Asian  shore 
Sprinkled  with  palaces;  the  ocean-stream 
Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-four : 
Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam; 
The  cypress-groves;  Olympus  high  and  hoar; 
The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  1  could  dream, 
Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm'd  the  charming  Miary  Montagu* 


4, 

r  have  ft  passionfov  the  mime  of  ^Mary,'' 
For  once  it  was  a  magic  sound  to  me. 
And  still  it  half  caHs  up  the  realms  of  &iry, 
Where  I  beheld  what  never  was  to  be; 
All  feelings  changed,  but  this  was  last  to  vary, 
A  spell  fit>m  which  even  yet  I  am  not  quite  free: 
But  I  grow  sad  —  aad  let  a  tale  gvow  oold. 
Which  must  not  be  palfaeticaliy  told. 


The  wind  swept  down  tiie  Euxine^  and  tfce  wave 
Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Symplegadcs; 
'Tis  a  grand  sight  from  off  **the  Giant's  Grave" 
To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 
Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease; 
There's  not  a  sea  the  passenger  e'er  pukes  in. 
Turns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the  Buune. 


'Twas  a  raw  day  of  Autumn's  bleak  beginning, 
When  nights  arc  equal,  but  not  so  the  days : 
The  Parcae  then  cut  short  the  further  spinning 
Of  seamen's  fates,  and  the  loud  tempests  raise 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 
In  all  who  o'er  the  great  deep  take  their  Ways : 
They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they  don't; 
Because  if  drown'd,  they  can't  —  If  spared,  they  woa't 


CIMTO  V. 


DON  JUAK. 


199 


A  oiowd  of  shiyerkil^  tlaves  of  every  na^on, 
And  age,  and  aex»  were  in  the  market  ranged ; 
Sach  htffj  wkk  the  nercfaast  in  his  station : 
Poor  creatines  1  tboir  good  iooks  were  sadly  changod. 
All  save  the  blacks  seeai'd  jaded  with  vexation. 
From  friends,  and  hoaae,  and  freedom  far  estrai^ed; 
The  n^rocs  more  philosophy  dtsplay'd  — 
Uied  to  it,  nodoubt^as  eels  are  to  be  iiay'd. 


Jmn  was  jnrenile,  aad  tfins  was  fnll, 

At  most  at  iiis  age  are,  of  hope,  and  health ; 

Yet  I  m«st  own  he  look'd  a  little  duU, 

Aod  DOW  and  then  a  tear  stole  dq^n  by  stealth ; 

Perhaps  his  reoeot  loss  of  blood  might  pnll 

His  spirit  down ;  and  then  the  loss  of  wealth, 

A  mistress,  and  saoh  comfortable  quarters. 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 


Were  things  to  shake  a  stoic ;  ne'erthelcss, 

Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene : 

His  figure  and  the  splendour  of  bis  dress. 

Of  irineh  some  gilded  remnants  still  wore  seen, 

Drew  all  eyes  on  kim,  giTing  them  to  gvtSB 

He  wai  abore  the  vidgar  by  his  mien  ; 

And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome; 

And  then  —  they  oaioulated  on  his  ransom. 

like  a  back^mnen-board  the  place  was  dotted 

With  whites  and  blaclLS,  in  groups  on  show  ftr  sale, 

Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted: 

Some  bought  the  jet,  wkilc  others  chose  the  pale. 

it  chanced,  amongst  the  other  people  lotted, 

A  nan  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale. 

With  resolution  in  bis  dark  gray  eye. 

Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  to  buy. 

11. 

He  had  an  Bnglish  look ;  that  is,  was  square 
In  make,  of  a  complexion  white  and  ruddy. 
Good  teeth,  witk  curling  rather  dark  brown  hair, 
And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or  study, 
Aa  open  brow  a  little  mark'd  with  care: 
One  arm  had  on  a  bandage  rather  bloody ; 
Aad  tlMie  he  atood  with  sudi  iong^roid  that  greater 
Could  scarce  bo  shown  even  by  a  mero  spectator. 

\% 

But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  tad. 
Of  a  high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weigh'd  down  by  a  doom  which  tiad 
Ccrtbrownevea  men,  he  soon  iN^gan  to  show 
A  kind  of  blunt  eompassion  for  the  sad 
Lot  or«o  yousjg  a  partner  in  the  woe, 
Which  for  himself  he  seem'd  to  deem  no  worse 
nay  other  sorape,  athing  of  course.' 


<'My  boy  r*  -^  said  he,  ''amidst  this  motley  erew 

Of  Georgians^  Rnssiaos,  Nubians,  and  what  not, 

All  ragamuffins,  differing  but  in  hue. 

With  whom  it  is  our  iuok  to  cast  our  lot, 

The  only  gentlemen  seem  I  and  you. 

So  let  us  be  acquainted,  as  we  ought: 

If  1  could  yield  you  any  consolation, 

'T  would  give  me  pleasuM.^Pray,  w  hat  is  your 

14. 

When  Jsnn  answer'd  ^'Spanish !"  he  replied, 
<'I  thought,  in  feet,  you  could  not  be  a  Greek ; 
Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed : 
Fortune  has  play'd  you  here  a  pretty  ireak, 
But  that's  her  amy  with  all  men  till  they've  tried ; 
But  never  mind,  —she'll  turn,  perhaps,  next  week; 
She  has  served  me  ailso  much  the  same  as  you, 
B^boept  that  I  have  found  it  nothing aew/' 

"Pray,  Sir,''  said  Juan,  "if  I  may  presume. 

What  brought  you  here?"  —  **Olil  nothing  very  rare  — 

Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain "  —  '*To  this  doom 

But  what  conducted,  if  the  question's  fair, 

Is  that  which  I  would  learn/'  —  ''I  served  for  some 

Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and  there, 

And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 

A  town,  was  Wen  myself  instead  of  Widdin." 

16. 

"Have  you  no  fiiendsr'  —  "I  bad--bitt,  by  God's  bless- 
Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately.  Now        {ing 
I  have  answer'd  all  your  questions  witboot  pressing, 
And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show."  — 
"Alasl"  said  Juan,  "'twere  a  tale  distress! ag. 
And  long  besides."  —  "Oh !  if  'tis  raally  so. 
You're  right  on  botli  accounts  to  bold  your  tongue ; 
A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly  wlien  'tis  long. 

IT. 

But  droop  not :  Fortune  at  your  ttnie  of  life. 
Although  a  female  moderately  fickle, 
Will  hardly  leave  yon  (as  she's  not  your  wife) 
For  any  length  of  days  in  sucli  a  pickle. 
To  strive  too  with  our  iate  were  such  a  strife 
As  if  the  eom^heaf  should  oppose  the  sickle: 
Men  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when         ^^y^' 
The  curcumstanoes  soem  tha  sport  of  mten." 

18. 

"'Tis  not,"  said  Juan,  '*for  my  present  doom 
I  mourn,  but  for  the  past;  —  I  loved  a  maid :" 
He  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  Ml  of  gloom; 
A  single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  staid 
A  moment,  and  then  dropped;  '"but  to  resume^ 
'Tis  not  my  present  lot,  as  i  have  said. 
Which  I  deplore  so  much ;  for  I  have  borne 
Hardships  which  have  the  hardiest  overworn, 


200 


0ON  JUAN. 


CANTO?. 


10.  /.     • 

On  the  roagb  deep.  Bnt  this  last  blow  — "  and  here 
He  stopp'd  again,  and  turn'd  away  his  foce. 
<<Ay, "  quoth  his  friend,  ''I  thought  it  would  appear 
That  there  had  been  a  lady  in  the  case; 
And  these  are  things  which  ask  a  tender  tear, 
Snch  as  I  too  would  shed  if  in  your  place: 
I  cried  upon  my  first  wife*s  dying-day. 
And  also  when  my  second  ran  away: 

20. 

My  third—"  — **Your  third !"  quoth  Juan,  taming  round ; 

**You  scarcely  can  be  thirty:  have  you  threef 

**No  —  only  two  at  present  above  ground ; 

Surely  'tis  nothing  wonderful  to  see 

One  person  thrice  in  holy  wedlock  bound!" 

"Well,  then,  your  third,"  said  Juan;  "what  did  she? 

She  did  not  run  away,  too,  did  she,  sir?" 

"No,  faith."  —  "What  then  ?"  —  "I  ran  away  from  her." 

21. 

"You  take  things  oooUy,  sir,"  said  Juan.  ''Why," 
Replied  the  other,  "what  can  a  man  do  ? 
There  still  are  many  rainbows  in  your  sky, 
But  mine  have  vanished.  All,  when  life,  is  new, 
Commence  with  feelings  warm  and  prospects  high ; 
But  time  strips  our  illusions  of  their  hue. 
And  one  by  one  in  turn,  some  grand  mistake 
Casts  off  its  bright  skin  yearly,  like  the  snake. 

23. 

'TIS  true,  it  gets  another  bright  and  fresh, 

Or  fresher,  brighter ;  but  the  year  gone  through, 

This  skin  must  go  the  way  too  of  all  flesh. 

Or  sometimes  only  wear  a  week  or  two;  — 

liove  'a  the  first  net  which  spreads  its  deadly  mesh ; 

Ambition,  avarice,  vengeance,  glory,  glue 

The  glittering  lime-twigs  of  our  latter  days. 

Where  still  we  flutter  on  for  pence  or  praise." 

23. 

'*AI1  this  is  very  fine,  and  may  be  true," 
Said  Juan,  "but  I  really  don't  see  how 
It  betters  present  times  with  ifae  or  you." 
"No?"  quoth  the  other;  <<yct  you  will  allow 
By  setting  things  in  their  right  point  of  view. 
Knowledge,  at  least,  is  gain'd;  for  instance  now, 
We  know  what  slavery  is,  and  our  disasters 
May  teach  us  better  to  beha^  when  masters." 

34. 

"Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  bnt  to  try 
Their  present  lessons  on  our  Pagan  friends  here," 
Said  Juan,  swallowing  a  heart-burning  sigh: 
"Heaven  help  the  scholar  whom  his  fortune  sends  here!" 
"Perhaps  we  shall  be  one  day,  by  and  by," 
Rcjoin'd  the  other,  "when  our  bad  luck  mends  here; 
Meantime  (yon  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 
I  wish  to  6 — d  that  somebody  would  buy  us! 


25. 

But  after  all,  what  u  our  present  state? 

'Tis  bad,  and  may  be  better  —  all  men's  lot: 

Most  men  are  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the  great. 

To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  what  not; 

Society  itself  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  had  got : 

To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 

Of  the  world's  stoics  —  men  without «  heart" 

28. 

Just  now  a  bhiok  old  neutral  personage 

Of  the  third  sex  stepp'd  up,  and  peering  over 

The  captives,  seem'd  to  mark  their  looks,  and  age, 

And  capabilities,  as  to^iscx>ver 

If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage: 

N  o  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover, 

Horse  by  a  blacklqp,  broadcloth  by  a  tailor. 

Fee  by  a  counsel,  felon  by  a  jailor, 

27. 

As  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 

'Tis  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creatures; 

And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 

Their  passions,  and  are  dext'rous;  some  by  features 

Are  bought  up,  others  by  a  warlike  leader. 

Some  by  a  place  —  as  tend  their  years  or  natures ; 

The  most  by  ready  cash  —  but  all  have  prices,    t^ 

From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 


The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o'er  with  oare^ 

Tum'd  to  the  merchant,  and  begun  to  bid 

First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair; 

They  haggled,  wrangled^  swore,  too  —  so  they  did! 

As  though  they  were  in  a  mere  christian  fair. 

Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid ; 

So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 

For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

29. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  gromhling. 
And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 
Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling 
Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand. 
And  by  mistake  sequins  with  paras  jumbling. 
Until  the  sum  was  accurately  scann'd. 
And  then  the  merchant,  giving  change,  and  signing 
Receipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  dining. 

90. 

I  "wonder  if  his  appetite  was  good? 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  also  his  digestion? 

Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  thoughts  might  intrude. 

And  conscience  ask  a  curious  sort  of  question, 

About  the  right  divine  bow  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.  When  dinner  has  oppreat  one» 

I  think  it  is  perhaps  the  gloomiest  hour 

Which  turns  up  out  of  the  sad  twenty-four. 


CAWTO  ▼. 


DON  JUAN. 


201 


31. 

Voltaire  sa j8 ''No:"  he  tells  yon  that  Candide 

Found  life  most  tolerable  after  meals ; 

He's  wrong*  —  unless  man  was  a  pig,  indeed, 

Repletion  rather  adds  to  what  he  feels; 

Unless  he's  drunk,  and  then  no  doubt  he's  freed 

From  his  own  brain's  oppression  while  it  reels. 

Of  food  I  think  with  Philip's  son,  or  rather 

Anmion'a  (ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father) ; 

32. 

I  think  with  Alexander,  that  the  act 
Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two, 
Makes  us  feel  our  mortality  in  fact 
Redoubled ;  when  a  roast  and  a  ragout, 
And  fish  and  soup,  by  some  side-dishes  baek'd^ 
Can  give  ns  cither  pain  or  pleasure,  who 
Would  pique  himself  on  intellects,  whose  use 
Depends  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice? 

33. 

The  other  evening  ('twas  on  Friday  last)  — 

This  is  a  fiict  and  no  poetic  fable  — 

Just  as  my  great  coat  was  about  me  cast, 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 

I  heard  a  shot  ~  'twas  eight  o'clock  scarce  past  — 

And  running  out  as  fast  as  I  was  a^le, 

I  found  the  military  commandant 

8tretcfa'd  m  the  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant 

34. 

Poor  fellow!  for  some  reason,  surely  bad. 

They  had  slain  him  with  five  slugs ;  and  left  him  there 

To  perish  on  the  pavement:  so  I  had 

Him  borne  into  the  house  and  up  the  stair. 

And  stripp'd,  and  look'd  to But  why  should  I  add 

More  circumstances?  vain  was  every  care; 
The  man  was  gone:  in  some  Italian  quarrel 
KiS'd  by  five  bullets  from  an  old  gun-barreL 

3ft. 

I  gazed  upon  him,  for  I  knew  him  well; 

And  though  I  have  seen  many  corpses,  never 

Saw  one,  whom  such  an  accident  befell,  [liver, 

So  calm;  though  pierced  through  stomach,  heart,  and 

He  scem'd  to  sleep,  for  you  could  scarcely  tell 

(As  he  bled  inwardly,  no  hideous  river 

Of  gore  divulged  the  cause)  that  he  was  dead:  — 

So  as  I  gaxed  on  him,  I  thought  or  said: 

36. 

KSan  this  be  death?  then  what  is  life  or  death  ? 
Speak!"  but  he  spoke  not:  <<wake!"  but  still  he  slept:  — 
"But  yesterday  and  who  had  mightier  breath? 
A  thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept , 
In  awe :  he  said,  as  the  centurion  saith, 
•*Go,"  and  he  goeth ;  '^come,"  and  forth  he  stepp'd. , 
The  tnunp  and  bugle  till  he  spake  were  dumb  — 
And  DOW  nought  left  him  but  the  muffled  drum." 


37. 

And  they  who  waited  once  and  worthipp*d  -p-  they 
With  their  rough  faces  thronged  about  the  bed, 
To  gase  once  more  on  the  commanding  clay 
Which  for  the  last  though  not  the  first  time  bled : 
And  such  an  end!  that  he  who  many  a  day 
Had  faced  Napoleon's  foes  until  they  fled,  — 
The  foremost  in  the  charge  or  in  the  sally, 
Should  now  be  butcher'd  in  a  civic  alley. 

38. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new. 
Those  honourable  scars  which  brought  him  fiunc; 
And  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view  — 
But  let  me  quit  the  theme,  as  such  tilings  claim 
Perhaps  even  more  attention  than  is  due 
From  me :  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  have  gazed  the  same) 
To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death  « 
Which  should  confirm^  or  shake,  or  make  a  foith; 

39. 

But  it  was  all  a  mystery.  Here  we  are, 

And  there  we  go:  ^  but  where?  t\e  bits  of  lead. 

Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  for! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed  ? 

Can  every  element  our  elements  mar? 

And  air  —  earth  —  water  —  fire  live  —  and  we  dead? 

We,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things?  No  more ; 

But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before. 

40. 

The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 

Bore  ofi"  his  bargains  to  a  gilded  boat, 

Embark'd  himself  and  them,  and  off  fbey  went  thence 

As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  float; 

They  look'd  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence. 

Wondering  what  next,  till  the  caique  was  brought 

Up  in  a  little  creek  below  a  wall 

O'ertopp'd  with  cypresses  dark-green  and  tall. 

41. 

Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 

Of  a  small  iron  door,  't  was  open'd,  and 

He  led  them  onward,  first  through  a  low  thicket 

Flank'd  by  large  groves,  which  tower'd  on  either  hand : 

They  almost  lost  their  way.  and  had  to  pick  it  -^ 

For  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  land. 

The  eunuch  made  a  sign  to  those  on  board. 

Who  row'd  off,  leaving  them  without  a  word. 

42. 

As  they  were  plodding  on  their  winding  way. 
Through  orange-bowers,  and  jasmine,  and  so  forth: 
(Of  whif^h  1  might  have  a  good  deal  to  say. 
There  being  no  such  profusion  in  the  North 
Of  oriental  plants,  "et  cetera/' 
But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 
Their  while  to  rear  whole  hotbeds  in  their  works 
Because  one  poet  travell'd  'mongst  the  Turks:) 

13* 


202 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  T 


43. 

As  they  were  threading  on  their  way,  there  came 
Into  Don  Juan's  head  a  thought,  which  he 
Whispcr'd  to  bis  companion :  -—  'twas  the  same 
Whicli  might  have  then  occurred  to  yon  or  me. 
"Mcthinks,"  —  said  he,  —  "it  would  be  no  great  shame 
If  we  should  strike  a  stroke  to  set  ns  free; 
Let's  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head, 
And  march  away  ~  't  were  easier  done  than  said." 

44. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "and  when  done,  what  then? 
How  yet  out ?  how'  the  devil  got  we  in  ? 
And  when  we  onoe  were  fieiirly  oat,  and  when 
From  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  skin, 
To-morrow  'd  see  ns  in  some  other  den. 
And  worse  off  than  we  hitherto  have  been; 
Besides,  I'm  hungry,  and  just  now  would  take, 
Like  Esau,  for  my  birthright  a  beef-steak. 

45 

We  must  be  near  some  place  of  man's  abode, 

For  tho  old  negro's  confidence  in  creeping 

With  his  two  captives,  by  so  queer  a  road, 

Shows  that  he  thinks  his  friends  have  not  been  sleeping; 

A  single  cry  would  bring  them  all  abroad: 

'Tis  therefore  better  looking  before  leaping  «^ 

And  there,  you  see,  this  turn  has  brought  ns  through  — 

By  Jove,  a  noble  palace !  —  lighted  too." 

40. 

It  was  indeed  a  wide  extensive  building 
Which  open'd  on  their  view,  and  o'er  the  front 
There  seem'd  to  be  besprent  a  deal  of  gilding 
And  various  hues,  as  is  the  Turkish  wont,  -^ 
A  gaudy  taste  r  for  they  are  little  skill'd  in 
The  arts  of  which  these  lands  were  onoe  the  font : 
Each  villa  on  the  Bospliorus  looks  a  screen 
New  painted,  or  a  pretty  opera-soene. 

47. 

And  nearer  as  they  came,  a  genial  savour 

Of  certain  stews,  and  roast-meats,  and  pilaus. 

Things  which  in  hungry  mortals'  eyes  find  favour, 

Made  Juan  in  his  harsh  intentions  pause. 

And  put  himself  upon  his  good  behaviour: 

His  friend,  too,  adding  a  new  saving  clause, 

Said :  "In  Heaven's  name  let's  get  some  supper  now. 

And  then  I'm  with  you.  If  you're  for  a  row." 

48. 

Some  talk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  passion, 
Some  to  men's  feelings,  others  to  their  reason; 
The  last  of  tliese  was  never  much  the  fashion. 
For  reason  thinks  all  reasoning  out  of  season. 
Some  speakers  whine,  and  others  lay  the  lash  on. 
But  more  or  less  continue  still  to  tease  on. 
With  arguments  according  to  their  "forte;" 
But  no  one  ever  dreams  of  being  short.  — 


40. 

But  I  digress:  of  all  appeals,  —  although 
I  grant  the  power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold, 
Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a  shilling,  —  no 
Method 's  more  sure  at  moments  to  take  hold 
Of  the  best  feelings  of  mankind,  which  grow 
More  tender,  as  we  every  day  behold, 
Than  that  all-softening,  o'er-powering  knell. 
The  tocsin  of  the  soul  —  the  dinncr-belL 

60. 

Turkey  contains  no  bells,  and  yet  inen  dine; 
And  Juan  and  his  friend,  albeit  they  heard 
No  christian  knoll  to  table,  saw  no  line 
Of  lacqueys  usher  to  the  feast  prepared, 
Yet  smelt  roast-meat,  beheld  a  huge  fire  shine. 
And  cooks  in  motion  with  their  clean  arms  bared. 
And  gazed  around  them  to  the  left  and  right 
With  the  prophetic  eye  of  appetite. 

61. 

And  giving  up  all  notions  of  resistance. 
They  followed  close  behind  their  sable  guide. 
Who  little  thought  that  his  own  crack'd  existence 
Was  on  the  point  of  being  set  aside: 
He  motion'd  them  to  stop  at  some  small  distance. 
And  knocking  at  the  gate,  't  was  open'd  wide. 
And  a  magnificent  large  hall  display'd 
The  Asian  pomp  of  Ottoman  parade. 

62. 

I  won't  describe;  description  is  my  forte. 

But  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days 

His  wond'rous  journey  to  some  foreign  court. 

And  spawns  his  quarto,  and  demands  your  praise — 

Death  to  his  publisher,  to  him  'tis  sport; 

While  Nature,  tortured  twenty  thousand  ways, 

Resigns  herself  with  exemplary  paliencc  ' 

To  guide-books,  rhymes,  tours,  sketches,  illnstrations. 

63. 

Along  this  hall,  and  up  and  down,  some,  sqaatted 
Upon  their  hams,  were  occupied  at  chess; 
Others  in  monosyllable  talk  chatted, 
And  some  seem'd  much  in  love  with  their  own  dress, 
And  divers  smoked  superb  pipes  decorated 
With  amber-mouths  of  greater  price  or  less ; 
And  several  strutted,  others  slept,  and  some 
Prepared  for  supper  with  a  glass  of  rum. 

64. 

As  the  black  eunuch  enter'd  with  his  brace 
Of  purchased  Infidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A  moment  without  slackening  from  their  pace; 
But  those  who  sate,  ne'er  stirr'd  in  any  wise: 
One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face. 
Just  as  onoTiews  a  horse  to  guess  his  price; 
Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station. 
But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


i03 


5& 

He  leads  them  Ihroagh  the  halJ,  and,  without  stepping, 

On  through  a  farther  range  of  goodly  rooms, 

Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where,  dropping, 

A  marble-fonntain  echoes  through  the  glooms 

Of  night,  which  robe  the  chamber,  or  where  popping 

Some  female  head  most  curiously  presumes 

To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  or  lattice, 

As  wondering  what  the  devil  noise  that  is. 

(10. 

Some  feint  lamps  gleaming  from  tlie  lofty  walls 
Gave  light  enough  to  hint  Ibeir  farther  way, 
Bat  not  enough  to  show  the  imperial  halls 
In  all  the  flashing  of  their  full  array ; 
Perhaps  there's  nothing  —  I'll  not  say  appals. 
Bat  saddens  more  by  night  as  well  as  day, 
Than  an  enormous  room  without  a  soul 
To  break  the  lifeless  splendour  of  the  whole. 

57. 

Two  or  three  seem  so  little,  one  seems  nothing: 
Id  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  sliore, 
rhere  solitude,  we  know,  has  her  full  growth  in 
rhe  spots  which  were  her  realms  for  evermore; 
3ut  in  a  mighty  hall  or  gallery,  both  in 
More  modem  buildings  and  those  built  of  yore, 
\  kmd  of  death  comes  o'er  us  all  alone, 
keittg  what's  meant  for  many  with  but  one. 

5a 

\  neat,  snug  study  on  a  winter's  night, 

k  book,  friend,  single  lady,  or  a  glass 

Df  daret,  sandwich  and  an  appetite, 

Are  things  which  make  an  Bnglish  evening  pass ; 

rhoogfa  eertes  by  no  means  so  grand  a  sight 

As  is  a  theatre  lit  up  by  gas. 

I  pass  my  evenings  in  long  galleries  solely. 

And  that's  the  reason  I'm  so  melancholy. 

50. 

Abs!  man  makes  that  great  which  makes  him  little: 
1  grant  you  in  a  church  'lis  very  well :  ' 

What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by  no  means  be  brittle. 
But  strong  and  lasting,  till  no  tongue  can  tell 
Their  names  who  rear'd  it;  but  huge  houses  fit  ill  ~- 
And  huge  tombs  worse  —  mankind,  since  Adam  fell: 
Methinks  the  story  of  the  tower  of  Babel 
Might  teach  them  this  much  better  than  I'm  able. 

60. 

Babel  was  Nimrod'sjiunting-^cat,  and  then 
K  town  of  gardens,  walls,  and  wealth  amazing, 
Where  Nabuchadonosor,  king  of  men, 
le^pn'd,  till  one  summer's  day  he  took  to  grasing ; 
\Dd  Daniel  tamed  the  lions  in  their  den. 
The  people's  awe  and  admiration  raising; 
Twas  famous,  too«  for  Tliisbe  and  for  Pyramus, 
Vad  the  csalumniated  Queen  Semlramis.. 


31. 

That  ii\jured  Queen,  by  Chroniclers  so  coarse 
Has  been  accused  (I  doubt  not  by  conspiracy) 
Of  an  improper  friendship  for  her  horse    ^ 
(Love,  like  religion,  sometimes  runs  to  heresy) : 
This  monstrous  talc  had  probably  its  source  y 

(For  such  exaggerations  here  and  there  I  see)    L^ 
In  writing  "Courser"  by  mistake  for  "Courier :" 
I  wish  the  case  oould  come  before  a  jury  here. 


But  to  resume,  ^  should  there  be  (what  may  not 

Be  in  these  days?)  some  infidels,  who  don't. 

Because  they  can't  find  out  the  very  spot 

Of  that  same  Babel,  or  because  they  won't, 

(Though  Claudius  Rich,  Bsquire,  some  bricks  has  got, 

And  written  lately  two  memoirs  upon't) 

Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbelievers,  who 

Must  be  believed,  though  they  believe  not  you :  — 


Yet  let  thom  think  that  Horace  had  express'd 
Shortly  and  sweetly  the  masonic  folly 
Of  those,  forgetting  the  great  place  of  rest. 
Who  give  themselves  to  architecture  wholly ; 
We  know  where  things  and  men  must  end  at  best; 
A  moral  (like  all  morals)  melancholy, 
And  "£t  sepulchri  immemor  struis  domos" 
Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should  but  entomb  us. 

64. 

At  last  they  reach'd  a  quarter  most  retired. 

Where  echo  woke  as  if  from  a  long  slumber; 

Though  full  of  all  things  which  could  be  desired. 

One  wonder'd  what  to  do  with  such  a  number 

Of  articles  which  nobody  required ; 

Here  wealtli  had  done  its  utmost  to  encumber 

With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment. 

Which  puzzled  nature  much  to  know  what  art  meant. 

05. 

It  seem'd,  however,  but  to  open  on 

A  range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 

Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  where;  but  in  this  one 

The  moveables  were  prodigally  rich: 

Sofas 't  was  half  a  sin  to  sit  upon, 

So  costly  were  they;  carpets  every  stitch  mk 

Of  workmanship  so  rare,  that  made  you  wish 

You  could  glide  o'er  them  like  a  golden  fish. 

00. 

The  black,  however,  without  hardly  deigning 
A  glance  at  that  which  wrapt  the  slaves  in  wonder, 
Trampled  what  they  scarce  trod  for  fear  of  staining, 
As  if  the  milky  way  their  feet  was  under 
With  all  its  stars;  and  with  a  stretch  attaining 
A  certain  press  or  cupboard,  niched  in  yonder  — 
In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see  — 
Or  if  yon  don't  the  feult  is  not  in  me : 


204 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  T. 


67- 

I  wish  to  be  perspicaom ;  and  the  black, 

I  say,  unlocking  the  recess,  pnil'd  forth 

A  quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 

Of  any  Mussulman,  whatever  his  worth; 

And  of  variety  there  was  no  lack  — 

And  yet,  though  I  have  said  there  was  no  dearth, 

He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 

Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  bad  bought. 

68. 

The  suit  ho  thought  most  suitable  to  each 

Was,  for  the  elder  and  the  stouter,  first 

A  Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  knee  might  reach, 

And  trowsers  not  so  tight  that  they  would  burst, 

But  such  as  fit  an  Asiatic  breech ; 

A  shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmire  had  been  nurst. 

Slippers  of  saffron,  dagger  rich  and  handy; 

In  short,  all  things  which  form  a  Turkish  Dandy. 

69. 

While  he  was  dressing,  Baba,  their  black'iriend. 
Hinted  the  vast  advantages  which  they 
Might  probably  attain  both  in  the  end. 
If  they  would  but  pursue  the  proper  way 
Which  Fortune  plainly  seem'd  to  recommend; 
And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  must  say, 
"'Twonid  greatly  tend  to  better  their  condition 
If  they  would  condescend  to  circumcision. 

70. 

For  his  own  part,  he  really  should  rejoice 
To  see  them  true  believers,  but  no  less 
Would  leave  his  proposition  to  their  choice." 
The  other,  thanking  him  for  this  excess 
Of  goodness  in  thus  leaving  them  a  voice 
In  such  a  triile,  scarcely  could  express 
''Sufiioiently  (he  said)  his  approbation 
Of  all  the  customs  of  this  polish'd  nation. 

71. 

For  his  own  share  —  he  saw  but  small  objection 
To  so  respectable  an  ancient  rite; 
And  after  swallowing  down  a  slight  refection^ 
For  which  he  own'd  a  present  appetite, 
He  doubted  not  a  few  hours  of  reflection 
'Would  reconcile  him  to  the  business  quite."  — 
"Will  itr  said  Juan,  sharply;  "Strike  me  dead, 
But  they  as  soon  shaU  circumcise  my  head! 

72. 

Cut  off  a  thousand  heads,  before "  —  "Now  pray," 

Replied  the  other,  "do  not  interrupt: 
You  put  me  out  in  what  I  had  to  say. 
Sir !  —  as  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  have  supt, 
I  shall  perpend  if  your  proposal  may 
Be  such  as  I  can  properly  accept ; 
Provided  always  your  great  goodness  still 
Remits  the  matter  to  our  own  free-will." 


73. 

Baba  eyed  Joan,  and  said :  "Be  so  good 
As  dress  yourself*-"  and  pointed  out  a  suit 
In  which  a  princess  with  great  pleasure  would 
Array  her  limbs;  but  Juan  standing  mute. 
As  not  being  in  a  masquerading  mood, 
t^ave  it  a  slight  kick  with  his  christian  foot; 
And  when  the  old  negro  told  him  to  "Get  ready/* 
Replied,  "Old  gentleman,  I'm  not  a  lady." 

74. 

"What  you  may  be,  I  neither  know  nor  care,'* 
Said  Baba;  "but  pray  do  as  I  desire: 
I  have  no  more  time  nor  many  words  to  spare." 
"At  least,"  said  Juan,  "sure  I  may  inquire 
The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty?"  •—  "Forbear," 
Said  Baba,  "to  be  curious;  'twill  transpire, 
No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  time,  and  season : 
I  have  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason." 

7&. 

"Then  if  I  do,"  said  Juan,  "I'll  be "  **Holdr' 

Rejoin'd  (he  Negro,  "pray  be  not  provoking; 
This  spirit 's  well,  but  it  may  wax  too  bold, 
And  you  will  find  us  not  too  fond  of  joking." 
*' What,  sir,"  said  Juan,  „shall  it  e'er  be  told 
That  I  unsex'd  my  dress?"  But  Baba,  stroking 
The  things  down,  snid  ~  "Incense  me,  and  I  cali 
Those  who  will  leave  you  of  no  sex  at  all. 

7a 

I  ofler  you  a  handsome  suit  of  clothes : 
A  woman's,  true;  but  then  there  is  a  cause         poatlics 
Why  you  should  wear  them."— "What,  though  my  soul 
The  effeminate  garb?"  *-  Thus,  after  a  short  pause, 
Sigh'd  Juan,  muttering  also  some  slight  oaths, 
"What  the  devil  shall  I  do  with  all  this  gauzef' 
Thus  he  profanely  tcrm'd  the  finest  lace 
Which  e'er  set  off  a  marriage-moming-fooe. 

77. 

And  then  he  swore:  and,  sighing,  on  he  slipp'd 
A  pair  of  trowsers  of  flesb-colour'd  silk ; 
Next  with  a  virgin-zone  he  was  cquipp'd. 
Which  girt  a  slight  chemise  as  white  as  milk; 
But,  tugging  on  his  petticoat,  he  tripp'd, 
Which  —  as  we  say  —  or  as  the  Scotch  say,  wkHk, 
(The  rhyme  obliges  mc  to  this;  sometimes 
Kings  are  not  more  imperative  than  rhymes) 

78. 

Whilk,  which  (or  what  you  please)  was  owing  to 
His  garment's  novelty,  and  his  being  awkward; 
And  yet  at  last  he  managed  to  get  through 
His  toilet,  though  no  doubt  a  little  backward: 
The  negro  Baba  help'd  a  little  too. 
When  some  untoward  part  of  raiment  stack  hard; 
And,  wrestling  both  his  arms  into  a  gown, 
He  paused  and  took  a  survey  up  and  down. 


€JINT0  T. 


DON  JUAN. 


205 


79. 

One  difficulty  still  remain'd,  —  hia  hair 

Was  hardly  long  enough ;  but  Baba  found 

So  many  fiedse  long  tresses  all  to  spare, 

That  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  crown'd. 

After  the  manner  then  in  foshion  there; 

And  this  addition  with  such  gems  was  bound 

As  suited  the  ensemble  of  his  toilet. 

While  Baba  made  him  comb  his  head  and  oil  it. 

80. 

And  now  being  femininely  all  array'd, 

With  some  small  aid  from  sdssars,  paint,  and  tweezers, 

He  look'd  in  ahnost  all  respects  a  maid. 

And  Baba  smilingly  exclaim'd,  "You  see,  sirs, 

A  perfect  transformation  here  display'd  ,* 

And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with  me,  sirs, 

That  IS  —  the  lady ;"  —  dapping  his  hands  twice, 

Four  blacks  were  at  his  elbow  in  a  trice. 

81. 

■nroH,  sir,"  said  Baba,  nodding  to  the  one, 
*^ill  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 
To  supper;  but  you,  worthy  christian  nun. 
Will  follow  me:  no  trifling,  sir;  for  when 
I  say  a  thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 
What  fear  you  ?  think  you  this  a  lion's  den? 
Why,  'tis  a  palace,  where  the  truly  wise 
Antieipatc  the  Prophet's  paradise. 

82. 

Yoa  fool!  I  tell  yon  no  one  means  you  hann." 
**Somueb  the  better,"  Juan  said,  "for  them; 
Btoe  they  shall  feel  the  weight  of  this  my  arm. 
Which  is  not  quite  so  light  as  you  may  deem. 
I  yield  thus  far;  but  soon  will  break  the  charm, 
If  any  take  me  for  that  which  I  seem ; 
8o  that  I  trust,  for  every  body's  sake, 
That  this  disguise  may  lead  to  no  mistake." 

88. 

'^oekhead!  come  on  and  see,"  quoth  Baba;  while 
-  Don  Juan,  turning  to  hia  comrade,  who. 
Though  somewhat  grieved,  could  scarce  forbear  a  smile 
Upon  the  metamorphosis  in  view, 
**Farcwell!"  they  mutually  exdaim'd :  "this  soil 
Seems  fertile  in  adventures  strange  and  new ; 
One's  tum'd  half  Mussulman,  and  one  a  maid. 
By  this  old  black  enchanter's  unsought  aid." 

84. 

<«Parewell !"  said  Juan ;  "should  we  meet  no  more, 
I  wish  you  a  good  appetite."  —  "Farewell ! " 
Replied  the  other;  "though  it  grieves  me  sore; 
When  we  next  meet  we'll  have  a  tale  to  tell : 
We  needs  must  follow  when  Fate  puts  from  shore. 
Keep  ycwr  good  name;  though  Eve  herself  once  fell." 
•^ay,"  quoth  the  maid,  "the  Sultan's  self  shan't  carry  me, 
Unless  his  Higlmess  promises  to  marry  me." 


86. 

And  thus  they  parted,  each  by  separate  doors ; 
Baba  led  Juan  onward,  room  by  room. 
Through  glittering  galleries  and  o'er  marble-floors. 
Till  a  gigantic  portal  through  the  gloom, 
Haughty  and  huge,  along  the  distance  towers ; 
And  wafled  far  arose  a  rich  perfume: 
It  seem'd  as  though  they  came  upon  a  shrine, 
For  all  was  vast,  still,  fragrant,  and  divine. 

86. 

The  giant-door  was  broad,  and  bright,  and  high. 
Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  curious  guise; 
Warriors  thereon  were  battling  furiously; 
Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vanquish'd  lies; 
There  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye, 
And  in  perspective  many  a  squadron  flies : 
It  seems  the  work  of  times  before  the  line 
Of  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Constantine. 

87. 

This  massy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  dose 

Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  its  cither  side 

Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose, 

Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 

In  mockery  to  the  enormous  gate  which  rose 

O'er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride: 

The  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its/eahLres, 

You  never  thought  about  those  little  creatures, 

oO. 

Until  you  nearly  trod  on  them,  and  then, 
You  started  back  in  horror  to  survey 
The  wondrous  hideousness  of  those  small  men. 
Whose  colour  was  not  black,  nor  white,  nor  gray, 
But  an  extraneous  mixture,  which  no  pen 
Can  trace,  although  perhaps  the  pencil  may; 
They  were  mis-shapen  pignues,  deaf  and  dumb  — 
Monsters,  who  cost  a  no  less  monstrous  sum. 

89. 

Their  duty  was  —  for  they  were  strong,  and  though 
They  look'd  so  little,  did  strong  things  at  times  — 
To  ope  this  door,  which  ^ley  could  really  do, 
The  hinges  being  as  smooth  as  Rogers'  rhymes; 
And  now  and  then,  with  tough  strings  of  the  bow. 
As  is  the  custom  of  those  eastern  climes. 
To  give  some  rebel  Pacha  a  cravat; 
For  mutes  are  generally  used  for  that 

90. 
They  spoke  by  signs  —  that  is,  not  spoke  at  all; 
And,  looking  like  two  incubi,  they  glared 
As  Baba  with  his  fingers  made  them  fall 
To  heaving  back  the  portal-folds :  it  scared 
Juan  a  moment,  as  this  pair  so  small 
With  shrinking  serpent-optics  on  him  stared; 
It  was  as  if  their  Uttle  looks  could  poison 
Or  fascinate  whome'er  they  fix'd  their  eyes  on. 


206 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  T. 


01. 

Before  they  cnter'd,  Haba  paused  to  hint 

To  Juan  some  slight  lessons  as  his  g^ide: 

''If  you  could  just  contrive/'  he  said,  "to  stint 

That  somewhat  manly  majesty  of  stride,  [in't  — ) 

'T  would  be  as  well,  and  —  (though  tliere's  not  much 

To  swing  a  little  less  from  side  to  side, 

Which  has  at  times  an  aspect  of  the  oddest; 

And  also,  could  you  look  a  little  modest, 

92. 

'Twould  be  convenient;  for  these  mutes  have  eyes 
Like  needles,  which  may  pierce  those  pcttiooats; 
And  if  tlicy  should  discover  your  disguise. 
You  know  how  near  us  the  deep  Bosphorus  floats; 
And  you  and  I  may  chance,  ere  morning  rise, 
To  find  our  way  to  Marmora  without  boats, 
Stitch'd  up  in  sacks  —  a  mode  of  navigation 
A  good  deal  practised  here  upon  occasion." 


With  this  encouragement,  he  led  the  way 
Into  a  room  still  nobler  than  the  last; 
A  rich  confusion  form'd  a  disarray 
In  such  sort,  that  the  eye  along  it  cast 
Could  hardly  carry  any  thing  away, 
Object  on  object  flashed  so  bright  and  fast; 
A  dazzling  mass  of  gems,  and  gold,  and  glitter, 
Magnificently  mingled  in  a  litter. 

94. 

W^ealth  had  done  wonders — taste  not  much;  suchthiiigs 

Occur  in  orient-palaces,  and  even 

In  the  more  chastened  domes  of  western  kings 

(Of  which  Tve  also  seen  some  six  or  seven), 

Where  I  can't  say  or  gold  or  diamond  (lings 

Much  lustre,  there  is  much  to  be  forgiven ; 

Groups  of  bad  statues,  tables,  chairs,  and  pictures. 

On  which  I  cannot  pause  to  make  my  striotures. 

0& 

In  this  imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 

Under  a  canopy,  and  there  reclined 

Quite  in  a  confidential  queenly  way, 

A  lady.  Baba  stopp'd,  and,  kneeling,  sign'd 

To  Juan,  who,  though  not  much  used  to  pray. 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his  mind 

What  all  this  meant:  while  Baba  bow'd  and  bended 

His  head,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 

96. 

Tlic  lady,  rising  up  with  such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  with  from  the  wave,  on  them 

Bent  like  an  antelope  a  Paphian  pair 

Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding  gem ; 

And  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair. 

She  sign'd  to  Baba,  who  first  kiss'd  the  hem 

Of  her  deep-purple  robe,  and  speaking  low. 

Pointed  to  Juan,  who  remain 'd  below. 


97. 

Her  presence  was  as  lofty  as  her  stale; 
Her  beauty  of  that  overpowering  kind. 
Whose  force  description  only  would  abate: 
I'd  rather  leave  it  much  to  your  own  mind. 
Than  lessen  it  by  what  I  could  relate 
Of  forms  and  features;  it  would  strike  you  blind 
Could  I  do  justice  to  the  full  detail; 
So,  luckily  for  both,  my  phrases  fail. 

96. 

This  much  however  I  may  add,  —  her  years 
Were  ripe,  they  might  make  six  and  twenty  springs , 
But  there  are  forms  which  Time  to  touch  forbears. 
And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things , 
Suchas  was  Mary's,  Queen  of  Scots;  true— -tears 
And  love  destroy ;  and  sapping  sorrow  wrings    ^^ 
Charms  from  the  charmer,  yet  some  never  grow 
Ugly;  for  instance  ^  Ninon  de  I'Bnclos. 

99. 

She  spake  some  words  to  her  attendants,  who 
Composed  a  choir  of  girls,  ten  or  a  dozen. 
And  were  all  clad  alike;  like  Juan,  too^ 
Who  wore  their  uniform,  by  Baba  chosen : 
They  form'd  a  very  nymph-like  looking  crew, 
Which  might  have  caird  Diana's  chorus  '^cousin," 
As  far  as  outward  show  may  correspond ; 
I  won't  be  bail  for  any  thing  beyond. 

loa 

They  bow'd  obeisance  and  withdrew,  retiring?. 
But  not  by  the  same  door  through  which  came  in 
Baba  and  Juan,  which  last  stood  admiring. 
At  some  small  distance,  all  he  saw  within 
This  strange  saloon,  much  fitted  for  inspiring 
Marvel  and  praise :  for  both  or  none  things  win ; 
And  I  must  say  I  ne'er  could  sec  the  very 
Great  happiness  of  the  ''Nil  Admirari." 

101. 

"Not  to  admire  is  all  the  art  I  know 

(Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,  needs  few  flowers  of  speech) 

To  make  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  so;" 

(So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech). 

Thus  Horace  wrote  we  all  know  long  ago; 

And  thus  Pope  quotes  the  precept,  to  re-teach 

From  his  translation;  but  had  none  admired. 

Would  Pope  have  sung,  or  Horace  been  inspired  ? 

103. 

Baba,  when  all  the  damseb  were  withdrawn, 

Motion'd  to  Juan  to  approach,  and  then 

A  second  time  desired  him  to  kneel  down 

And  kiss  the  lady's  foot,  which  maxim  when 

He  heard  repeated,  Juan  with  a  frown 

Drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  again. 

And  said:  "It  grieved  him,  but  he  could  not  stoop 

To  any  shoe,  unless  it  shod  the  Pope." 


CAKTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


207 


103. 

Baba,  indicant  at  this  ill-timed  pride, 

Uade  fierce  remonstrances,  and  then  a  threat 

He  mntter'd  (but  the  last  was  given  aside) 

About  a  bow-string  —  quite  in  vain ;  not  yet 

Woold  Joan  stoop,  though  'twere  to  ^lahomet's  bride : 

There's  nothing  in  the  world  like  etiquette 

In  kingly  chambers  or  imperial  halls, 

As  also  at  the  race  and  county-balls. 

104. 

He  stood  like  Atlas,  with  a  world  of  words 
Aboat  his  ears,  and  nathless  would  not  bend ; 
The  blood  of  all  his  line's  Castilian  lords 
Boit'd  in  his  veins,  and  rather  tlian  descend 
To  stain  his  pedigree,  a  thousand  swords 
A  thousand  times  of  him  had  made  an  end ; 
At  length, perceiving  the  "foot"  could  not  stand, 
Baba  proposed  that  he  should  kiss  the  band. 

105. 

Here  was  an  honourable  compromise, 

A  half-way  house  of  diplomatic  rest, 

Where  they  might  meet  in  much  more  peaceful  guise ; 

And  Juan  now  his  willingness  exprest, 

To  nse  all  ^  and  proper  courtesies, 

Adding,  that  this  was  commonest  and  best. 

For  through  the  South  the  custom  still  commands 

The  gentleman  to  kiss  the  lady's  hands. 

106. 

And  he  advanced,  thougli  with  but  a  bad  grace, 
Though  on  more  thorcvgh-hred  or  fairer  fingers 
No  lips  e'er  left  their  transitory  trace : 
On  such  as  these  the  lip  too  fondly  lingers, 
And  for  one  kiss  would  foin  imprint  a  brace. 
As  you  will  see,  if  she  you  love  will  bring  hers 
In  contact;  and  sometimes  eVen  a  fair  stranger's 
An  almost  twelvemonth's  constancy  endangers. 

lor. 

The  hdy  eyed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  and  bade 

Baba  retire,  which  he  obey'd  in  style, 

As  if  well-used  to  the  retreating  trade; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  the  while, 

He  whisper'd  Juan  not  to  be  afraid, 

And  k>oking  on  him  with  a  sort  of  smile, 

Took  leave  with  snch  a  fecc  of  satisfaction, 

As  good  men  wear  who  have  done  a  virtuous  action. 

108. 

When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a  sudden  change : 
I  know  not  what  might  be  the  lady's  thought, 
Bat  o'er  her  bright  brow  flash'd  a  tumult  strange, 
And  mto  her  clear  check  the  blood  was  brought. 
Blood-red  as  sunset-summer-clouds  which  range 
Tlie  verge  of  heaven;  and  in  her  large  eyes  wrought 
A  mixture  of  sensations  might  be  scann'd, 
Of  half  voluptuousness  and  half  command. 


109. 

Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex. 

Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil, 

When  he  put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 

Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road  to  evil; 

The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 

Than  she  from  aught  at  which  the  eye  could  cavil ; 

Yet,  somehow,  there  was  somethingsoniewhere  wanting^ 

As  if  she  rather  order' d  than  was  granting, 

110. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 

A  chain  o'er  all  she  did;  that  is,  a  chain 

Was  thrown*  as  'twere  about  the  neck  of  you,  — 

And  rapture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 

With  aught  which  looks  like  despotism  in  view : 

Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  'tis  in  vain 

We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obej  —    t^ 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

111. 

Her  very  smile  was  haughty,  though  so  sweet; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclination ; 

There  was  a  self-will  even  in  her  small  feet. 

As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her  station  -- 

They  trod  as  upon  necks;  and  to  complete 

Her  state  (it  is  the  custom  of  her  nation), 

A  poniard  deck'd  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 

She  was  a  sultan's  bride  (thank  Heaven,  not  minc>. 

112. 

i'Jo  hear  and  to  obey"  had  been  from  birth 

The  law  of  all  around  her;  to  fulfil 

All  phantasies  which  yielded  joy  or  mirth, 

Had  been  her  slaves'  chief  pleasure,  as  her  will ; 

Her  blood  was  high,  her  beauty  scarce  of  earth: 

Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  stood  still ; 

Had  she  but  been  a  Christian,  I've  a  notion 

We  should  have  found  out  the  "perpetual  motion." 

iia. 

Whate'er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought; 

Whatever  she  did  not  see,  if  she  supposed 

It  might  be  seen,  with  diligence  was  sought, 

And  when  'twas  found  straightway  the  bargain  closed: 

There  was  no  end  unto  the  things  she  bought. 

Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused ; 

Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a  grace, 

The  women  pardon'd  all  except  her  fooe. 

114. 

Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 
Her  eye  in  passing  on  his  way  to  sale; 
She  order'd  him  directly  to  be  bought, 
And  Baba,  who  had  ne'er  been  known  to  fieiit 
In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrought. 
Had  his  instructions  where  and  how  to  deal: 
She  had  no  prudence,  but  he  had ;  and  this 
Explains  the  garb  which  Juan  took  amiss. 


208 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  T. 


115. 

His  youth  and  featares  laToar'd  the  disguise. 
And  should  you  ask  how  she,  a  sultan's  bride, 
Could  risk:  or  compass  such  strange  phantasies, 
This  I  must  leave  sultanas  to  decide: 
Emperors  are  only  husbands  In  wives'  eyes, 
And  kings  and  consorts  oft  are  n»ystified, 
As  we  may  ascertain  with  due  precision. 
Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

116. 

But  to  the  main  point,  where  we  have  been  tending;  — 
She  now  conceived  all  difficulties  past. 
And  deem'd  herself  extremely  condescending 
When,  being  made  her  property  at  last. 
Without  more  preface,  in  her  blue  eyes  blending 
Passion  and  power,  a  glance  on  him  she  cast. 
And  merely  saying:  ''Christian,  canst  thou  love?" 
Conceived  that  phrase  was  quite  enough  to  move. 

117. 

And  so  it  was,  in  proper  time  and  place; 
But  Juan,  who  had  still  his  mind  o'erflowing 
With  Haidee's  islo  and  soft  Ionian  face. 
Felt  the  warm  blood,  which  in  his  fece  was  glowing, 
Rush  back  upon  his  heart,  which  fill'd  apace. 
And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snowdrops  blowing: 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  like  Arab  spears, 
So  that  be  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  tears. 

118. 

She  was  a  good  deal  shock'd;  not  shQek'd  at  tears. 
For  women  shed  and  use  them  at  their  liking ; 
But  there  is  something  when  roan's  eye  appears 
Wet,  still  more  disagreeable  and  striking :  y 

A  woman's  teardrop  melts,  a  man's  half  sears,  \y 
Like  molten  lead,  as  if  you  thrust  a  pike  in 
His  heart  to  force  it  out,  for  (to  be  shorter) 
To  them  'tis  a  relief,  to  us  a  torture.  * 

119. 

And  she  would  have  consoled,  but  knew  not  how; 
Having  no  equals,  nothing  whldi  had  e'er 
Infected  her  with  sympathy  till  now, 
And  never  having  dreamt  what  'twas  to  bear 
Aught  of  a  serious  sorrowing  kind,  although 
There  might  arise  some  pouting  petty  care 
To  cross  her  brow,  she  wonder'd  how  so  near 
Her  eyes  another's  eye  could  shed  a  tear. 

120. 

But  nature  teaches  more  than  power  can  spoil. 
And  when  a  ttrong  although  a  strange  sensation 
Moves  —  female  hearts  are  such  a  genial  soil  . 

For  kinder  feelings,  whatsoe'er  their  nation,      \y 
They  naturally  pour  the  **wine  and  oil," 
Samaritans  in  every  situation ; 
And  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  not  why, 
Felt  an  odd  glistening  moisture  in  her  eye. 


121. 

But  tears  must  stop  like  all  things  else;  and  soon 
Juan,  who  for  an  instant  had  been  moved 
To  such  a  sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 
Of  one  who  dared  to  ask  if ''he  had  loved," 
Call'd  back  the  stoic  to  his  eyes,  which  shone 
Bright  with  the  very  weakness  he  reproved; 
And  although  sensitive  to  beauty,  he 
Felt  most  indignant  still  at  not  being  free. 

122. 

Gulbeyaz,  for  the  0rst  time  in  her  days, 

Was  much  embarrass'd,  never  having  met 

In  all  her  life  with  aught  save  prayers  and  praise; 

And  as  she  also  risk'd  her  life  to  get 

Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor  in  love's  ways 

Into  a  comfortable  tdte-Mdte, 

To  lose  the  hour  would  make  her  quite  a  martyr, 

And  they  had  wasted  now  almost  a  quarter. 

123. 

I  also  would  suggest  the  fitting  time, 
To  gentlemen  in  any  such  like  case, 
That  is  to  say  —  in  a  meridian  clime; 
With  us  there  is  more  law  given  to  the  case, 
But  here  a  small  delay  forms  a  great  crime: 
So  recollect  that  the  extremcst  grace 
Is  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration  — 
A  moment  more  would  hurt  your  reputation. 

124. 

Juan's  was  good;  and  might  have  been  still  better. 
But  he  had  got  Haidee  into  his  head: 
However  strange,  he  could  not  yet  forget  her. 
Which  made  him  iteem  exceedingly  ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz,  who  look'd  on  him  as  her  debtor 
For  having  had  him  to  her  palace  led, 
Began  to  blush  up  to  the  eyes,  and  then 
Grow  deadly  pale,  and  then  blush  back  again. 

12& 

At  length,  in  an  imperial  way,  she  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  bending  on  his  eyes, 
Which  needed  not  an  empire  to  persuade, 
Look'd  into  his  for  love,  where  none  replies: 
Her  brow  grew  black,  but  she  would  not  upbraid. 
That  being  the  last  tiling  a  proud  woman  tries ; 
She  rose,  and,  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 
Herself  upon  his  breast,  and  there  shej 

126. 

This  was  an  awkward  test,  as  Juan  found, 
But  he  was  steeFd  by  sorrow,  wrath,  and  pride: 
With  gentle  force  her  white  arms  he  unwound. 
And  seated  her  all  drooping  by  his  side. 
Then,  rising  haughtily,  he  glanced  around, 
And,  looking  coldly  in  her  face,  he  cried, 
"The  prisoned  eagle  will  not  pair,  nor  I 
Serve  a  sultana's  sensual  phantasy. 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


209 


ThoQ  askst,  if  I  can  love?  be  this  the  proof 
How  much  I  have  loved  —  that  I  love  not  theef 
In  this  vile  garb,  the  distaff's  web  and  woof 
Were  fitter  for  me :  Love  is  for  the  free ! 
1  am  Dot  dazzled  by  this  splendid  roof. 
Whate'er  thy  power,  and  great  it  seems  to  be. 
Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a  throne. 
And  hands  obey  —  oar  hearts  are  still  our  own/' 

138. 

This  was  a  tmth  to  us  extremely  trite, 
Not  so  to  her  who  ne'er  had  heard  such  things; 
She  deem'd  her  least  command  must  yield  delight. 
Earth  being  only  made  for  queens  and  kings. 
If  hearts  lay  on  the  left  side  or  the  right 
She  hardly  knew,  to  such  perfection  brings 
L<^timacy  its  bom  votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due  royal  rights  o'er  men. 

129. 

Beades,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  so  fair 

As  even  in  a  much  humbler  lot  had  made 

A  kingdom  or  confusion  any  w here ; 

And  also,  as  may  be  presumed,  she  laid 

Some  stress  upon  those  charms,  which  seldom  are 

By  the  possessors  thrown  into  the  shade;  — 

She  thought  hers  gave  a  double  ^'right  divine," 

And  half  of  that  opinion 's  also  mine. 

ISO. 

Remember,  or  (if  you  cannot)  imagine, 

Te!  who  have  kept  your  chastify  when  young, 

While  some  more  desperate  dowager  has  been  waging 

Love  with  you,  and  been  in  the  dog-days  stung 

By  your  refusal,  recollect  her  raging! 

Or  recollect  all  that  was  said  or  sung 

On  such  a  subject;  then  suppose  the  fisuxi 

Of  a  young  downright  beauty  in  this  case. 

131. 

Suppose,  but  yon  already  have  supposed. 
The  spouse  of  Potiphar,  the  Lady  Booby, 
Phedra,  and  all  which  story  has  disclosed 
Of  good  examples;  pity  that  so  few  by 
Poets  and  private  tutors  are  exposed, 
To  educate «—  ye  youth  of  Europe  —  you  by  1 
But  when  you  have  supposed  the  few  we' know, 
Ton  can't  suppose  Crulbcyaz'  angry  brow. 

132. 

A  tigress  robb'd  of  yovng^  a  lioness, 

Or  any  Interesting  tieastof  prey. 

Are  similes  at  band  for  the  distress 

Of  ladies  who  cannot  have  their  own  way; 

Bat  though  my  turn  will  not  l>e  served  with  less, 

These  don't  express  one  half  what  I  should  say : 

For  what  is  stealing  young  ones,  few  or  many. 

To  cnttii^  short  their  hopes  of  having  any  ? 


133. 

The  love  of  offspring 's  nature's  general  law, 
From  tigresses  and  cubs  to  ducks  and  ducklings; 
There's  nothing  whets  the  beak  or  arms  the  claw 
Like  an  invasion  of  their  babes  and  sucklings; 
And  all  who  have  seen  a  human  nursery,  saw 
How  mothers  love  their  children's  squalls  and  ohuoklings ; 
And  this  strong  extreme  effect  (to  tire  no  longer 
Your  patience)  shows  tlie  cause  must  still  be  stronger. 

134 

If  I  said  fire  flash'd  from  Gulbeyaz'  eyes, 

'Twcre  nothing—  for  her  eyes  flash'd  always  fire; 

Or  said  her  checks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I  should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer. 

So  supernatural  was  her  passion's  rise; 

For  ne'er  till  now  she  knew  a  check'd  desire : 

Even  ye  who  know  what  a  check'd  woman  is 

(Enough,  God  knows  I)  would  much  fall  short  of  this. 

13&. 

Her  rage  was  but  a  minute's,  and  'twas  well  — 
A  moment's  more  had  slain  her;  but  the  while 
It  lasted  'twas  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hell : 
Nought 's  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile, 
Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  tell. 
Like  ocean  warring  'gainst  a  rocky  isle; 
And  the  deep  passions  flashing  through  her  form 
Made  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 

Ida 

A  vulgar  tempest  'twere  to  a  Typhoon 
To  match  a  common  fury  with  her  rage. 
And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon. 
Like  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immortal  page; 
Her  anger  pitch'd  into  a  lower  tune. 
Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age  — 
Her  wish  was  but  to  "kiU,  kill,  kill,"  like  Lear's, 
And  then  her  thirst  of  blood  was  quench'd  in  tears. 

137. 

A  storm  it  raged,  and  like  the  storm  it  pass'd, 
Pass'd  without  words  —  in  fiict  she  could  not  speak; 
And  then  her  stx'a  shame  broke  in  at  last, 
A  sentiment  till  then  in  her  but  weak. 
But  now  it  flow'd  in  natural  and  fast, 
As  water  through  an  unexpected  leak,  ^ 

For  she  felt  humbled  —  and  humiliation      *^ 
Is  sometimes  good  for  people  in  her  station. 

133. 

It  teaches  them  that  they  are  flesh  and  blood, 
It  also  gently  hints  to  them  that  others,  ^ 

Although  of  clay,  are  not  yet  quite  of  mud ; 
That  urns  and  pipkins  are  but  fi^agile  brothers. 
And  works  of  the  same  pottery,  bad  or  good, 
Though  not  all  born  of  the  same  sires  and  mothers : 
It  teaches  —  Heaven  knows  only  what  it  teaches, 
But  sometimes  it  may  mend,  and  often  reaehes. 
14 


210 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  T. 


13d. 

Her  first  thought  was  to  cat  off  Jaan's  head; 
Her  second)  to  cat  only  his  —  acqaaintance; 
Her  third,  to  ask  him  where  he  had  been  bred ; 
Her  fourth,  to  rally  him  into  repentance; 
Her  fifth,  to  call  her  maids  and  go  to  bed ; 
Her  sixth,  to  stab  herself;  her  scTcntli,  to  sentence 
The  lash  to  Baba,  —  but  her  grand  rcsoaroe 
Was  to  sit  down  again,  and  cry  of  course. 

14a 

She  thought  to  stab  herself,  but  then  she  had 
The  dagger  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awkward ; 
For  eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad. 
So  that  a  poniard  pierces  if  'tis  stuck  hard : 
She  thought  of  killing  Juan  -^  but,  poor  lad! 
Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  backward, 
The  cutting  off  bis  head  was  not  the  art 
Most  likely  to  attain  her  aim  —  bis  heart. 

141. 

Juan  was  moved:  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
To  be  Impaled,  or  quartered  as  a  dish 
For  dogs,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined, 
Or  thrown  to  lions,  or  made  baits  for  fish, 
And  thus  heroically  stood  resigned, 
Rather  than  sin  •—  except  to  his  own  wish : 
But  all  his  great  preparatives  for  dying 
Dissolved  like  snow  before  a  woman  crying. 

140. 

As  through  his  palms  Bob  Acres'  valour  oooed, 
So  Juan's  virtue  ebb'd,  I  know  not  how; 
And  first  he  wonder'd  why  he  had  refused; 
And  then,  tf  matters  could  be  made  up  now ; 
And  next  his  savage  virtue  he  accused, 
Just  as  a  firiar  may  accuse  his  vow. 
Or  as  a  dame  repents  her  of  her  oath, 
Which  mostly  ends  in  some  small  breach  of  both. 

14a 

So  he  began  to  stammer  some  excuses; 
But  words  are  not  enough  in  such  a  matter, 
Although  you  borrow'd  all  that  e'er  the  Muses 
Have  sung,  or  even  a  Dandy's  dandiest  chatter, 
Or  all  the  figures  Castlereagh  abases; 
Just  as  a  languid  smile  began  to  flatter 
His  peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
Further,  old  Baba  rather  briskly  entered. 

144. 

''Bride  of  the  Sun !  and  Sister  of  the  Moon!" 
CTwas  thus  he  spake)  ''and  Bmpress  of  the  Barth ! 
Whose  frown  would  put  the  spheres  all  out  of  tune. 
Whose  smile  makes  all  the  planets  dance  with  mirth, 
Vour  slave  brings  tidings  —  he  hopes  not  too  soon  — 
Which  your  sublime  attention  may  be  worth : 
The  Sun  himself  has  sent  me  like  a  ray 
To  hint  that  he  is  coming  up  this  way." 


145w 

"Is  it,"  exclaim'd  Guibcyas,  "as  you  say? 

I  wish  to  Heaven  he  would  not  shlno  till  morning ! 

But  bid  my  women  form  the  milky  way. 

Hence,  my  old  comet !  give  the  stars  due  warning  — 

And,  Christian!  mingle  with  them  as  you  maj ; 

And,  as  you'd  have  me  pardon  your  past  scorning  — 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  a  hamming 

Sound,  and  then  by  a  cry  "the  Saltan 's  coming !" 

146L 

First  came  her  damsels,  a  decoroos  flic, 

And  then  his  Highness'  eunuchs,  black  and  white; 

The  train  might  reach  a  quarter  of  a  mile: 

His  Migesty  was  always  so  polite 

As  to  announce  his  visits  a  long  while 

Before  he  came,  especially  at  night; 

For  being  the  last  wife  of  the  emperor. 

She  was  of  course  the  fieivourite  of  the  four. 

147. 

His  Highness  was  a  man  of  solemn  port, 
Shawl'd  to  the  nose,  and  bearded  to  the  eyes. 
Snatch 'd  from  a  prison  to  preside  at  court. 
His  lately  bowstrung  brother  caused  his  rise ; 
He  was  as  good  a  sovereign  of  the  sort 
As  any  mcntion'd  in  the  histories 
Of  Cantemir,  or  Knolles,  where  few  shine 
Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  line. 

148. 

He  went  to  mosque  in  state,  and  said  his  prayers 

With  more  than  "Oriental  scrupulosity;" 

He  lefl  to  his  vizier  all  state-affairs, 

And  sho w 'd  but  little  royal  curiosity : 

I  know  not  if  he  had  domestic  cares  — 

No  process  proved  connabial  animosity; 

Four  wives  and  twice  five  hundred  maids,  nosecu. 

Were  ruled  as  calmly  as  a  christian  queen. 

149. 

If  now  and  then  there  bappen'd  a  slight  slip. 
Little  was  heard  of  criminal  or  crime ; 
The  story  scarcely  pass'd  a  single  lip  — 
The  sack  and  sea  had  settled  all  in  time, 
From  which  the  secret  nobody  could  rip ; 
The  public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  rhyme  ; 
No  scandals  made  the  daily  press  a  corse  — 
Morals  were  better,  and  the  fish  no  worse. 

160. 

He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  moon  was  round. 
Was  also  certain  that  the  eartli  was  square, 
Because  he  had  journeyed  fifty  miles  and  fonnd 
No  sign  that  it  was  circular  any  where; 
His  empire  also  was  without  a  bound: 
'Tis  true,  a  little  troubled  here  and  there. 
By  rebel  pachas,  and  encroadiing  giaoors. 
But  then  they  never  came  to  "the  Seven  Towers;" 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


211 


161. 

Exeept  in  shape  of  envoys,  who  were  sent 

To  lodge  there  when  a  war  broke  out,  according 

To  the  true  law  of  nations,  which  ne'er  meant 

Those  scoundrels,  who  liave  never  had  a  sword  in 

Their  dirty  diplomatic  hand,  to  vent 

Their  spleen  in  making  strife,  and  safely  wording 

Their  lies,  yclcp'd  despatches,  without  risk  or 

The  singeing  of  a  single  inky  whisker. 

153. 

He  had  fifty  daughters  and  four  dozen  sons, 
Of  whom  all  sndi  as  came  of  age  were  slowed. 
The  former  in  a  palace,  where  like  nuns 
They  lived  till  some  bashaw  was  sent  abroad, 
When,  she,  whose  turn  it  was,  wedded  at  once, 
Sometimes  at  six  years  old  ^  thongli  this  seems  odd, 
Tis  true;  the  reason  is,  that  the  bashaw 
Most  make  a  present  to  Ids  sire  in  law. 

163. 

His  sons  were  kept  in  prison  till  they  grew 
Of  years  to  fill  a  bowstring  or  the  throne, 
One  or  the  other,  but  which  of  the  two 
Could  yet  be  known  unto  the  Fates  alone; 
Meantime  the  education  they  went  through 
Was  princely,  as  the  poofs  have  always  shown : 
So  that  the  heir-apparent  still  was  found 
No  leas  deserving  to  be  hang'd  than  crown'd. 

164. 

Ifis  Majesty  sainted  his  fourth  spouse 

With  aU  the  ceremonies  of  his  rank. 

Who  dear'd  her  sparkling  eyes  and  smoothed  her  brows, 

As  suits  a  matron  who  has  play'd  a  prank ; 

These  must  secfn  doubly  mindftd  of  their  vows, 

To  save  the  credit  of  their  breaking  bank : 

To  no  men  are  such  cordial  greetings  given 

As  thote  whose  wives  have  made  them  fit  for  heaven. 


155. 

His  Ifighness  cast  around  his  great  black  eyes. 
And  looking,  as  he  always  look'd,  perceived 
Juan  amongst  the  damsels  in  disguise. 
At  which  he  seem'd  no  whit  surprised  nor  grieved, 
But  just  remark'd  with  air  sedate  and  wise. 
While  still  a  fluttering  sigh  Gulbeyaz  heaved: 
**I  see  you've  bought  another  girl ;  'tis  pity 
That  a  mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty." 

166. 

This  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 

The  new-bought  virgin,  made  her  blush  and  shake. 

Her  comrades,  also,  thought  themselves  undone : 

Ob,  Mahomet!  that  his  Majesty  should  take 

Such  notice  of  a  giaour,  while  scarce  to  one 

Of  them  his  lips  imperial  ever  spake! 

There  was  a  general  whisper,  toss,  and  wriggle, 

But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

167. 

The  Turks  do  well  to  shut  —  at  least,  sometimes  — 
The  women  up  —  because  in  sad  reality, 
Their  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 
Is  not  a  thing  of  that  astringent  quality, 
Which  in  the  north  prevents  precarious  crimes. 
And  makes  our  snow  less  pure  than  our  morality; 
The  sun,  which  yearly  melts  the  polar  ice, 
Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 

158. 

Thus  far  our  ebroniolc;  and  now  we  pause, 
Thougli  not  for  want  of  matter;  bat  'tis  time. 
According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws. 
To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 
Let  this  fifth  Canto  meet  with  due  applause, 
The  sixth  shall  have  a  touch  of  the  sublime ; 
Mean  whilc^&Homer  sometimes  sleeps,  perhaps 
You'll  pardon  to  my  muse  a  few  short  naps. 


212 


BON  JUAN. 


PREFACE 


CANTOS    VL    VIL    VIII. 


The  details  of  the  Sie^  of  Ismail  in  two  of  tlie  fol- 
lowing: Cantos  (t.  e.  the  7th  and  8tb)  are  taken  from  a 
French  work,  entitled  "Histoirc  de  la  Nouvelle  Russie." 
Some  of  the  incidents  attributed  to  Don  Juan  really 
occurred,  particularly  the  circumstance  of  his  saving  the 
infant,  which  was  the  actual  case  of  the  late  Due  de 
Richelieu,  then  a  young  volunteer  in  the  Russian  service, 
and  afterwards  the  founder  and  benefactor  of  Odessa, 
where  his  name  and  memory  can  never  cease  to  be 
regarded  with  reverence.  In  the  course  of  these  Cantos, 
a  stanza  or  two  will  be  found  relative  to  the  late  Marquis 
of  Londonderry,  but  written  some  time  before  his 
decease.  —  Had  that  person's  Oligarchy  died  with  him, 
they  would  have  been  suppressed;  as  it  is,  I  am  aware 
of  nothing  in  the  manner  of  his  death  or  of  his  life  to 
prevent  the  free  expression  of  the  opinions  of  all  whom 
his  whole  existence  was  consumed  in  endeavouring  to 
enslave.  That  he  was  an  amiable  man  in  private  life,  may 
or  may  not  be  true;  but  with  this  the  public  have  nothing 
to  do;  and  as  to  lamenting  his  death,  it  will  be  time 
enough  when  Ireland  has  ceased  to  mourn  for  his  birth. 
As  a  Minister,  I,  for  one  of  millions,  looked  upon  him 
as  the  most  despotic  in  intention  and  the  weakest  in 
Intellect,  that  ever  tyrannized  over  a  country.  It  is  the 
first  time  indeed  since  the  Normans,  that  England  has 
been  insulted  by  ?LMni$ter  (at  least)  who  could  not 
speak  English,  and  that  Parliament  permitted  itself  to  be 
dictated  to  in  the  language  of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death  little  need  be  said,  except 
that  if  a  poor  radical,  such  as  Waddington  or  Watson, 
had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been  buried  in  k  cross- 
road, with  the  usual  appurtenances  of  the  stake  and 
mallet.  But  the  Minister  was  an  elegant  Lunatic  —  a 
sentimental  Suicide— he  merely  cut  the  ''carotid  artery" 
(blessings  on  their  learning!)  —and  lol  the  Pageant, 
and  the  Abbey!  and  *tbe  Syllables  of  Dolour  yelled 
forth"  by  the  Newspapers  —  and  the  harangue  of  the 
Coroner  in  an  eulogy  over  the  bleeding  body  of  the 
deceased  —  (an  Anthony  worthy  of  such  a  Caesar)  — 
and  the  nauseous  and  atrocious  cant  of  a  degraded  Crew 
of  Conspirators  against  all  that  is  sincere  and  honourable. 
In  his  death  he  was  necessarily  one  of  two  things  by  the 
law  —  a  felon  or  a  madman  — and  in  either  case  no  great 
subject  for  panegyric  *).  In  his  life  he  was  —  what  all 
the  world  knows,  and  half  of  it  will  feel  for  years  to  oome, 
unless  his  death  prove  a  ''moral  lesson"  to  the  surviving 
Sejani  **)  of  Europe.   It  may  at  least  serve  as  some 

*)  1  uj  by  the  law  of  the  Uuid  —  the  laws  of  HnmaRity  Judge  more 
gently ;  bat  as  the  legitimate  have  always  the  law  in  their  mouths,  let 
them  here  make  the  ftiost  of  it. 

**)  From  this  number  mast  be  excepted  Canning.  Canning  ia  a  geotas, 
almost  an  onlTcrsal  one:  an  orator  ,  a  wit,  a  poet,  a  statesman ;  and  no 


consolation  to  the  nations,  that  their  oppressors  are  not 
i^^tppy*  and  In  some  instances  judge  so  justly  of  their 
own  actions  as  to  anticipate  the  sentence  of  mankind.  — 
Let  us  bear  no  more  of  this  man,  and  let  Ireland  remove 
the  ashes  of  her  Grattan  from  the  Sanctuary  of  West- 
minster Shall  the  Patriot  of  Humanity  repose  by  the 
Werther  of  Politics!  I! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been  made 
on  another  score  to  the  already  published  Cantos  of  this 
poem ,  I  shall  content  myself  with  two  quotations  from 
Voltaire:  — 

"La  pudeur  s'est  enfuie  dcs  coenrs,  et  s'cst  refugiee 
sur  les  Uvres." 

*'Plus  les  moeurs  sont  depraves,  plus  les  expressions 
deviennent  mesurees;  on  croit  regagner  en  langage  oe 
qu'on  a  perdu  en  vcrtu." 

This  is  the  real  fact,  as  applicable  to  the  degraded  and 
hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present  English  ge- 
neration, and  is  the  only  answer  they  deserve.  The  hack- 
neyed and  lavished  title  of  blasphenier  —  which  ,  with 
radical,  liberal,  jacobin,  reformer,  are  the  charges  which 
the  hirelings  are  daily  ringing  in  the  ears  of  those  who 
will  listen  —  should  be  welcome  to  all  who  recollect  on 
whom  it  was  originally  bestowed.  Socrates  and  Jesos 
Christ  were  put  to  death  publicly  as  hUuphemer^y  and  so 
have  been  and  may  be  many  who  dare  to  oppose  the 
most  notorious  abuses  of  the  name  of  God  and  the  mind 
of  man.  But  persecution  is  not  refutation,  nor  even 
triumph:  the  "wretched  infidel/'  as  he  is  called,  is  pro- 
bably happier  in  his  prison  than  the  proudest  of  his 
assailants.  With  his  opinions  I  have  nothing  to  do  —  . 
they  may  be  right  or  wrong  —  but  he  has  suffered  for 
them,  and  that  very  suffering  for  conscience'  sake  will 
make  more  proselytes  to  Deism  than  the  example  of  he- 
terodox *)  prelates  to  Christianity,  suicide  statesmen  to 
oppression,  or  over-pensioned  homicides  to  the  Impious 
alliance  which  insults  the  world  with  the  name  of ''Holy!*' 
I  have  no  wish  to  trample  on  the  dishonoured  or  the 
dead ;  but  it  would  be  well  if  the  adherents  to  the  classes 
from  whence  those  persons  sprung  should  abate  a  little 
of  the  Cant  which  is  the  crying  sin  of  this  donble-dealiog 
and  false-speaking  time  of  selfish  spoilers,  and  —  but 
enough  for  the  present 


man  of  Ulent  tan  long  pnrsne  the  path  of  his  late  predecesaor.  Lord  C 
ir  ever  roan  saved  his  country,  Canning  can ;  bat  will  be  f  I,  tor  one, 
hope  so. 

*)  When  Lord  Sandwich  said  "^e  did  not  know  the  dilfkrenc*  he- 
twcen  orthodoxy  and  heterodoxy*  —  Warbarton,  the  bishop,  replied: 
"Orthodoxy,  my  Lord,  is  my  doxy,  and  heterodoxy  is  another  ■mb*ii    '< 
doxy."*  -~  A  prelate  of  the  present  day  has  dlscOTcred,  it  sc«ma»  n  cUrd    i 
kind  of  doxy,  which  has  not  greatly  exalted  in  the  eyes  of  the  elect  that 
which  Bentham  calto  "Chvch'Of-Englanaism.** 


CAKTO  TL 


DON  JUAN. 


213 


CANTO     VI. 


"Dost  Uioa  think  ,  bccdnae  thov  art  ▼iitnon* ,  there  shall  be  no  more  Cakes 
and  Ale?  —  Yes,  by  Sc  Aone;  aar!  Ginger  shall  be  hot  i'  the  month  too  1" 
-  Twelfth  NiKht;  or  What  you  wlU. 

Srakspiabk. 


^Trerb  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood"  —  you  know  the  rest 

And  most  of  ns  have  found  it,  now  and  then; 

At  least  we  think  so,  thougli  but  few  have  guess'd 

The  moment,  till  too  iate  to  come  again. 

Bet  no  doubt  eyery  thing  is  for  the  best  — 

Of  which  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end: 

When  things  are  at  the  worst  they  sometimes  mend. 

^. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 

"Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads"  —  God  knows  where: 

Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

IMiose  charts  lay  down  its  currents  to  a  hair; 

Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Bchmen 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  compare:  — 

Men,  with  their  heads,  reflect  on  this  and  that,  ^ 

But  women  with  their  hearts,  on  Heaven  knows  what! 


And  yet  a  headlong,  headstrong,  downright  she^ 
Toung,  bcautiftil,  and  daring  —  who  would  risk 
A  throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 
Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 
The  stars  from  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 
As  are  the  billows  when  the  breeze  is  brisk  — 
Though  such  a  she's  a  devil  (if  that  there  be  one), 
Tet  she  would  make  foil  many  a  Manichcan. 

4. 

Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 
By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 
O'crthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 
Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 
If  Anthony  be  well  remembered  yet, 
Tb not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fashion; 
Bat  Aetinm,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 
Oatbalanoe  all  the  Caesars'  victories. 

6. 

Hefied  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty ; 

I  wish  their  years  had  been  fifteen  and  twenty. 

For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds,  are  but  a  sport  —  I 

Seacmber  when,  though  I  had  no  great  plenty 

Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  I 

Gave  what  I  had  —  a  heart :  —  as  the  world  went,  I     u 

Gave  what  was  worth  a  world ;  for  worlds  could  never 

Beslore  mc  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ever. 


'T  was  theboy's  *  Wile,"  and,  like  the  "widow's,''  may 

Perhaps  be  weigh'd  hereafter,  if  not  now: 

But  whether  such  things  do,  or  do  not,  weigh, 

All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 

Life  has  nought  like  it  God  is  love,  they  say,     i/-^^ 

And  Love's  a  God,  or  was,  before  the  brow 

Of  Earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 

Of  —  but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 


We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A  kiud  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncommon, 

For  gentlemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin       ^ 

For  that  sad  tempter,  a  forbidden  woman : 

Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin. 

And  don't  agree  at  all  with  the  wise  Roman, 

Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious, 

Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortensrus. 

8. 

I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong; 

I  own  it,  I  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it; 

But  I  detest  all  fiction,  even  in  song. 

And  so  must  tell  the  truth,  howc'er  you  blame  it. 

Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong. 

She  thought  that  her  lord's  heart  (even  could  she  claim  it) 

Was  scarce  enough ;  for  he  had  fifty-nine  i. 

Years,  and  a  fiftcen-hundredth  concubine. 

9. 

I  am  not,  like  Cassio,  "an  arithmetician," 
But  by  "the  bookish  thcoric*'  it  appears, 
If 'tis  summ'd  up  with  feminine  precision. 
That,  adding  to  the  account  his  Highness'  years. 
The  fiur  Sultana  err'd  from  inanition ; 
For,  were  the  Sultan  just  to  all  his  dears. 
She  could  but  claim  the  fifteen-hundredth  part 
Of  what  should  be  monopoly  —  the  heart 

10. 

It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 

Upon  all  legal  objects  of  possession, 

And  not  the  least  so  when  they  are  religious. 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  the  transgression. 

With  suits  and  prosecutions  they  besiege  us, 

As  the  tribunals  show  through  many  a  session. 

When  they  suspect  that  any  one  goes  shares 

In  that  to  which  the  law  makes  them  sole  heirs. 


214 


DON  JUAN. 


CAMTO  1ft 


11. 

Now,  if  tills  holds  good  in  a  Christian  land, 

The  heathen  also,  (hough  with  lesser  latitude. 

Are  apt  to  carry  things  with  a  high  hand, 

And  take  what  kings  call  "an  imposing  attitude ;" 

And  for  their  rights  connubial  make  a  stand, 

When  their  liege  husbands  treat  them  with  ingratitude; 

And  as  four  wives  must  have  quadruple  claims, 

The  Tigris  hath  its  jealousies  like  Thames. 

12. 

Gnlbeyaz  was  the  fourth,  and  (as  I  said) 

The  favourite;  but  what's  favour  amongst  four? 

Polygamy  may  well  be  held  in  dread, 

Not  only  as  a  sin,  but  as  a  bore :  — 

Host  wise  men,  with  one  moderate  woman  wed, 

Will  scarcely  find  philosophy  for  more; 

And  all  (except  Maliometans)  torbear 

To  make  the  nuptial  couch  a  "Bed  of  Ware." 

la 

His  Highness,  the  sublimest  of  mankind,  — 
So  styled  according  to  the  usual  forms 
Of  every  monarch,  till  they  are  consigned 
To  those  sad  hungry  jacobins,  the  worms. 
Who  on  the  very  loftiest  kingshave  dined, — 
His  Highness  gazed  upon  Gulbeyae*  charms. 
Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a  lover 
(A  "Highland  welcome"  all  the  wide  world  over). 

14. 

Now  here  we  should  distinguish ;  for  howe'er 
Kisses,  sweet  words,  embraces,  and  all  that. 
May  look  like  what  is  —  neither  here  nor  tliere; 
They  are  put  on  as  easily  as  a  hat. 
Or  rather  bonnet,  which  the  fair  sex  wear, 
Trimm'd  either  heads  or  hearts  to  decorate. 
Which  form  an  ornament,  but  no  more  part 
Of  heads,  than  their  caresses  of  the  heart. 

15. 

A  slight  blush,  a  soft  tremor,  a  calm  kind 
Of  gentle  feminine  delight,  and  shown 
More  in  the  eyelids  than  the  eyes,  resigned 
Rather  to  hide  what  pleases  most  unknown. 
Are  the  best  tokens  (to  a  modest  mind) 
Of  love,  when  seated  on  his  loveliest  throne, 
A  sincere  woman's  breast,  —  for  over-ic;arm      V^ 
Or  oyet'cold  annihilates  the  charm. 

16. 

For  oyer-warmth,  if  false,  is  worse  than  truth ; 
If  true,  'tis  no  great  lease  of  its  own  fire; 
For  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youth, 
Would  like  (I  think)  to  trust  all  to  desire. 
Which  is  but  a  precarious  bond,  in  sooth. 
And  apt  to  be  transferr'd  to  the  first  buyer 
At  a  sad  discoun  t :  while  your  over-chilly 
Women,  on  f  other  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly. 


17. 

That  is,  we  cannot  pardon  their  bad  taste. 
For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow. 
Who  &in  would  have  a  mutual  flame  confest. 
And  see  a  sentimental  passion  glow. 
Even  were  St.  Francis'  paramour  their  guest. 
In  his  Monastic  Concubine  of  Snow;  — 
In  short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  tribe  is 
Horatlan :  "Medio  tu  tutissimus  ibis.'' 

18. 

The  "tu"  's  too  much,  —  but  let  it  stand—  the  verse 
Requires  it,  that's  to  say,  the  English  rhymci 
And  not  the  pink  of  old  Hexameters; 
But,  after  all,  there's  neither  tune  nor  time 
In  the  last  line,  which  cannot  well  be  worse. 
And  was  thrust  in  to  close  the  octave's  chime: 
I  own  no  prosody  can  ever  rate  it 
As  a  rule,  bat  Truth  may,  if  you  translate  it. 

19. 

If  feir  Gnlbeyaz  overdid  her  part, 

I  know  not  —  it  succeeded,  and  success 

Is  much  in  most  things,  not  less  in  the  heart 

Than  other  articles  of  female  dress. 

Self-love  in  man  too  beats  all  femak  art ; 

They  lie,  we  lie,  all  lie,  but  love  no  less:  v       . 

And  no  one  virtue  yet,  except  starvation;  -^ 

Could  stop  that  worst  of  vices  —  propagation. 

20. 

We  leave  this  royal  couple  to  repose; 
A  bed  is  not  a  throne,  and  they  may  sleep, 
Whate'er  their  dreams  be,  if  of  joys  or  woes; 
Yet  disappointed  joys  arc  woes  as  deep 
As  any  man's  clay-mixture  undergoes. 
Our  least  of  sorrows  are  such  as  we  weep, 
'Tis  the  vile  daily  drop  on  drop  which  wears 
The  soul  out  (like  the  stone)  with  petty  cares. 

21. 

A  scolding  wife,  a  suUen  son,  a  bill 

To  pay,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 

At  a  per-centage;  a  child  cross,  dog  ill, 

A  favourite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he's  mounted ; 

A  bad  old  woman  making  a  worse  will. 

Which  leaves  you  minus  of  the  cash  you  counted 

As  certain;  —  these  are  paltry  things,  and  yet 

I've  rarely  seen  the  man  they  did  not  fret 

22. 

I'm  a  philosopher;  confound  them  all ! 
Bills,  beasts,  and  men,  and  —  no!  not  womankind! 
With  one  good  hearty  curse  I  vent  my  gall. 
And  then  my  stoicism  leaves  nought  behind 
Which  it  can  cither  pain  or  evil  call, 
And  I  can  give  my  whole  soul  up  to  mind ; 
Though  what  is  soul  or  mind,  their  birth  or  growth. 
Is  more  than  I  know  —  the  deuce  take  them  both. 


CAKTO  TL 


DON  JUAN. 


215 


2a. 

So  now  all  things  are  d— n'd,  one  feels  at  ease. 
As  after  reading  Athanasius'  curse, 
Which  doth  yoar  true  bejie?er  so  much  please: 
I  doubt  if  any  now  could  make  it  worse 
O'er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  his  knees; 
Tls  so  soitentioos,  po5iti?e,  and  terse, 
And  decorates  the  book  of  Common  Prayer, 
As  doth  a  rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

Gnlbeyaa  and  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 
At  least  one  of  them  —  Oh  the  heavy  night ! 
When  wicked  wires  who  love  some  bachelor 
Lie  down  in  dudgeon  to  sigh  for  the  light 
Of  the  gray  mornmg,  and  look  vainly  for 
Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite, 
To  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake 
Lest  their  too  lawful  bed-fellow  should  wake. 

These  are  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 
Also  beneath  the  canopy  of  beds 
Four-posted  and  silk-curtain 'd,  which  are  given 
For  rich  men  and  their  brides  to  lay  their  heads 
Upon,  in  sheets  white  as  what  bards  call  ^'driven 
Soow."  Well !  'tis  all  hap-hazard  when  one  weds. 
Gulbeyaz  was  an  emptress,  but  had  been 
Perhaps  as  wretched  i£ei  peasant's  quean. 

20. 

JkKk  Juan,  in  his  feminine  disguise, 

With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array, 

Had  bow'd  themselves  before  the  imperial  eyes, 

Afid,  at  the  usual  signal,  ta'cn  their  way 

Back  to  their  chambers,  those  long  galleries 

In  the  seraglio,  where  the  ladies  lay 

Their  delicate  limbs ;  a  thousand  bosoms  there 

Beating  for  love,  as  the  caged  birds  for  air. 

27. 

I  lore  the  sex,  and  sometimes  would  reverse 

The  tyrant's  wish,  *'that  mankind  only  had 

*'Onc  neck,  which  he  with  one  fell  stroke  might  pierce  :'^ 

My  wish  is  quite  as  wide,  but  not  so  bad, 

And  much  more  tender  on  the  whole  than  fierce; 

It  being  (not  now,  but  only  while  a  lad) 

Vm*  wmpankind  had  bat  one  rosy  moutli, 

To  Itiff  ^Imhw  ail  ^^  nyncft  friun  NoftU  to  South. 

28. 

Oh  enviable  Briareus!  with  thy  hands 

And  heads,  if  thou  hadst  all  things  multiplied 

In  sueb  proportion  I  —  But  my  muse  withstands 

The  giant-thouglit  of  being  a  Titan's  bride. 

Or  travelling  in  Patagonian  lauds ; 

8o  let  m  back  to  Lilliput,  and  guide 

Onr  hero  through  the  labyrinth  of  love 

la  which  we  left  him  several  lines  above. 


3a 

He  went  ftMrth  with  the  lovely  Odalisques, 
At  the  given  signal  joined  to  their  array ; 
And  though  he  certainly  ran  many  risks. 
Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep,  by  the  way 
(Although  the  consequences  of  such  frisks 
Are  worse  than  the  worst  damages  men  pay 
In  moral  England,  wfiere  the  thing's  a  tax), 
FrdJB  Ogling'  all'th'eir  charms  from  breasts  to  backs. 

30. 

Still  he  forgot  not  his  disguise:  —  along 

The  galleries  fh>m  room  to  room  they  walk'd, 

A  virgin-like  and  edifying  throng. 

By  eunuchs  flank'd ;  while  at  their  head  there  stalk'd 

A  dame  who  kept  up  discipline  among 

The  female  ranks,  so  that  none  stirr'd  or  talk'd 

Without  her  sanction  on  their  she-parades: 

Her  title  was  *'the  Mother  of  the  Maids.'' 

31. 

Whether  she  was  a  ^'mother,"  I  know  not. 

Or  whether  they  were  "maids"  who  call'd  her  mother ; 

But  this  is  her  seraglio-title,  got 

I  know  not  how,  but  good  as  any  others 

So  Cantemir  can  tell  you,  or  De  Tott: 

Her  office  was,  to  keep  aloof  or  smother 

All  bad  propensities  in  fifteen  hundred 

Young  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  binnder'd. 

A  goodly  sinecure,  no  doubt !  hot  made 

More  easy  by  the  absence  of  all  men 

Except  his  Majesty,  who,  with  her  aid. 

And  guards,  and  bolts,  and  walls,  and  now  and  then 

A  slight  example,  just  to  cast  a  shade 

Along  the  rest,  contrived  to  keep  this  den 

Of  beauties  cool  as  an  Italian  convent. 

Where  all  the  passions  have,  alas!  but  one  vent. 

33. 

And  what  is  that  ?  Devotion,  doubtless  —  how 

Could  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  —  but  we  will 

Continue.  As  I  said,  this  goodly  row 

Of  ladies  of  all  countries  at  the  will 

Of  one  good  man,  with  stately  march  and  slow, 

Like  water-lilies  floating  down  a  rill, 

Or  rather  lake  —  for  rilis  do  not  run  slowfj^,  — 

Paced  on  most  maiden-like  and  melancholy. 

34. 

But  when  they  reacVd  their  own  apartments,  there, 
Like  birds,  or  boys,  or  bedlamites  broke  loose, 
Waves  at  spring-tide,  or  women  any  where 
When  freed  from  bonds  (which  are  of  no  great  use 
After  all),  or  like  Irish  at  a  fair, 
Their  guards  being  gone,  and,  as  it  were,  a  truec 
Established  between  them  and  bondage,  they 
Bqpin  to  sing,  dance,  chatter,  smile,  and  play. 


216 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  V]. 


36. 

Their  talk  of  course  ran  most  on  the  new  comer, 

Her  shape,  her  air,  her  hair,  her  every  thing: 

Some  thought  her  dress  did  not  so  much  become  her, 

Or  wonder'd  at  her  ears  without  a  ring ; 

Some  said  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer. 

Others  contended  they  were  but  in  spring; 

Some  thought  her  rather  masculine  in  height. 

While  others  wish'd  that  she  had  been  so  quite. 

36. 

But  no  one  doubted,  on  the  whole,  that  she 
Was  what  her  dress  bespoke,  a  damsel  fair, 
And  fresh,  and  ^'beautiful  exceedingly," 
Who  with  the  brightest  Georgians  might  compare: 
They  wondcr'd  how  Gulbeyaz  too  could  be 
So  silly  as  to  buy  slaves  who  might  share 
(If  that  his  Highness  wearied  of  his  bride) 
Her  throne  and  power,  and  every  thing  beside. 

37. 

But  what  was  strangest  in  this  virgin-crew. 

Although  her  beauty  was  enough  to  vex, 

After  the  first  investigating  view, 

They  all  found  out  as  few,  or  fewer,  specks  * 

In  the  fair  form  of  their  companion  new. 

Than  is  the  custom  of  the  gentle  sex 

When  they  survey,  with  christian  eyes  or  heathen, 

In  a  new  face  ''the  ugliest  creature  breathing." 

38. 

And  yet  they  had  their  little  jealousies. 
Like  all  the  rest;  but  upon  this  occasion. 
Whether  there  are  such  things  as  sympathies 
Without  our  knowledge  or  our  approbation, 
Although  they  could  not  see  through  his  disguise. 
Ail  felt  a  soft  kind  of  concatenation, 
Like  magnetism,  or  devilism,  or  what 
You  please  —  we  will  not  quarrel  about  that: 


But  certain  'tis  they  all  felt  for  their  new 
Companion  something  newer  still,  as  'twere 
A  sentimental  friendship  through  and  through. 
Extremely  pure,  which  made  them  all  concur 
In  wishing  her  their  sister,  save  a  few 
Who  wish'd  they  had  a  brother  just  like  her. 
Whom,  if  they  were  at  home  in  sweet  Circassia, 
They  would  prefer  to  Padisha  or  Pacha. 

40. 

Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 
Of  sentimental  friendship,  there  were  three, 
Lolah,  Katinka,  and  Dudili;  ^  in  short 
(To  save  description)  fair  as  fair  can  be 
Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report, 
Though  differing  in  stature  and  degree, 
And  clime  and  time,  and  country  and  complexion ; 
They  all  alike  admired  their  new  connexion. 


41. 

Lolah  was  dusk  as  India  and  as  warm ; 

Katinka  was  a  Georgian,  white  and  red. 

With  great  blue  eyes,  a  lovely  hand  and  arm. 

And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  secm'd  made  to  tread. 

But  rather  skim  the  earth ;  while  Dudu  's  form 

Look'd  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed, 

Being  somewhat  large  and  languishing  and  lazy. 

Yet  of  a  beauty  that  would  drive  you  cnusy. 

4% 

A  kind  of  sleepy  Veniis  seem'd  Dadd, 

Yet  very  fit  to  '^murder  sleep"  in  those 

Who  gazed  upon  her  cheek's  transoendant  hue. 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose : 

Few  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  'tis  true. 

Thinner  she  might  have  been  and  yet  scarce  lose; 

Yet  after  all,  'twould  puzzle  to  say  where 

It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare, 

43. 

She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 
Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a  May-day  breaking; 
Her  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet  half-shut. 
They  put  beholders  in  a  tender  taking; 
She  look'd  (this  simile's  quite  new)  just  cut 
From  marble,  like  Pygmalion's  statue  waking. 
The  mortal  and  the  marble  still  at  strife, 
And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

44* 

Lolah  demanded  the  new  damsel's  name  — 
^'Juanna."  Well,  a  pretty  name  enough. 
Katinka  ask'd  her  also  whence  she  came  —    [such  stuff, 
"From  Spain."  —  "But  where  is  Spain?"  —  **Don't  ask 
Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance  —  for  shame ! " 
Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rough, 
To  poor  Katinka:  "Spain's  an  island  near 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier." 

46. 

Dudii  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  beside 

Juanna,  playing  with  her  veil  or  hair; 

And,  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  she  sigh'd 

As  if  she  pitied  her  for  being  there, 

A  pretty  stranger  without  friend  or  guide. 

And  all  abash'd  too  at  the  general  stare 

Which  welcomes  hapless  strangers  in  all  places, 

With  kind  remarks  upon  their  mien  and  faces. 

46. 

But  here  the  Mother  of  the  Maids  drew  near, 
With  "Ladies,  it  is  time  to  go  to  rest." 
'ii'm  puzzled  what  to  do  with  you,  my  dear," 
She  added  to  Juanna,  their  new  guest : 
"Your  coming  has  been  unexpected  here, 
And  every  couch  is  occupied;  you  had  best 
Partake  of  mine;  but  by  to-morrow  early 
We  will  have  all  things  settled  for  you  fairly." 


GAUTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


217 


47. 

Here  Lolah  interposed  —  "Mamma,  you  know 
Yon  don't  sleep  soundly,  and  1  caimot  bear 
That  any  hody  should  disturb  you ;  so 
]1I  take  Joanna;  we're  a  slenderer  pair 
Than  you  would  make  the  half  of;  —  don't  say  no. 
And  I  of  your  young  charge  will  take  due  care." 
Bat  here  Katinka  interfered  and  said, 
**She  also  had  compassion  and  a  bed.'^ 

46. 

''Besides,  I  hate  to  sleep  alone,"  quoth  she. 

Tbematron  frown'd:  "Why  so?"— "For  fear  of  ghosts," 

Replied  Katinka;  "I  am  sure  I  see 

A  phantom  upon  each  of  the  four  posts; 

And  then  I  have  the  worst  dreams  that  can  be, 

Of  Gaebres,  Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gonls  in  hosts." 

The  dame  replied,  "Between  your  dreams  and  you, 

I  fiear  Juanna's  dreams  would  be  bat  few. 

4a 

Too,  Lolah,  must  continue  still  to  lie 

Alone,  for  reasons  which  don't  matter;  you 

The  same,  Katinka,  until  by  and  bye; 

Aad  I  shall  place  Jnanna  with  Dndd, 

Who's  quiet,  inoffensive,  silent,  shy, 

Aad  will  not  toss  and  chatter  the  night  through. 

What  say  yon,  childf  —  Dudi^  said  nothing,  as 

Her  talents  were  of  the  more  silent  class; 

60. 

But  she  rose  up,  and  kiss'd  the  matron's  brow 

Between  the  eyes,  and  Lolah  on  both  cheeks, 

Katinka  too;  and  with  a  gentle  bow 

(Cutsies  are  neither  used  by  Turks  nor  Greeks) 

She  took  Jnanna  by  the  hand  to  show 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  left  to  both  (heir  piques, 

The  others  pouting  at  the  matron's  preference 

OfDudA,  though  they  held  their  tongues  from  deference. 

It  was  a  spacious  chamber  (Oda  is 

The  Turkish  tide)  and  ranged  round  the  wall 

Were  ooodies,  toilets  —  and  much  more  than  this 

I  ought  describe,  as  I  have  seen  it  all, 

Bat  it  suff  ces  —  little  was  amiss ; 

Twas  on  the  whole  a  nobly  furnlsh'd  hall, 

With  an  things  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two. 

And  even  those  were  nearer  than  they  knew. 

62. 

Dodd,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  sweet  creature, 
Kot  very  dashing,  but  extremely  winning. 
With  the  most  regulated  charms  of  feature. 
Which  painters  cannot  catch  like  faces  sinning 
AfWEt  proportion  —  the  wild  strokes  of  nature 
Which  they  hit  off  at  once  in  the  beginning, 
Foil  of  expression,  right  or  wrong,  that  strike, 
Aad,  plca«ng  or  unpleasing,  still  are  like. 


68. 

But  she  was  a  soft  landscape  of  mild  earth. 
Where  all  was  harmony  and  calm  and  quiet. 
Luxuriant,  budding;  cheerful  without  mirth. 
Which,  if  not  happiness,  is  much  more  nigh  it 
Than  are  your  mighty  passions  and  so  forth. 
Which  some  call  "the  sublime:"  I  uisli  they'd'try  it: 
I've  seen  your  stormy  seas  and  stormy  women, 
And  pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 

54. 

But  she  was  pensive  more  than  melancholy, 
And  serious  more  than  pensive,  and  serene, 
It  may  be,  more  than  either,  not  unholy 
Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have  been. 
The  strangest  thing  was,  beauteous,  she  was  wliolly 
Unconscious,  albeit  turn'd  of  quick  seventeen. 
That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall; 
She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

65. 

And  therefore  was  she  kind  and  gentle  as 
The  Age  of  Gold  (when  gold  was  yet  unknown, 
By  which  its  nomenclature  came  to  pass; 
Thus  most  appropriately  has  been  shown 
"Liicus  a  non  lucendo,"  not  what  looi. 
But  what  was  not;  a  sort  of  style  that's  grown 
Bxtremely  common  in  this  age,  whose  metal 
The  devil  may  decompose,  but  neyer  settle  : 

6a 

I  think  it  may  be  of  "Corinthian  Brass," 

Which  was  a  mixture  of  all  metals,  but 

The  brazen  uppermost).  Kind  reader!  pass 

This  long  parenthesis :  I  could  not  shut 

It  sooner  for  the  soul  of  me,  and  class 

My  faults  even  with  your  own!  which  meaneth,  put 

A  kind  construction  upon  them  and  me : 

But  that  you  won't  —  then  don't  —  I  am  not  less  free. 

57. 

^Tis  time  we  should  return  to  plain  narration. 

And  thus  my  narrative  proceeds:  — Dudi!^, 

With  every  kindness  short  of  ostentation, 

Show'd  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through  and  through 

This  labyrinth  of  females,  and  each  station 

Described  —  what's  strange  —  in  words  extremely  few : 

1  have  but  one  simile  and  that's  a  blunder. 

For  wordless  woman,  which  is  silent  thunder. 

68. 

And  next  she  gave  her  (I  say  her,  because 
The  gender  still  was  epicene,  at  least 
In  outward  show,  which  is  a  saving  clause) 
An  outline  of  the  customs  of  the  Bast, 
With  all  their  chaste  integrity  of  laws. 
By  wliich  the  more  a  haram  is  increased. 
The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  supernumerary  beauties. 
14* 


218 


BON  JUAN. 


CANTO  TL 


A.nd  then  she  gave  Jaanna  a  chaste  kiss ; 
Dadii  was  foad  of  kissiog  —  which  Tm  sure 
That  nobody  can  ever  take  amiss« 
Because  'tis  pleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure, 
And  between  females  means  no  more  than  tjiis 
That  they  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 
'*Kiss"  rhymes  to  "bh'ss"  in  fact  as  well  as  verse  ^ 
I  wish  it  never  led  to  something  worse. 

r  60. 

In  perfect  innocence  she  then  unmade 

'>        Her  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  she  was 
A  child  of  nature,  carelessly  arrayed : 

^         If  fond  of  a  chance  ogle  at  her  glass, 

'Twas  like  the  fawn  which,  in  the  lake  displayed, 
Beholds  her  own  shy,  shadowy  image  pass, 
When  first  she  starts,  and  tlien  returns  to  peep, 
Admiring  this  new  native  of  the  deep. 

61. 

And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 
Were  laid  aside ;  but  not  before  she  offer *d 
Her  aid  to  fair  Juanna,  whose  excess 
Of  modesty  declined  the  assistance  proffer 'd. 
Which  past  well  off  —  as  she  could  do  no  less; 
Tliough  by  this  politessc  she  rather  suffered. 
Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins. 
Which  surely  were  invented  for  oar  sins,  — 

62. 

Making  a  woman  like  a  porcupine, 

Not  to  be  rashly  touch'd.   But  still  more  dread. 

Oh  ye!  whose  &te  it  is,  as  once 'twas  mine,  * 

In  early  youth,  to  turn  a  lady's  maid ;  — 

I  did  my  very  boyish  best  to  shine 

In  tricking  her  out  for  a  masquerade : 

The  pins  were  placed  sufficiently,  but  not 

Stuck  all  exactly  in  the  proper  spot. 

63. 

But  these  are  foolish  things  to  all  the  wise  -— 

And  I  love  Wisdom  more  than  she  loves  me; 

M^'  tendency  isjo  philosophize 

On  most  things,  from  a  tyrant  to  a  tree ; 

But  still  the  spouseless  virgin  Knowledge  flies.  / 

What  are  we?  and  whence  came  we?  what  shall  be  v 

Our  ultimate  existence?  what*s  our  present? 

Are  questions  answerless,  and  yet  incessant 

64. 

There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber :  dim 

And  distant  from  each  other  burn'd  the  lights, 

And  slumber  hover'd  o'er  each  lovely  limb 

Of  the  fair  occupants:  if  there  be  sprites, 

They  should  have  walk'd  there  in  their  spriteliest  trim. 

By  way  of  change  from  their  sepulchral  sites, 

And  shown  themselves  as  ghosts  of  better  taste 

Than  haunting  some  old  l-uin  or  wild  waste. 


6ft. 

Many  and  beautifVii  lay  those  around. 

Like  flowers  of  different  hue  and  clime  and  root. 

In  some  exotic  garden  sometimes  found, 

With  cost  and  care  and  warmth  induced  to  shoot. 

One,  with  her  auburn  tresses  lightly  bound. 

And  feir  brows  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 

Nods  from  ttie  tree,  was  slumbering  with  soft  breath 

And  lips  apart,  which  show'd  the  pearls  benealb 

66. 

One,  with  l^er  flush'd  cheek  laid  on  her  white  ann, 
^d  raven  ringlets  gathcr'd  in  dark  crowd 
Above  her  brow,  lay  dreaming  soft  and  warm-; 
And  smiling  through  her  dream,  as  through  a  dond 
The  moon  breaks,  half  unvcU'd  each  farther  Gfaarm, 
As,  slightly  stirring  in  her  snowy  sliroud, 
Her  beauties  seized  the  unconscious  hour  of  night 
All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light 

67. 

This  Is  no  bull,  although  it  sounds  so;  for 

'Twas  night,  but  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been  said. 

A  third's  all-pallid  aspect  ofier'd  more 

The  traits  of  sleeping  sorrow,  and  bctray'd 

Through  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  £ar  shore 

Beloved  and  deplored ;  while  slowly  stray 'd 

(As  night-dew,  on  a  cypress  glittering,  tinges      [fringes. 

The  black  bough)  tear-drops  throi^h  her  eyes'  dark 

68. 

A  fourth,  as  marble,  statue-like  and  still. 
Lay  in  a  brcatlUcss,  hush'd,  and  stony  sleep ; 
White,  cold,  and  pure,  as  looks  a  frozen  rill. 
Or  the  SQOw-minarct  on  an  Alpine  steep, 
Or  Lot's  wife  done  in  salt,  —  or  what  you  will; 
Ikly  similes  are  gather 'd  in  a  heap, 
So  pick  and  chuse  ~  perhaps  you'll  be  content 
Witli  a  carved  lady  on  a  monument 


And  lo !  a  fifth  appears;  ^  and  what  is  she? 
A  lad}^  of  "a  certain  age,"  which  means 
Certainly  aged  —  what  her  years  might  be 
I  know  not,  never  counting  past  their  teens; 
But  there  she  slept,  not  quite  so  fair  to  see. 
As  ere  that  awful  period  intervenes 
Which  lays  both  men  and  women  on  the  shelf. 
To  meditate  upon  their  sins  and  self. 

70. 

But  all  this  time  how  slept,  or  dream'd,  Dudti? 

With  strict  inquiry  1  could  ne'er  discover. 

And  scorn  to  add  a  syllable  untrue; 

But  ere  the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over, 

Just  when  the  fading  lamps  waned  dim  and  blue. 

And  phantoms  hover'd,  or  might  seem  to  hover. 

To  those  who  like  their  company,  about 

The  apartment,  on  a  sudden  slic  scream'd  out: 


ClNTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


219 


71. 

And  that  so  loadly,  that  upstarted  ail 

The  Oda,  in  a  general  commotion : 

Uiatron  and  maids,  and  those  whom  yon  may  call 

Neither,  came  (ax>wding  like  the  waves  of  ocean, 

One  on  the  other,  throughout  the  whole  hail. 

All  trembling,  wondering,  without  the  least  notion. 

More  than  I  have  myself,  of  what  could  make 

The  calm  Dadik  so  turbolently  wake. 

7% 

But  wide  awake  she  was,  and  round  her  bed, 
With  Boating  draperies  and  with  flying  hair. 
With  eager  eyes,  and  light  but  hurried  tread. 
And  bosoms,  arms,  and  ancles  glancing  bare, 
And  bright  as  any  meteor  ever  bred 
By  the  North-Pole,  —  they  sought  her  cause  of  care. 
For  she  seem'd  agitated,  flush'd,  and  frighten'd. 
Her  eye  dilated  and  her  colour  heightened. 

73. 

Bat  what  Is  strange  —  and  a  strong  proof  how  great 

A  blessing  is  sound  sleep  ^  Juanna  lay 

As  6ist  as  ever  husband  by  his  mate 

In  holy  matrimony  snores  away. 

Not  all  the  damour  broke  her  happy  sta'te 

Of  slumber,  ere  they  shook  her,  «-  so  they  say 

At  least,  —  and  then  she  too  unclosed  her  eyes, 

And  yawned  a  good  deal  with  discreet  surprise. 

74. 

And  now  oommeiiced  a  strict  investigation, 
Whiofa,  as  all  spoke  at  once,  and  more  than  once 
Coajectoring,  wondering,  asking  a  narration. 
Alike  night  pnszle  either  wit  or  dunce 
To  answer  in  a  very  clear  oration. 
Dud&  had  nerer  paas'd  fw  wanting  sense, 
Bat,  bdng  ''no  orator,  as  Brutus  is,'' 
Coold  not  at  first  expound  what  was  amisj. 

7a. 

At  kogtii  she  said,  that,  in  a  slumber  sound. 

She  dream'd  a  dream  of  walking  in  a  wood  — 

A  *wood  obsoure^'^  fike  that  where  Dante  found 

Himself  in  at  the  age  whoi  all  grow  good ; 

life's  half-'Way  house,  where  dames  with  virtue  crown'd, 

Ron  much  less  risk  of  lorers  turning  rude;  — 

And  that  this  wood  was  full  of  pleasant  fruits. 

And  trees  of  goodly  growth  and  spreading  roots; 

7«. 

And  in  the  midst  ft  goidea  apple  grew, — 
A  most  prodigious  pippin  —'but  it  hung 
Bather  too  high  and  distant;  that  she  threw 
Her  glances  on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 
SMwes,  and  whaterer  she  could  pick  up,  to 
Bring  down  the  fimit,  whiob  still  perversely  dung 
To  Its  own  bough,  and  dangled  yet  in  sight. 
But  always  at  a  moat  provoking  height ;  — 


77. 

That  on  a  sudden,  when  she  least  had  hope. 

It  fell  down  of  its  own  accord,  before 

Her  feet ;  that  her  first  movement  was  to  stoop 

And  pick  it  up,  and  bite  it  to  the  core; 

That  just  as  her  young  lip  began  to  ope 

Upon  the  golden  fruit  the  vision  bore, 

A  bee  flew  out  and  stung  her  to  the  heart. 

And  so  —  she  awoke  with  a  great  scream  and  start. 

78. 

All  this  she  told  with  some  confusion  and 

Dismay,  the  usual  consequence  of  dreams 

Of  the  unpleasant  kind,  with  none  at  hand 

To  expound  their  vain  and  visionary  gleams. 

I've  known  some  odd  ones  which  secm'd  really  plann'd 

Prophetically,  or  that  which  one  deems 

''A  strange  coincidence,''  to  use  a  phrase 

By  which  such  things  are  settled  now*a-days. 

79. 

The  damsds,  who  had  thoughts  of  some  great  harm, 
Began,  as  is  the  consequence  of  fear, 
To  scold  a  little  at  the  false  alarm 
That  broke  for  nothing  on  their  sleeping  ear. 
The  matron  too  was  wroth  to  leave  her  warm 
Bed  for  the  dream  she  had  been  obliged  to  hear. 
And  chafed  at  poor  Dudii,  who  only  sigh'd. 
And  said  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  cried. 

ae. 

'I've  heard  of  stories  of  a  cock  and  bull; 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and  a  bee, 

To  take  us  from  our  natural  rest,  and  pull 

The  whole  Oda  firorftbdr  beds  at  half-past  three. 

Would  make  us  think  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 

You  surely  are  unwell,  child !  we  must  see. 

To-morrow,  what  his  Highness's  physidan 

Will  say  to  this  hysteric  of  a  vision. 

81. 

And  poor  Juanna  too  1  the  child's  first  night 
Within  these  walls,  to  be  broke  in  upon 
With  such  a  clamour  —  I  had  thought  it  right 
That  the  young  stranger  should  not  lie  alone, 
And  as  the  quietest  of  all,  she  might  ^ 

With  you,  Dudii,  a  good  night's  rest  have  known; 
But  now  I  must  transfer  her  to  the  charge 
Of  Lolah  —  though  her  couch  is  not  so  large." 

•  89; 

Lolah's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  proposition ; 
But  poor  Dudii,  with  large  drops  in  her  own. 
Resulting  firom  the  scolding  or  the  vision. 
Implored  that  present  pardon  might  be  shown 
For  this  first  fiiult,  and  that  on  no  condition 
(She  added  in  a  soft  and  piteous  tone) 
Juanna  should  be  taken  from  h^Hr,  and 
Her  future  dreams  should  all  be  kept  in  hand. 


220 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  n 


83. 

Hhe  promised  never  more  to  have  a  dream. 

At  least  to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now; 

She  wonder'd  at  herself  how  she  oould  scream  — ■ 

'Twas  foolish,  neryous,  as  site  must  allow, 

A  fond  halluoination,  and  a  theme 

For  laughter  —  but  she  felt  her  spirits  low, 

And  begg'd  they  would  excuse  her;  she*d  f^ct  over 

This  weakness  in  a  few  hours,  and  recover. 

84. 

And  here  Juanna  kindly  interposed 
And  said  she  felt  herself  extremely  well 
Where  she  then  was,  as  her  sound  sleep  disclosed 
When  all  around  rang  like  a  tocsin-bell : 
She  did  not  find  herself  the  least  disposed 
To  quit  her  gentle  partner,  and  to  dwell 
Apart  from  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show, 
Save  that  of  dreaming  once  ^*mal-&-propos.'' 

8& 

As  thus  Juanna  spoke,  Dudu  turn'd  rovnd 
And  hid  her  face  within  Juanna's  breast; 
Her  neck  alone  was  seen,  but  that  was  found 
The  colour  of  a  budding  rose's  crest 
I  canH  tell  why  she  blush'd  nor  can  expound 
The  mystery  of  this  rupture  of  their  rest; 
All  that  I  know  is,  that  the  facts  I  state 
Are  true  as  truth  has  ever  been  of  late. 

80. 

And  so  good  night  to  tbem,  —  or,  if  you  will. 
Good  morrow  —  for  the  cock  had  crown,  and  light 
Began  to  clothe  each  Asiatic  hill, 
And  the  mosque-crescent  struggled  Sito  sight 
Of  the  long  caravan,  which  in  the  chill 
Of  dewy  dawn  wound  slowly  round  each  height 
'  That  stretches  to  the  stony  belt  which  girds 
Asia,  where  Ka£f  looks  down  upon  the  Kurds. 

87. 

With  the  first  ray,  or  rather  gray  of  mom, 
Gulbeyaz  rose  from  restlessness;  and  pale 
As  Passion  rises,  with  its  bosom  worn, 
Array 'd  herself  with  mantle,  gem,  and  veil: 
The  nightingale  that  sings  with  the  deep  thorn, 
Which  Fable  places  in  her  breast  of  wail. 
Is  lighter  for  of  heart  and  voice  than  those 
Whose  headlong  passions  form  their  proper  woes. 

88. 

And  that 's  the  moral  of  this  composition, 

If  people  would  but  see  its  real  drift;  — 

But  thai  they  will  not  do  without  suspicion. 

Because  all  gentle  readers  have  the  gift 

Of  closing  'gainst  the  light  their  orbs  of  vision ; 

While  gentle  writers  also  love  to  lift 

Their  voices  'gainst  each  other,  which  is  natural — 

The  numbers  are  too  great  for  them  to  flatter  alL 


89. 

Rose  the  Sultana  from  a  bed  of  splendour,  — 

Softer  than  the  soft  Sybarite's,  who  cried 

Aloud  because  his  feelings  were  too  tender 

To  brook  a  ruffled  rose-leaf  by  his  side,  — 

So  beautiful  tliat  art  could  little  mend  her, 

Though  pale  with  conflicts  between  love  and  pride:-* 

So  agitated  was  she  with  her  error. 

She  did  not  even  look  into  the  mirror. 

9a 

Also  arose  about  the  self-same  time. 
Perhaps  a  little  later,  her  great  lord. 
Master  of  thirty  kingdoms  so  sublime. 
And  of  a  wife  by  whom  he  was  abhorr'd; 
A  thing  of  much  less  import  in  that  clime  — 
At  least  to  those  of  incomes  which  afford 
The  filling  up  their  whole  connuUal  cargo  — 
Than  where  two  wives  are  under  an  embai)go. 

91. 

He  did  not  think  much  on  the  matter,  nor- 

Indeed  on  any  other:,  as  a  man, 

He  liked  to  have  a  handsome  paramour 

At  hand,  as  one  may  like  to  have  a  fen. 

And  therefore  of  Circassians  had  good  store. 

As  an  amusement  after  the  Bivan ; 

Though  an  unusual  fit  of  love,  or  duty, 

Had  made  him  lately  bask  in  his  bride's  beauty. 

92. 

And  now  he  rose :  and,  after  due  ablutions, 
Exacted  by  the  customs  of  the  East, 
And  prayers  and  other  pious  evolutions. 
He  drank  six  cups  of  coffee  at  the  least, 
And  then  withdrew  to  hear  about  the  Russians. 
Whose  victories  had  recently  increased. 
In  Catherine's  reign,  whom  glory  still  adores 
As  greatest  of  all  sovereigns  and  w s. 

93. 

But  oh,  thou  grand  le^^timate  Alexander  1 

Her  son's  son,  let  not  this  last  phrase  offend 

Thine  ear,  if  it  should  reach,  —  and  now  rhymes  wander 

Almost  as  far  as  Petersburg!!,  and  lend 

A  dreadful  impulse  to  each  loud  meander 

Of  murmuring  Liberty's  wide  waves,  which  blend 

Their  roar  even  with  the  Baltic's  —  so  you  be 

Your  father's  son,  'tis  quite  enongfa  for  me. 

94. 

To  call  men  love-begotten,  or  prodaim 
Their  mothers  as  the  antipodes  of  Timoa, 
That  hater  of  mankind,  would  be  a  shame, 
A  libel,  or  whate'er  you  please  to  rhyme  on : 
But  people's  ancestors  are  history's  game; 
And  if  one  lady's  slip  could  leave  a  crime  on 
All  generations,  I  should  like  to  know 
What  pedigree  the  best  would  have  to  show? 


HkHTO  VL 


DON  JUAN. 


221 


06. 

Had  Catherine  and  the  Saltan  understood 

Then*  own  trae  interests,  iwhieh  kings  rarely  know. 

Until  'tis  taoght  by  lessons  rather  rade, 

There  was  a  way  to  end  their  strife,  although 

Perhaps  precarious,  had  they  but  thought  good, 

Without  the  aid  of  prince  or  plenipo: 

She  to  dismiss  her  guards  and  he  his  haram. 

And  for  their  otlier  matters,  meet  and  share  'em. 

98. 

But  as  It  was,  his  ffighness  had  to  hold 
His  daily  council  upon  ways  and  means, 
How  to  encounter  with  this  martial  scold. 
This  modem  Amason  and  Queen  of  queans ; 
And  the  perplexity  could  not  be  told 
Of  all  the  pillars  of  the  state,  which  leans 
Sometimes  a  little  heavy  on  the  backs 
Of  those  who  cannot  lay  on  a  new  tax. 

97. 

SIcantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  gone. 
Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a  sweet  place 
For  loTC  or  breakfast;  private,  pleasing,  lone, 
And  rich  with  all  cotttrinmoes  which  grace 
Those  gay  recesses :  —  many  a  precious  stone 
Sparkled  along  its  roof,  and  many  a  vase 
Of  porcelain  held  in  the  fettcr'd  flowers. 
Those  capttve  soothers  of  a  captive's  hours. 

98. 

Kotber  of  pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marUe 
Tied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spot ; 
And  singing  birds  without  were  heard  to  warble; 
And  the  stain'd  glass  which  lighted  this  fair  grot 
Varied  each  ray;  —  but  all  descriptions  garble 
Tlie  true  effect,  and  so  we  had  better  not 
Be  too  minute;  an  outline  is  the  best,  — 
A  lively  reader's  foncy  does  the  rest. 

99. 

And  here  she  summoned  Baba,  and  required 

Don  Juan  at  his  hands,  and  information 

Of  what  bad  past  since  all  the  slaves  retired. 

And  whether  he  had  occupied  tlieir  station ; 

If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 

And  his  disguise  with  due  consideration 

Kept  up;  and  above  all,  the  where  and  how 

He  bad  pass'd  tbe  Bigfat,  was  that  she  wish'd  to  know. 

loa 

Baba,  with  some  ennbairassment,  replied 
To  this  long  catechism  of  questions  ask'd 
More  easily  than  answer'd,  —  that  he  had  tried 
His  best  to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  task'd; 
But  tbere  seemM  something  that  he  wish'd  to  hide, 
Wiiek  hesitation  more  betimy'd  than  mask'd ; 
He  scTBtch'd  his  ear,  the  infallible  resource 
To  wUdi  embarraM'd  people  liav^  recourse. 


101. 

Gnlbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience. 
Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed; 
She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations; 
And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a  steed 
In  his  replies,  she  pnzsled  him  for  fresh  ones; 
And  as  bis  speech  grew  still  more  broken-kneed. 
Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle 
And  her  proud  brow's  blue  vdns  to  swell  and  darkle^ 

103. 

When  Baba  saw  these  symptoms,  which  he  knew 
To  bode  him  no  great  good,  he  deprecated 
Her  anger,  and  beseech'd  she'd  hear  him  through  — 
He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  related : 
Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudi^ 
Juan  was  given  in  charge,  as  hath  been  stated ; 
But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 
The  holy  camel's  hump,  besides  tbe  Koran. 

loa 

The  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  wliom 
The  discipline  of  the  whole  haram  bore. 
As  soon  as  they  re-enter'd  their  own  room. 
For  Baba's  function  stopt  short  at  the  door, 
Had  settled  all;  nor  could  he  then  presume 
(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  aiore, 
Without  exciting  such  suspicion  as 
night  make  the  matter  still  worse  than  it  was. 

104. 

He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought  he  could  be  sure, 
Juan  had  not  betray'd  himself;  in  fact 
'Twas  certain  that  his  conduct  had  been  pure, 
Because  a  foolish  or  imprudent  act 
Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure, 
But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  $a€k'd. 
And  thrown  into  the  sea.  —  Thus  Baba  spoke 
Of  all  save  Dud4's  dream,  which  was  no  joke. 

10& 

This  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back-ground, 

And  talk'd  away  —  and  might  have  talk'd  till  now, 

For  any  further  answer  that  he  found. 

So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Oulbeyaz'  brow; 

Her  cheek  tum'd  ashes,  ears  rung,  brain  whirl'd  round. 

As  if  she  bad  received  a  sudden  blow, 

And  tlie  heart's  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and  chilly 

O'er  her  fhir  fh>nty  like  morning's  on  a  lily. 

106. 

Although  she  was  not  of  the  fhinting  sort, 

Baba  thought  she  would  feint,  but  there  he  err'd ;  -> 

It  was  but  a  convulsion,  which  though  short 

Can  never  be  described ;  we  all  have  heard, 

And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  *^^U  amort," 

When  things  beyond  the  common  have  oocurr'd ;  — 

Gulbeyas  proved  in  that  brief  agony 

What  she  could  ne'er  express  —  then  how  should  1 1 


222 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  n 


107. 

She  stood  a  moment,  as  a  Pythoness 

Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonized,  and  full 

Of  inspiration  gathered  fW>m  distress, 

When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses  pull 

The  heart  asunder;  -—  then,  as  more  or  less 

Their  speed  abated  or  their  strength  grew  dull, 

She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees. 

And  bow'd  her  throbbing  head  o'er  trembling  knees. 

108. 

Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen;  her  hair 
Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  willow, 
'  Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair. 
Or  rather  sofa  (for  it  was  all  pillow,  — 
A  low,  soft  Ottoman)  and  black  despair 
Stirr'd  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  billow. 
Which  rushes  to  some  shore  whose  shingles  ch6ck 
Its  fkrther  course,  but  must  recei? e  its  wreck. 

100. 

Her  head  hung  down,  and  her  long  hair  In  stooping 
Concealed  her  features  better  than  a  yeil; 
And  one  hand  o'er  the  Ottoman  lay  drooping. 
White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale: 
Would  that  I  were  a  painter!  to  be  grouping 
All  that  a  poet  drags  mto  detail! 
Oh  that  my  words  were  colours !  but  their  tints 
May  serve  perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 

110. 

Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 
And  when  to  hold  bis  tongue,  now  held  itiill 
This  passion  might  blow  o'er,  nor  dared  to  balk 
Gulbeyaz'  taciturn  or  speaking  will. 
At  length  she  rose  up,  and  began  to  walk 
Slowly  along  the  room,  but  silent  still, 
And  her  brow  clear'd,  but  not  her  troubled  eye; 
Tiie  wind  was  down,  but  still  the  sea  ran  high. 

Ill* 

She  stopt,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak  —  but  paused. 

And  then  moyed  on  again  with  rapid  pace; 

Then  slacken'd  it,  which  is  the  march  most  caused 

By  deep  emotion :  —  you  may  sometimes  trace 

A  feeling  in  each  footstep,  as  disclosed 

By  Sallust  in  his  Catiline,  who,  chased 

By  all  the  demons  of  all  passions,  show'd 

Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  be  trode. 

112. 

G  ulbeyaz  stopp'd  and  beckon'd  Baba :  —  "Slave  I 
Bring  the  two  slaves !"  she  said  in  a  low  tone, 
But  one  which  Baba  did  not  like  to  brave. 
And  yet  he  shudder'd,  and  seem'd  rather  prone 
To  prove  reluctant,  and  begg'd  leave  to  crave 
(Though  he  well  knew  the  meaning)  to  be  shown 
What  slaves  her  Highness  wish'd  to  indicate, 
For  fear  of  any  error,  like  the  late. 


113. 

"The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,"  replied 

The  imperial  bride  —  and  added,  "Let  the  boat 

Be  ready  by  the  secret  portal's  side: 

You  know  the  rest"  The  words  stuck  in  her  throat. 

Despite  her  injured  love  and  fiery  pride; 

And  of  this  Baba  willingly  took  note. 

And  begg'd  by  every  hair  of  Mahomet* s  beard, 

She  would  revoke  the  order  he  had  heard. 

114. 

«To  hear  is  to  obey,"  be  said ;  "but  still. 
Sultana,  think  upon  the  consequence: 
It  is  not  that  I  shall  not  all  fulfil 
Your  orders,  even  in  their  severest  sense; 
But  such  precipitation  may  end  ill, 
Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense: 
I  do  not  mean  destruction  and  exposure 
In  case  of  any  premature  disclosure; 

11&. 

But  your  own  feelings.  Even  should  all  the  rest 
Be  hidden  by  the  rolling  waves,  which  hide 
Already  many  a  once  love-beaten  breast 
Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide  — 
Yon  love  this  boyish,  new  seragKo-guest, 
And  —  if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried  — 
Excuse  my  freedom,  when  1  here  assure  yon. 
That  kilting  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you." 

116. 

"What  dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeling?  —  wretch  I 
Begone !"  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes,  "and  do 
My  bidding!"  Baba  vanish'd;  for  to  stretoh 
His  own  remonstrance  ftartber,  he  well  knew, 
Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  "Jade  Ketoh ;" 
And,  though  he  wish'd  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  harm  to  others, 
He  still  prcferr'd  his  own  neck  to  another's,  v 

117. 

Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission, 
Growling  and  grumbling  in  good  Turkish  phrase 
Against  all  women,  of  whate'er  condition. 
Especially  Sultanas  and  their  ways; 
Their  obstinacy,  pijde,  and  indecision, 
Their  never  knowing  their  own  mind  two  days. 
The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality, 
Which  made  him  daily  bless  his  own  neutrality. 

118. 

And  then  he  callM  his  brethren  to  his  aid. 
And  sent  one  on  a  summons  to  the  pair. 
That  they  must  instantly  be  well  arrayed. 
And,  above  all,  be  combed  even  to  a  hair, 
And  brought  before  the  Empress,  who  had  made 
Enquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care: 
At  which  DndiH  look'd  strange,  and  Juan  silly ; 
But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I  —  nlll  L 


CANTO  Til. 


DON  JUAN. 


223 


no. 

And  here  I  leare  tbcm  at  their  preparation 
For  the  imperial  preaenoe,  wherein  whether 
Gnlbeyas  showed  them  both  commiseratioo, 
Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether 
Like  other  angry  ladies  of  her  nation,  — 
Are  things  the  torniog  of  a  hair  or  feather 
May  settle;  bat  far  be't  from  me  to  anticipate 
In  what  way  feminine  oaprioe  may  dissipate. 


12». 

I  leave  them  for  the  present,  with  good  wishes, 
Though  doubts  of  their  well  doing,  to  arrange 
Another  part  of  history ;  for  the  dishes 
Of  this  our  banquet  we  must  sometimes  change: 
And,  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes, 
Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange 
And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  are  fair, 
The  Muse  will  take  a  little  touch  at  warfare. 


CANTO     VII. 


Oh  Love!  Oh  Glory  I  what  are  ye  ?  who  fly 
Around  us  erer,  rarely  to  alight; 
There's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar-sky 
Of  socfa  transcendant  and  more  fleeting  flight. 
Chill,  and  chained  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 
Our  eyes  in  seareh  of  either  lovely  light; 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colours  they 
Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 


And  such  as  they  are,  such  my  present  tale  is, 
A  non-descript  and  cver*varying  rhyme, 
A  versified  Aurora  Borealis, 
Which  flashes  o'er  a  waste  and  icy  dime. 
When  we  know  what  all  are,  we  must  bewail  us. 
But,  ne'er  the  less,  I  hope  it  is  no  crime 
To  laugh  at  all  things :  for  I  wish  to  know 
Wkai,  after  aU,  are  all  things  —  but  a  tkow? 


They  aeense  me  ^  m«  —  the  present  writer  of 
The  present  poem,  of  ~  I  know  not  what,  ^ 
A  tendency  to  underrate  and  scoff 
At  human  power  and  virtue,  and  all  that ; 
And  this  they  say  in  language  rather  rough. 
Good  God!  I  wonder  what  they  would  be  at  I 
I  say  no  more  than  has  been  said  in  Dante's 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon,  and  by  Cervantes ; 


By  Swifl,  by  Maehiavel,  by  Rochefoaoanlt, 
By  Fendon,  by  Luther,  and  by  Plato ; 
By  Tillotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 
Who  knew  this  life  was  not  worth  a  potato. 
Tis  not  their  fiiult,  nor  mine,  if  this  be  so  » 
For  my  part,  I  pretend  not  to  be  Cato, 
Kor  even  Diogenes.  —  We  live  and  die, 
Bat  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more  than  L 


Socrates  said,  our  only  knowledge  was 
"To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known ;"  a  pleasant 
Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an  ass 
Each  man  of  wisdom,  future,  past,  or  present 
Newton  (that  proverb  of  the  mind),  al^ ! 
Declared,  with  all  his  grand  discoveries  recent, 
That  he  himself  felt  only  "like  a  youth  • 
Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  poean  —  truth." 

6. 

Bcclesiastcs  said,  that  all  is  vanity  — 

Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or  show  it 

By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity ; 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon  may  know  it; 

And  in  this  scene  of  all-confess'd  inanity. 

By  saint,  by  sage,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet. 

Must  I  restrain  me,  through  the  fear  of  strife, 

From  holding  up  the  nothingness  of  life? 


Dogs,  or  men!  (for  I  flatter  you  in  saying 
That  ye  are  dogs  —  your  betters  far)  ye  may 
Read,  or  read  not,  what  I  am  now  essaying 
To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 
As  little  as  the  moon  stops  for  the  baying 
Of  wolves,  will  the  bright  Muse  withdraw  one  ray 
From  out  her  skies;  —  then  howl  your  idle  wrath ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  path. 

8. 

''Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars"  —  I  am  not  sure 
If  this  be  tlie  right  reading  —  'tis  no  matter; 
The  fact's  about  the  same,  I  am  secure ;  — 
I  sing  them  both,  and  am  about  to  batter 
A  town  which  did  a  £ftmous  siege  endure. 
And  was  beleaguer'd  both  by  land  and  water 
By  SuvaroS;  or  anglice  Suwarrow, 
Who  loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  marrow. 


i 


224 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  \tL 


9. 

The  fortregs  is  calFd  Ismail,  and  is  placed 
Upon  the  Danube's  left  branch  and  Jcft  bank, 
With  bnilding^s  in  tlio  oriental  taste, 
But  still  a  fortress  joftlie  foremost  rank. 
Or  was,  at  least,  unless  'tis  since  dc&ced, 
Which  with  your  conquerors  is  a  common  prank: 
It  stands  some  eighty  versts  from  the  high  sea, 
And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three. 

10. 

Within  the  extent  of  this  fortification 
A  borough  is  comprised,  along  the  height 
Upon  the  left,  which,  from  its  loftier  station. 
Commands  the  city,  and  upon  its  site 
A  Greek  had  raised  around  this  elevation 
A  quantity  of  palisades  upright, 
So  placed  as  to  impede  the  fire  of  those 
Who  held  the  place,  and  to  assitt  the  foe's. 

11. 

This  circumstancA  may  serye  to  give  a  notioD 
Of  the  high  talents  of  this  new  Vauban: 
But  the  town-ditch  below  was  deep  as  ocean, 
The  rampart  higher  than  you'd  wish  to  hang: 
But  then  there  w^  a  great  want  of  precaution, 
(Prithee,  excuse  this  engineering  slang) 
Nor  work  advanq^,  nor  cover*d  way  was  there. 
To  hint  at  least  '*Here  is  no  thoroughfare." 

13. 

But  a  stone  bastion,  with  a  narrow  gorge, 
And  walls  as  thick  as  most  sculls  bom  as  yet; 
Two  batteries,  cap-^-pie,  as  our  St.  George, 
Case-mated  one,  and  t'other  **k  barbette," 
Of  Danube's  bank  took  formidable  charge; 
While  two-and-twenty  cannon,  duly  set. 
Rose  over  the  town's  right  side,  in  bristling  tier. 
Forty  feet  high,  upon  a  cavalier. 

13. 

But  from  the  river  the  town 's  open  quite, 
Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 
A  Russian  vessel  e'er  would  heave  in  sight; 
And  such  their  creed  was,  till  they  were  invaded, 
When  it  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right 
But  as  the  Danube  could  not  well  be  waded, 
They  look'd  upon  the  Muscovite  flotilla. 
And  only  shouted,  <<Alla !"  and  <<Bis  Miilah ! " 

The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack ; 
But  oh,  ye  Goddesses  of  war  and  glory  I 
How  shall  I  spell  the  name  of  each  Cossack 
Who  were  immortal,  could  one  tell  their  story  Z 
Alas !  what  to  their  memory  can  lack ? 
Achilles  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 
Than  thousands  of  this  new  and  polish'd  nation, 
Whose  names  want  nothing  but  —  pronunciation. 


16. 

Still  III  record  a  few,  If  but  to  increase 

Our  euphony  —  there  was  Strongenoff ,  and  StrokOBOf, 

Meknop,  Serge  Lwdw,  Arsenic  w  of  modern  Greece, 

And  Tchitsshakoff,  and  Roguenoff,  and  Chokcnol^ 

And  others  of  twelve  consonants  a  piece; 

And  more  might  be  found  out,  if  I  could  poke  enough 

Into  gazettes;  but  Fame  (capricious  strumpet ! ) 

It  seems  baa  got  an  ear  as  well  as  trumpet, 

le. 

And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration. 

Which  may  be  names  at  Moscow,  into  rhyme; 

Yet  there  were  several  worth  commemoration. 

As  e'er  was  virgin  of  a  nuptial  chime; 

Soft  words  too,  fitted  for  tlie  peroration 

Of  Londonderry,  drawling  against  time. 

Ending  in '*ischskin,"  <<ousckin,"  "iffskchy/'  «*ouski," 

Of  whom  we  can  insert  but  Rousamouskl ; 

17. 

ScherematoflTand  Chrematoff,  Koklophtl, 
Koclobski,  Koorakin,  and  Mouskin  Pouskin, 
All  proper  men  of  weapons,  as  e'er  scotTd  high 
Against  a  foe,  or  ran  a  sabre  through  skin: 
Little  cared  they  for  Mahomet  or  Mufti, 
Unless  to  make  their  kettle-drums  a  new  skin 
Out  of  their  hides,  if  parchment  had  grown  dear, 
And  no  more  handy  substitute  been  near. 

la 

Then  there  were  foreigners  of  much  renown. 

Of  various  nations,  and  all  volunteers; 

Not  fighting  for  their  country  or  its  crown, 

Bat  wishing  to  be  one  day  bf-igadiers ; 

Also  to  have  the  sacking:  of  a  town  — 

A  pleasant  thing  to  young  men  at  their  years. 

'Mongst  them  were  several  Bnglishmen  of  pith, 

Sixteen  call'd  Thomson,  and  nineteen  named  Smith. 

19. 

Jack  Thomson  and  BiH  Thomson ;  —  all  the  rest 
Had  been  call'd  "Jnniny,"  after  the  great  bard; 
I  don't  know  wtiether  they  had  arras  or  crest. 
But  such  a  godfather 's  as  good  a  card. 
Three  of  the  Smiths  were  Peters ;  but  the  best 
Amongst  them  all,  hard  blows  to  inflict  or  ward, 
Was  he,  since  so  renown 'd  "in  country^quartcrs 
At  Halifax; "  but  now  he  served  the  Tartars. 

20. 

The  rest  were  Jacks  and  Gills  and  Wills  and  Bills; 
But  when  I've  added  that  the  elder  Jack  Smith 
Was  born  in  Cumberland  among  the  hills, 
And  that  his  father  was  an  honest  blacksmith, 
I've  said  all  /know  of  a  name  that  fills 
Three  lines  of  tlie  dispatch  in  taking  '^Schmacksmith," 
A  village  of  Moldavia's  waste,  wherein 
He  fell,  immortal  in  a  bulletin. 


Ckxrro  viL 


DON  JUAN. 


225 


31. 

I  wonder  (althoagii  Mjars  no  doubt's  a  God  I 
Ptaiae)  if  a  man's  name  in  a  bulletin 
3fay  make  ap  for  a  Mlet in  his  body? 
1  hope  this  little  question  is  no  sin, 
Because,  though  I  am  but  a  simple  noddy, 
I  think  one  Shakspeare  puts  the  same  thought  in 
The  month  of  some  one  in  liis  plays  so  doating, 
Which  many  people  ^ass  for  wits  by  quoting. 

23. 

Thm  diere  were  Frenchmen,  gallant,  young  and  gay : 

But  I'm  too  great  a  patriot  to  record 

Their  Gallic  names  upon  a  glorious  day; 

rd  rather  tell  ten  lies  than  say  a  word 

Of  truth ;  —  such  truths  are  treason :  they  betmy 

Their  country,  and,  as  traitors  arc  abhorr'd, 

Who  name  the  French  in  English,  saye  to  show 

How  peace  should  make  John  Bull  the  Frenohmnn's  foe. 

2a. 

The  Russians,  having  built  two  batteries  on 
Ao  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view; 
The  first  was  to  bombard  it,  and  knock  down 
The  public  buildings,  and  the  private  too, 
No  matter  what  poor  souls  might  be  undone. 
The  city's  shape  suggested  this,  'tis  true; 
Form'd  like  an  amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 
Presented  a  fine  mark  to  throw  a  shell  in. 

24. 

The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 

To  attack  the  Turk's  flotilla,  which  lay  uigb, 

Extremely  tranquil,  anchor'd  at  its  station : 

But  a  tliird  motive  was  as  probably 

To  iHghten  them  into  capitulation ; 

A  phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors. 

Unless  they  are  game  as  buli-^logs  and  fox-terriers. 

26. 

A  habit  rather  blameaMe,  which  is 
That  of  despising  those  we  combat  with. 
Common  in  many  cases,  was  in  this 
The  cause  of  killing  Tchitchitzkoff  and  Smith ; 
One  of  the  valourous  ''Smiths"  whom  we  shall  miss 
Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rhymed  to  ''pith ;" 
But  'tis  a  name  so  spread  o'er  "Sir"  and  "Madam," 
That  one  would  think  the  pisst  who  bore  it  "Adam." 

The  Russian  batteries  were  incomplete. 

Because  they  were  constructed  in  a  hurry ; 

Thus,  the  same  cause  which  makes  a  verse  want  feet, 

And  throws  a  cloud  o'er  Longman  and  John  Murray, 

When  the  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 

As  they  who  print  them  think  is  necessary. 

Hay  likewise  put  off  for  a  time  what  story 

Sometimes  calls  "murder,"  and  at  otiievs  ''gfory ." 


27. 

Whether  it  was  their  engineevi'  stupidity, 
Their  haste,  or  waste,  I  neitlier  know  nor  care, 
Or  some  contractor's  personal  cupidity, 
Saving  his  soul  by  cheating  in  the  ware 
Of  homicide;  but  there  was  no  solidity 
In  the  new  batteries  erected  there; 
They  either  miss'd,  or  they  were  never  miss'd. 
And  added  greatly  to  the  missing  list. 

28. 

A  sad  miscalculation  about  distance 

Made  all  their  naval  matters  incorrect; 

Three  fire-ships  lost  their  amiable  existence 

Before  they  reach'd  a  spot  to  take  effect : 

The  match  was  lit  too  soon,  and  no  assistance 

Could  remedy  this  lubberly  defect; 

They  blew  up  in  the  middle  of  the  nver, 

While,  though  'twas  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  as  ever. 

29. 

At -seven  they  rose,  however,  and  surveyed 
The  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way ; 
'Twas  nine,  when  stUl  advancing  undismayed, 
Within  a  cable's  length  their  vessels  lay 
Off  Ismail,  and  commenced  a  cannonade. 
Which  was  return'd  with  interest,  I  may  say. 
And  by  a  fire  of  musquetry  and  grape 
And  sheUs  and  shot  of  every  size  and  shape. 

For  six  hours  bore  they  without  intermission 
The  Turkish  fire;  and,  aided  by  their  own 
Land-batterieSy  work'd  their  guns  with  groat  precision 
At  length  they  found  mere  cannonade  alone  , 

By  no  means  would  produce  the  town's  submission^ 
And  made  a  signal  to  retreat  at  one. 
One  bark  blew  up;  a  second,  near  the  works 
Running  aground,  was  taken  by  the  Turks* 

31. 

The  Moslem  too  had  lost  botii  ships  and  men ; 
But  when  they  saw  the  enemy  retire. 
Their  Delhis  mann'd  some  boats,  and  sailed  again. 
And  gaird  the  Russians  with  a  licavy  fire. 
And  tried  to  make  a  landing  on  the  main ; 
But  here  the  effect  fell  short  of  their  desire: 
Count  Damas  drove  them  back  into  the  water 
Pell-mell,  and  with  a  whole  gazette  of  slaughter 

"If  (says  the  historian  here)  I  conld  report 
All  that  the  Russians  did  upon  this  day, 
I  think  that  several  volumes  would  foil  short, 
And  I  should  still  have  many  things  to  say ; " 
And  so  he  says  no  more  —  but  pays  his  court 
To  some  distinguish'd  strangers  in  that  (ray; 
The  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  Langeron,  and  Damas, 
Names  great  as  any  that  the  roll  of  Fame  has. 
15 


226 


DON  JUAN. 


CAWTO  TXL 


33. 

This  being  the  case,  may  lAow  us  what  fame  is : 
For  out  of  these  three  "preiue  Chetaliers,"  how 
Ijfany  of  common  readers  gl^e  a  guess 
That  such  existed?  (and  they  may  live  now 
For  ought  we  know ;)  Renown's  at! hit  or  miss; 
There's  fortune  even  in  fame,  we  must  allow. 
'Tis  true*  the  Memoirs  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne 
Have  half  withdrawn  from  Aim  oblivion's  screen. 

84. 

But  here  are  men  who  fought  in  gallant  aetions 

As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes  fought, 

But  buried  in  tlie  heap  of  such  transactions  — 

Their  names  are  rarely  found,  nor  often  sought 

Thus  even  good  fame  may  suffer  sad  contractions. 

And  is  extinguished  sooner  than  she  ought: 

Of  ail  our  modern  battles,  I  will  bet 

You  can't  repeat  nine  names  from  each  gazette. 

36. 

In  short,  this  last  attack,  though  rinh  in  glory, 

Show'd  that  somewhere,  somehow,  there  was  a  fault; 

And  Admiral  Ribas  (known  in  Russian  story) 

Most  strongly  recommended  an  assault; 

In  which  he  was  opposed  by  young  and  hoary, 

Which  made  a  long  debate:  --  but  I  must  halt; 

For  if  I  wrote  down  every  warrior's  speech, 

I  doubt  few  readers  e'er  would  mount  the  breach. 

3& 

There  was  a  man,  if  that  he  was  a  man,  — 
Not  that  his  manhood  could  be  call'd  in  question, 
For,  had  he  not  been  Hercules,  his  span 
Had  been  as  sliort  in  youth  as  indigestion 
Made  his  last  illness,  when,  all  worn  and  wan. 
He  died  beneath  a  tree,  as  much  unblest  on 
The  soil  of  the  green  province  he  had  wasted. 
As  e'er  was  locust  on  the  land  it  blasted; 

37. 

This  was  Potemkin  —  a  great  thing  in  days 
When  homicide  and  harlotry  made  great; 
If  stars  and  titles  could  entail  long  praise, 
His  glory  might  half  equal  his  estate. 
This  fellow,  beiog  six  foot  high,  eould  raise 
A  kind  of  phantasy  proportionate 
In  the  then  sovereign  of  the  Russian  people. 
Who  measured  men  as  you  would  do  a  steaplc. 


While  things  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 
A  courier  to  the  Prince,  and  he  succeeded 
In  ordering  matters  after  bis  own  bent; 
I  cannot  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded. 
But  shortly  he  had  cause  to  be  content. 
In  the  mean  time  the  batteries  proceeded. 
And  fourscore  cannon  on  the  Danube's  border 
Were  briskly  fired  and  answer *d  in  due  order. 


39. 

But  on  the  thirteenth,  when  already  part 

Of  the  troops  were  embark'd,  the  siege  to  raise, 

A  courier  on  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 

Into  all  panters  for  newspaper-praise, 

As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war's  art. 

By  his  dispatches  couched  in  pithy  praise; 

Announcing  the  appointment  of  that  lover  of 

Battles  to  the  command,  Field-Marshal  Souwaroff. 

40. 

The  letter  of  the  Prince  to  the  same  Marshal 

Was  worthy  of  a  Spartan,  had  the  cause 

Been  one  to  which  a  good  heart  could  be  partial  -^> 

Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o*er — arch  all 

With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight  applause, 

Save  for  its  style,  which  said,  all  in  a  trice, 

''You  will  take  Ismail,  at  whatever  price." 

41. 

<<Let  there  be  Ught ! "  said  God,  <'and  tlierc  was  light ! " 
<'Let  there  be  blood ! "  says  man,  and  there's  a  sea ! 
The  fiat  of  this  spoil'd  child  of  the  night 
(For  day  ne'er  saw  his  merits)  could  decree. 
More  evil  in  an  hour,  than  thirty  bright 
Summers  could  renovate,  though  they  should  be 
Lovely  as  those  which  ripcn'd  Eden's  fruit  ^ 
For  war  cuts  up  not  only  branch,  but  root* 

Our  friends  the  Turks,  who  with  loud  '< Alias*'  now 

Began  to  signalise  the  Russ  retreat, 

Were  damnably  mistaken;  few  are  slow 

In  thinking  that  tlieir  enemy  is  beat 

(Or  beaten,  if  you  insist  on  grammar,  thongh 

I  never  think  about  it  in  a  heat) ; 

But  liere  I  say  the  Turks  were  much  mistaken, 

Who,  hating  hogs,  yet  wisb'd  to  save  their  bacon. 

43. 

For,  on  the  sixteenth,  at  lull  gallop  drew 

In  sight  two  horsemen,  who  were  deem'd  Cossacks 

For  some  time,  till  they  came  in  nearer  view. 

They  had  but  little  baggage  at  their  backs. 

For  there  were  but  three  shirts  between  the  two; 

But  on  they  rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks. 

Till,  in  approaching,  were  at  length  deseried 

In  this  plain  pw,  Suwarrow  and  his  guide. 

44* 

''Great  joy  to  London  now!"  sRys  somegscat  fool. 

When  London  bad  a  grand  illuBiination, 

Which  to  that  bottle-coi^ror,  John  Bull, 

Is  of  all  dreams  the  first  hallueinaUon ; 

So  that  the  streets  of  colour'd  lamps  are  full. 

That  sage  (said  John)  surrenders  at  discretion 

His  purse,  his  soul,  his  sense,  and  even  bis  nonsense. 

To  gratify,  like  a  huge  motli,  this  one  i 


CINTO  TIL 


DON  JUAK 


227 


46. 

Tis  Strang  that  he  jihonld  farther  "damn  his  eyes/' 
For  they  arc  danm'd :  that  once  all  famous  oath 
U  to  the  dcYil  novv  oo  farther  prize, 
Since  John  has  lately  lost  the  nse  of  both. 
Debt  he  calls  wealth,  and  taxes,  paradise ; 
And  Famine,  with  her  gaant  and  bony  growth^ 
Which  stare  him  in  the  face,  he  won't  examine, 
Or  swears  that  Ceres  hath  beg^otten  Famine.. 

40. 

Bat  to  the  tale.  Great  joy  anto  the  camp ! 

To  Russian,  Tartar,  Bnglish,  French,  Cossack, 

O'er  whom  Suwarrow  shone  like  a  gas-lamp, 

Presaging  a  most  Inminous  attack ; 

Or,  like  a  wisp  along  the  marsh  so  damp, 

Which  leads  beholders  on  a  boggy  walk. 

He  flitted  to  and  fro,  a  dancing  light, 

Which  alt  wlio  saw  it  followed,  wrong  or  right 

47. 

Ba^  oertes,  matters  took  a  different  face: 
There  was  enthusiasm  and  much  applause, 
The  fleet  and  camp  saluted  with  great  grace. 
And  all  presaged  good  fortune  to  their  cause. 
Within  a  canoon>shot-length  of  the  place 
They  drew,  coostracted  ladders,  repaired  flaws 
In  former  works,  made  new,  prepared  fascines, 
And  all  kinds  of  benevolent  machines. 


y 


4a 

lis  thus  the  spirit  of  a  single  mind 

Makes  that  of  nraltitudcs  take  one  direction, 

As  roll  the  waters  to  the  breathing  wind, 

Or  roaau  the  herd  beneath  the  ball's  protection ; 

Or  as  a  little  dOK  will  lead  the  blind. 

Or  a  bell-welhei  fbrm  the  flock's  oonnexton 

By  tinkling  sounds,  when  they  go  forth  to  Tiotual 

Sndi  is  the  sway  of  yonr  great  men  o'er  little. 


The  whole  camp  miiir  whh  joy;  yon  would  hare  thought 
That  they  were  going'  to  a  marriage-fbast 
(Tins  metaphor,  I  think,  holds  good  as  aught, 
Sioee  there  is  diseord  after  both  at  least)  t 
There  was  not  now  a  laggage4K>y  but  sought 
Danger  and  spoil  with  ardour  much  inereasad; 
And  why  ?  hecaose  a  little;,  odd,  old  man. 
Script  to  his  shirt,  was  eome  to  lead  the  van. 

6a 

Bstsoitwas;  and  every  preparation 
Was  made  with  all  alacrity :  the  ^nt 
DeCnehment  of  throe  columns  took  its  station, 
And  waited  but  the  ngoal's  voice  to  burst 
Upon  the  foe:  the  second's  ordination 
Was  also  in  three  cohimos,  with  a  thirst 
Fnr  Klory  gaping  o'er  a  sea  of  slaughter: 
The  third,  in  cohunns  two»  attaek'd  by  water. 


51. 

New  batteries  were  erected;  and  was  held 
A  general  council,  in  which  unanimity. 
That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here  prcrail'd, 
As  sometimes  happens  in  a  great  extremity 
And,  every  difficulty  being  dispell'd. 
Glory  began  to  dawn  with  due  sublimity, 
While  Souwaroff,  determined  to  obtain  it. 
Was  teaching  liis  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet 

62. 

It  is  an  actual  fact;  that  he,  Commander- 
in-chief,  in  proper  person  deign'd  to  drill 
The  awkward  squad,  and  could  afford  to  squander 
His  time,  a  corporal's  duty  to  fulfil; 
Just  as  you'd  break  a  suckiug  salamander 
To  swallow  flame,  and  never  take  it  ill : 
He  show'd  them  how  to  mount  a  ladder  (which 
Was  not  like  Jacob's)  or  to  cross  a  ditch. 

63. 

Also  he  dressed  up,  for  the  nonce,  fascines 

Like  men,  with  turbans,  scimitars,  and  dirks, 

And  made  them  charge  with  bayonets  these  machines, 

By  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks; 

And,  when  well  practised  in  these  mimic  scenes, 

He  judged  them  proper  to  assail  the  works; 

At  which  your  wise  men  sneer'd,  in  phrases  witty:  — 

He  made  no  answer;  but  he  took  the  city. 

64. 

Most  things  were  in  this  posture  on  the  eve 

Of  the  assault,  and  all  the  camp  was  in 

A  stern  repose;  which  you  would  scaroe  conceive; 

Yet  men,  resolved  to  dash  through  thick  and  thin, 

Are  very  silent  when  they  once  believe 

That  all  is  settled :  —  there  was  little  din. 

For  some  were  thinking  of  their  home  and  finends, 

And  others  of  themselves  and  latter  ends. 

66. 

Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert. 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jesting,  pondering : 

For  the  man  was,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A  thing  to  wonder  at  beyond  most  wondering ; 

Hero,  buffoon,  half  demon,  and  half  dirt. 

Praying,  instructing,  desohUing,  plundering; 

Now  Mars,  now  Momus ;  and,  when  bent  to  storm 

A  fortress,  Harlequin  in  uniform. 

6e. 

The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill  — 
For  this  great  conqueror  play'd  the  corporal  — 
Some  Cossacks,  hovering  like  hawks  round  a  bill. 
Had  met  a  party  towards  the  twilight's  ihll, 
One  of  whom  spoke  their  tongue,  or  well  or  ill  — 
'Twas  much  that  he  was  understood  at  all ; 
But  whether  fh>m  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner, 
They  finind  that  he  had  fought  beneath  their  banner. 


228 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  TIL 


67. 

Whereon,  immediately,  at  his  request, 
They  brought  him  and  his  comrades  to  head-quarters: 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have  guess'd 
That  these  were  merely  masquerading  Tartars, 
And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashioned  vest 
Lttrk'd  Christianity;  who  sometimes  barters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  makes 
It  difficnlt  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

68. 

Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt 
Before  a  company  of  Cal mucks,  drilling, 
Bxclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert, 
And  lecturing  on  the  noble  art  of  killing,  — 
For,  deeming  human  clay  but  common  dirt. 
This  great  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 
His  maxims,  which,  to  martial  comprehension. 
Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a  pension;  -* 

69. 

Sawarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company 

Of  Cossacks  and  their  prey,  turn'd  round  and  cast 

Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye :  «- 

"Whence  come  ye?"  —  "From  Constantinople  last, 

Captives  just  now  escaped,"  was  the  reply. 

'•What  are  ye?"  —  "What  you  see  us."  Briefly  past 

This  dialogue;  for  he  who  answer'd  knew 

To  whom  he  spoke,  and  made  his  words  but  few. 

00. 

"Your  names?"  —  "Mine's  Johnson,  and  my  comrades 
The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third  [Juan ; 

Is  neither  man  nor  woman."  The  Chief  threw  on 
The  party  a  slight  glance,  then  said :  "I  have  heard 
Your  name  before,  the  second  is  a  new  one; 
To  bring  the  other  three  here  was  absurd ; 
But  let  that  pass ;  -» I  think  1  have  heard  your  name 
In  the  Nikolaiew  regiment?"  — •  "The  same."  — 

61. 

"You  served  at  Widdin ?"-"Yes."--"Yon  led  theattack  ?" 
"I  did."  —  "What  next?"  —  "I  really  hardly  know." 
"You  were  the  first  i'  the  breach?"  —  "I  was  not  slack, 
At  least,  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so."  •— 
"What  follow'd  ?"  —  "A  shot  laid  me  on  my  back, 
And  I  became  a  prisoner  to  the  foe."  — 
''You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  surrounded 
Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were  wounded. 

Where  will  yon  serve?"  —  "Where'er  you  please."  — 

You  like  to  be  the  hope  of  the  forlorn,  [*«I  know 

And  donbtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 

After  the  hardships  you've  already  borne. 

And  this  youngr  fellow;  say  what  can  he  do?  -^ 

He  with  the  beardless  chin  and  garments  torn  ?"  •* 

"Why,  General,  if  he  liath  no  greater  fault 

In  war  than  love,  he  had  better  lead  the  assault"  — 


63. 

"He  shall,  if  that  he  dare."  Here  Juan  bowed 
Low  as  the  compliment  deserved.   Suwarrow 
Continued :  "Your  old  regiment's  allowed, 
By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow, 
Or  it  may  be  to-nigiit,  the  assault:  I  have  vowed 
To  several  saints,  that  shortly  plough  or  harrow 
Shall  pass  o'er  what  was  Ismail,  and  its  tusk 
Be  animpeded  by  the  proudest  Mosque. 

64. 

So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory !"  —  Hero  he  turned. 
And  drilled  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian, 
Until  each  high,  heroic  bosom  burned 
For  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a  cushion 
A  preacher  had  held  forth  (who  nobly  spurned 
AH  earthly  goods  save  tithes)  and  bade  them  posh  on 
To  slay  the  Pagans,  who  resisted*  battering 
The  armies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Catherine. 

Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  coNoquy 
Himself  a  favourite,  ventured  to  address 
Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents  high 
In  his  resumed  amusement;  "I  confess 
My  debt  in  being  thus  allowed  to  die 
A.mong  the  foremost ;  but  if  you'd  express 
Explicitly  our  several  posts,  my  friend 
And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend." 

66. 

"Right!  I  was  busy,  and  forgot    Why,  yon 
Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which  should  he 
No^  under  arms.   Ho!  Katskoff,  talce  him  to  — 
(Here  he  called  up  a  Polish  orderly) 
His  post,  I  mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew. 
The  stranger  stripling  may  remain  with  me; 
He's  a  fine  boy.    The  women  may  be  sent 
To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick-tent" 

67. 

Hut  here  a  sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue: 
The  ladies,  —  who  by  no  means  had  been  bred 
To  be  disposed  of  in  a  way  ao  new, 
Although  their  haram-education  led 
Doubtless  to  that  of  doctrines  the  most  true. 
Passive  obcdienoe,  —  now  raised  up  the  head. 
With  flashing  eyes  and  starting  tears,  and  flung 
Their  arms,  as  bens  their  wings  abont  their  yoong. 

68. 

O'er  the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 
Who  were  thus  tionour'd  by  the  greatest  ebief 
That  ever  peopled  hell  with  heroes  slain. 
Or  plunged  a  province  or  a  realm  in  grief. 
Oh,  foolish  mortals !  always  taught  in  vainl 
Oh,  glorious  laurel  I  since  for  one  sole  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  dcathten  tree. 
Of  blood  and  teai*  must  flow  the  nncbbing  sen  I 


CANTO  TIL 


DON  JUAN. 


229 


Suwarrowy  wlio  bad  «inalJ  regard  for  tears, 

And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  sarveycd 

The  women  with  their  hair  about  tlidr  ears 

And  natural  agonies,  with  a  slight  shade 

Of  feeling :  for,  however  habit  scars 

Men's  hearts  against  whole  millions,  when  their  trade 

Is  batchery,  sometimes  a  single  sorrow 

WiU  touch  even  Heroes  —  and  such  was  Snwarrpw, 

7a 

Re  said  —  and  in  the  kindest  Cahnnclc  tone  — 
**Why,  Johnson,  what  the  devil  do  yon  mean 
By  bringing  vromen  here?  They  shall  be  shown 
AH  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 
la  safety  to  the  waggons,  where  alone 
In  fact  they  can  be  safe.  You  should  have  been 
Aware  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives, 
Save  wed  a  year;  I  hate  recruits  with  wives/' 

71. 

'Ofay  it  please  your  Excellency,"  thus  replied 
Our  British  friend,  'Hhese  are  the  wives  of  others. 
And  not  our  own.    I  am  too  qualified 
By  service  with  my  military  brothers. 
To  break  the  rules  by  bringing  one's  own  bride 
Into  a  camp;  I  know  that  nought  »o  bothers 
The  heartq  of  the  heroic  on  a  chaiige. 
As  leaving  a  small  family  at  large. 

72. 

Hut  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 
With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape. 
And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 
A  thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 
To  rae  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new ; 
To  them,  poor  things !  it  is  an  awkward  step ; 
I  tiicrefore,  if  you  wish  mo  to  fight  freely. 
Request  that  they  may  both  be  used  genteelly." 

73. 

Meantime,  these  two  poor  girls,  with  swimming  eyes, 
Look'd  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could  trust 
Their  own  protectors ;  —  nor  was  their  surprise 
Less  than  their  grief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 
To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 
In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmeared  with  dust, 
SCripp'd  to  his  waistcoat,  and  that  not  too  clean, 
More  tieared  than  all  the  Saltans  ever  seen. 

74* 

For  every  thing  secm'd  resting  on  bis  nod, 
As  tbey  could  read  in  all  eyes.   Now,  to  them. 
Who  were  accustomed,  as  a  sort  of  God, 
To  jcc  the  Sultan,  rich  in  many  a  gem, 
like  an  imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 
(That  royal  bird»  whose  tail 's  a  diadem). 
With  an  tte  pomp  of  power,  it  was  a  doubt 
How  power  teould  condesocnd  to  do  without. 


76. 

John  Johnson,  seeing  their  extreme  dismay. 
Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental. 
Suggested  some  slight  comfort  in  his  way : 
]>on  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental. 
Swore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day, 
Or  that  the  Russian  army  should  repent  all : 
And,  strange  to  say,  they  found  some  consolation 
In  this  —  for  females  like  exaggeration. 

7a 

And  then,  with  tears,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses, 
They  parted  for  the  present  ~  these  to  await. 
According  to  the  artillery's  hits  or  misses. 
What  sages  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate  — 
(Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 
A  mortgage  on  Humanity's  estate)  — 
Wliile  their  beloved  friends  began  to  arm, 
To  bum  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm.  • 

77. 

Suwarrow,  who  hot  saw  things  in  the  gross  ^ 
Being  much  too  gross  to  see  them  in  detail ; 
Who  calculated  life  as  so  much  dross, 
And  as  the  wind  a  widow 'd  nation's  wail, 
And  cared  as  little  for  his  army's  loss 
(So  that  their  efforts  should  at  length  prevail) 
As  wife  and  friends  did  for  the  boils  of  Job ;  — 
What  was 't  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob? 

78. 

Nothing.  *-  The  work  of  Glory  still  went  on 

In  preparations  for  a  cannonade 

As  terrible  as  that  of  ilion, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made; 

But  nowy  instead  of  slaying  Priam's  son. 

We  only  can  but  talk  of  escalade,  [bullets ; 

Bombs ,  drums ,  'guns ,  bastions ,  batteries ,  bayonets. 

Hard  words  which  stick  in  the  so&  Muses'  gullets. 

79. 

Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer!  who  couldst  charm 
All  ears,  though  long,  —  all  ages,  though  so  short. 
By  merely  wielding  with  poetic  arm 
Arms  to  which  men  will  never  more  resort. 
Unless  gunpowder  should  be  found  to  harm 
Much  less  than  is  the  hope  of  every  Court, 
Which  now  is  leagued  young  Freedom  to  annoy; 
But  they  will  not  find  Liberty  a  Troy :  — 

Oh,  thon  eternal  Homer  I  I  have  now 
To  paint  a  siege,  wherein  naorc  men  were  slain, 
With  deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow, 
Than  in  thy  Greek  gacette  of  that  campaign; 
And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I  must  allow, 
To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 
As  for  a  brook  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood ; 
But  still  we  moderns  equal  yon  in  blood; 


230 


iiON  JUAN. 


CANTO  vin. 


81. 

If  not  in  poetry,  at  least  in  fact; 

And  fact  is  truth,  tlie  g^nd  desideratum! 

Of  which,  liowc'cr  the  Muse  describes  each  act. 

There  should  be  nevertheless  a  slight  snbstratum. 

But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  attacked ; 

Great  deeds  arc  doing  —  how  shall  I  relate  'cm  7 

Souls  of  immortal  generals!  Phoebus  watches 

To  colour  up  his  rays  from  your  dispatches. 

8S. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kili'd  and  wonnded ! 

Shade  of  Leonidas,  who  fought  so  hearty. 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now,  surrounded! 

Ob,  Csesar's  Commentaries !  now  impart  ye, 

Shadows  of  glory !  (lest  I  be  confounded) 

A  portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues. 

So  beautiful,  so  fleeting,  to  the  Muse, 


When  I  call  <*fiidiflg''  martial  Immortality, 
I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 
And  almost  every  day,  in  sad  reality, 
So^e  sucking  hero  is  compelled  to  rear. 
Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up  the  totality 
Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  most  dear. 
Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 
Afflicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dininess. 


84. 

Medals,  ranks,  ribbons,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet. 
Are  things  immortal  to  immortal  man, 
As  purple  to  the  Babylonian  liariot; 
An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 
To  women;  there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlet 
But  deems  himself  the  first  in  glory's  van. 
But  glory's  glory;  and  if  you  would  And 
What  that  is  —  ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind! 

96. 

At  least  hefeeh  it,  and  some  say  he  tees, 
Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a  pig ; 
Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease, 
Say  that  be  scuds  before  it  like  a  brig, 
A  schooner,  or  —  but  it  is  time  to  ease 
This  Canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fiitigue 
The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  people. 
Like  a  bob-major  from  a  village-stecplc. 

88*  • 

Hark !  through  the  silence  of  the  cold,  dull  nigfit. 
The  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank ! 
Lo !  dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 
Along  the  leaguer'd  wall  and  bristling  bank 
Of  the  arm'd  river,  wfaHe  with  straggling  light 
The  stars  peep  througrli  the  vapours  dim  and  dank. 
Which  curl  in  curious  wreaths  —  How  soon  the  smoke 
Of  bell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak  ! 


87. 

Here  pause  we  for  the  present  —  as  even  then 
That  awful  pauie,  dividing  life  from  death. 
Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 
Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  their  last  breath! 
A  moment  •—  and  all  will  be  life  again ! 
The  nuUTQh!  the  charge !  the  shouts  of  either  fiiith  ! 
Hurra!  and  Allah!  and  ~  one  moment  more  — 
The  death-ery  drowning  in  the  battle's  roar. 


CANTO    VIII. 


1. 

Oh  blood  and  thunder !  and  oh  blood  and  wounds  ! 
These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem. 
Too  gentle  reader!  and  most  shocking  sounds : 
And  so  they  are ;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 
Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 
At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme. 
So  be  they  her  iaspirers !  Call  them  Mars, 
Bellona,  what  you  will  —  they  mean  but  wars. 


All  was  prepared  —  the  Are,  the  sword,  the  men 

To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

March'd  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay,  • 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 

To  breathe  destruetion  on  its  winding  way, 

Whose  heads  were  heroes  whicli,  cut  off  in  vain. 

Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 


CAMTO  vin. 


DON  JUAN, 


231 


History  ca«  on!  j  take  things  in  the  gron ; 
Bat  coold  w c  know  them  in  detail,  perchanoe 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 
War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance, 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross, 
As  hath  be^i  done,  mere  conqiiest  to  advance 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fiime,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 


And  why?  beoansc  it  brings  self-approbation; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare, 

Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  nation, 

Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare, 

A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station. 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gape  or  stare. 

Yet,  in  the  end,  except  in  freedom's  battles, 

Are  nothing  but  a  child  of  Murder's  rattles. 


And  sudi  they  are  —  and  such  they  wiU  be  found. 

Not  so  I«eonidas  and  Washington, 

Whose  crery  battle-field  is  holy  ground. 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  undone. 

How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound ! 

While  the  mere  victor's  may  appal  or  stun 

The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 

K  watch-word  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 


The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thkk  mist  allowed 
Nought  to  be  seen  save  the  artillery's  flame. 
Which  arch'd  the  horizon  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
And  in  the  Danube's  waters  shone  the  same, 
A  mirrored  hell !  The  volleying  roar,  and  loud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'croame 
The  ear  far  more  than  thunder ;  for  Heaven's  Hashes 
Spare,  or  smite  rarely  —  ICan's  make  millions  ashes ! 

7. 

The  colamn  ordered  on  tho  assault  scarce  passed 
Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
When  np  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last, 
Answering  the  christian  thunders  with  like  voices; 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  embraced, 
Which  rock'd  as  'twere  beneath  the  mighty  noises; 
While  the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Titan  htocnps  in  his  den. 

8. 

I  And  one  enormous  shout  of  ^' Allah !"  rose 
la  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 
Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defianea:  dty,  stream,  and  shore 
Besonnded  **Allah  "  and  the  clouds  which  close 
With  tbick'ning  canopy  the  conflict  o'er 
Vibnte  to  tho  Eternal  Name.    Hark!  through 
Afl  sounds  it  plereeth ,  ''Allah !  Ailali !  Hu !" 


9* 

The  columns  were  in  movement,  one  and  all; 

But,  of  the  portion  which  attack'd  by  water. 

Thicker  than  leaves  the  lives  began  to  fall, 

Though  led  by  Arseniew,  that  great  son  of  slaughter, 

As  brave  as  ever  faced  both  homb  and  ball. 

^'Carnage  (so  Wordsworth  tells  you)  isGod's  daughter:'' 

Uhe  speak  truth,  8he  is  Christ's  sister,  and 

Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 

10. 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  knee; 
Count  Chapeau-Bras  too  had  a  ball  between 
His  cap  and  head,  which  proves  the  head  to  be 
Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen. 
Because  it  then  received  no  injury 
More  than  the  cap;  in  fact  the  ball  could  mean 
No  harm  nnto  a  right  legitimate  head: 
'Ashes  to  ashes"  —  why  not  lead  to  lead? 

n. 

Also  the  General  Markow,  Brigadier, 
Insisting  on  removal  of  Me  Prince 
Amidst  some  ip'oaning  thousands  dying  near,  —- 
All  common  fellows,  who  might  writlic  and  wince, 
And  shriek  for  water  into  a  deaf  ear,  — 
The  General  Markow,  who  could  thus  evince 
His  sympathy  for  rank,  by  the  same  token, 
To  teach  him  greater,  had  his  own  leg  broken. 

12. 

Three  hundred  cannon  threw  np  their  emetic, 
And  thirty  thousand  muskets  flung  their  pills 
Like  hail,  to  make  a  bloody  diuretic, 
^lortality !  thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills ; 
Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick, 
Like  the  death-watch,  within  our  ears  the  ills 
Past,  present,  and  to  come ;  —  but  all  may  yield  ' 
To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battle-field. 

13. 

There  the  still  varying  pangs,  which  multiply 
Until  their  very  number  nuUces  men  hard 
By  the  infinities  of  agony, 
Which  meet  the  gave,  whate'er  it  may  regard  — 
The  groan,  the  roll  in  dust,  the  all-white  eye 
Turn'd  back  within  its  socket,  —  these  reward 
Your  rank  and  file  by  thousands,  while  the  rest 
May  win,  perhaps,  a  ribbon  at  the  breast! 

14. 

Yet  I  love  glory ;  —  glory's  a  great  thing ;  — 
Think  what  it  is  to  be  in  your  old  age 
Maintain'd  at  the  expense  of  your  good  king: 
A  moderate  pension  shakes  full  many  a  sage, 
And  heroes  are  but  made  for  bards  to  sing, 
Which  is  still  better ;  thus  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars  eternally,  besides  enjoying 
Half-pay  for  life,  make  mankind  worth  destroying. 


232 


DON  JUAN. 


CAHTO   VUt 


16. 

The  troops  already  discrabark'd  pash'd  on 
To  take  a  bat^tery  on  the  rig^ht;  tlie  others. 
Who  landed  lower  down,  tlieir  landing  done, 
Had  set  to  work  bs  briskly  as  their  brothers: 
Being  gr^^^^^i^i's  ^bey  mounted  one  by  one, 
Choerinl  as  children  climb  the  breasts  of  mothers. 
O'er  the  entrenchment  and  the  palisade. 
Quite  orderly,  as  if  upon  parade. 

And  this  was  admirable;  for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  that  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded, 

Besides  its  lava,  with  all  sorts  of  shot 

And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more  have  goaded. 

Of  officers  a  third  fell  on  the  spot, 

A  thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 

To  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  assault: 

Hounds,  when  the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fiuilt 

17. 

But  here  I  leave  the  general  concern, 
^  To  track  our  hero  on  his  path  of  fame : 
He  must  his  laurels  separately  earn ; 
For  fifty  thousand  heroes,  name  by  name, 
Though  all  deserving  equally  to  turn 
A  couplet,  or  an  elegy  to  claim, 
Would  form  a  lengthy  lexicon  of  glory, 
And,  what  is  worse  still,  a  much  longer  story: 

la 

And  therefore  we  must  give  the  greater  number 

To  the  Gazette  —  which  doubtless  fbirly  dealt 

By  the  deceased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 

In  ditches,  fields,  or  wheresoe'er  they  felt 

Their  clay  for  the  last  time  their  souls  encumber ;  — 

Thrice  happy  he  whose  name  has  been  well  spelt 

In  the  despatch :  I  knew  a  man  whose  loss 

Was  printed  Grove,  although  his  name  was  Grose. 

19. 

Juan  and  Johnson  join'd  a  certain  corps. 

And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not  knowing 

The  way  which  they  had  never  trod  before, 

And  still  less  guessing  where  they  might  be  going; 

But  on  they  march'd,  dead  bodies  trampling  o'er. 

Firing,  and  thrusting,  slashing,  sweating,  glowing. 

But  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win. 

To  their  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin. 

HO. 

Thus  on  they  wallow'd  in  the  bloody  mire 
Of  death  and  dying  thousands,  —  sometimes  gaining 
A  yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them  nigher 
To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  straining; 
At  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  close  fire. 
Which  really  pour'd  as  if  oil  hell  were  raining. 
Instead  of  heaven,  they  stumbled  backwards  o'er 
A  wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 


SI. 

Though  'twas  Don  Jnan'sfirst  of  fields*  and  though 

The  nightly  muster  and  the  silent  march 

In  the  chill  dark,  when  courage  does  not  glow 

8o  much  as  under  a  triumphal  arch, 

Perhaps  might  make  him  shiver,  yawn,  or  throw 

A  glance  on  the  dull  clouds  (as  thick  as  starch. 

Which  stiffen'd  heaven)  as  if  he  wish'd  for  day;  — 

Yet  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 

32. 

Indeed  he  could  not    But  what  if  he  had  ? 
There  have  heen  and  are  heroes  who  begun 
With  something  not  much  better,  or  as  bad: 
Frederick  the  Great  from  Uolwitz  deign'dto  run. 
For  the  first  and  last  time ;  fot-,  like  a  pad. 
Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals,  after  one 
Warm  bout,  are  broken  into  their  new  tricks. 
And  fight  like  fiends  for  pay  or  polities. 

23.. 

He  was  what  Erin  calls,  in  heir  sublime 

Old  Erse  or  Irish,  or  it  may  be  Punie;  — 

(The  antiquarians  who  can  settle  time. 

Which  settles  all  things,  Roman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 

Swear  that  Pat's  language  sprung  from  the  same  clime 

With  Hannibal ;  aud  wears  the  Tynan  tunic 

Of  Dido*s  alphabet ;  and  this  is  rational 

As  any  other  notion,  and  not  national ;)  — 

But  Juan  was  quite  <%  broth  of  al)oy," 
A  thing  of  impulse  and  a  child  of  song; 
Now  swimming  in  the  sentiment  of  joy, 
Or  the  sensation  (if  that  phrase  seem  wrong>. 
And  afterwards,  if  he  must  needs  destroy. 
In  such  good  company  as  always  throng 
To  battles,  sieges,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure, 
No  less  delighted  to  employ  his  leisure; 

2ft. 

But  always  without  malice;  if  he  warr'd 
Or  loved,  it  was  with  what  we  call  "the  best 
Intentions,  "which  form  all  mankind's  trump^strd^ 
To  be  produced  when  brought  up  to  the  test. 
The  statesman,  hero,  harlot,  lawyer  —  ward 
Ofi*  each  attack,  when  people  are  in  quest 
Of  tl>eir  designs,  by  saying  they  meant  well; 
'Tis  pity  that  such  meanings  should  pave  hell. 

28. 

I  almost  lately  have  begun  to  doubt 

Whether  hell's  pavement  —  if  it  be  s0  paved  — 

Must  not  have  latterly  been  quite  worn  out. 

Not  by  the  numbers  good  intent  hath  saved. 

But  by  the  mass  wlio  go  below  without 

Those  ancient  good  intentions,  which  once  shaved 

And  smoothed  the  brimstone  of  that  street  of  hell 

Which  bears  the  greatest  likeness  to  PUll  Mall. 


CAHTO  Yin. 


PQN  JUAN. 


233 


Off. 

Jmo,  by  some  sti^ngt  fihaoce,  whl«h  oH  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  ia  their  grim  careor. 
Like  cfaaatest  wives  from  coiutaot  husbanda'  aides 
Joat  at  the  cloae  of  tbe  first  bridal  yoar, 
Bj  one  of  those  odd  tarns  of  fortuoo's  tides. 
Was  on  a  sadden  rather  pazzled  here. 
When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing. 
He  found  himself  alooe»  and  friends  retiring. 

aa 

I  don't  know  bow  the  thing  oooanr'd  —  it  might 
Be  Chat  the  greater  part  were  kill'd  or  woundedt 
And  that  the  rest  bad  faced  unto  the  right 
About;  a  circumstance  which  has  oonfound<Hl 
Caraar  himself,  wlio,  in  the  very  sight 
Of  his  whole  army,  which  so  much  abounded 
Id  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a  shield 
And  rally  baok  his  Romans  to  the  field. 

Joan,  who  had  no  shield  to  snatob*  and  was 

No  Caesar,  but  a  fine  young  lad,  wbo  fought 

He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 

Stopp'd  for  a  minute  as  perhaps  he  ought 

For  a  moch  longer  time;  then,  like  an  ass  — 

(Start  not,  kind  reader;  ainee  great  Homer  tiiought 

This  simile  enough  for  Ajax,  Juan 

Perhaps  nay  find  it  better  than  a  new  one)  — 

90. 

Then,  like  an  ass,  be  went  upon  bis  way, 
And,  what  was  stranger,  never  loolc'd  behind; 
But  seeing,  flashing  forward,  like  the  day 
Over  the  hills,  a  fire  enough  to  blind 
Those  who  dislike  to  look  upon  a  fray. 
He  stumbled  on,  to  try  if  he  could  find 
A  path  to  add  his  own  slight  arm  and  forces 
To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

31. 

Perceiving  then  no  more  the  eommandant 

Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  the  corps,  which  had 

Quite  disappeared  ~  the  Gods  know  how  I  (I  can't 

Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look  bad 

la  history;  but  we  at  least  may  grant 

It  was  not  marvellous  that  a  mere  lad, 

In  search  of  glory,  should  look  on  before, 

Kor  care  a  pinch  of  snufi*  about  his  corps ; )  -^ 


Pcreeiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded. 

And  left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  make 

His  way  to  —  where  he  knew  not  —  single-handed ; 

As  tmvcllers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 

An  ''ignis  fiitnus,"  or  as  sailors  stranded 

Uaio  the  nearest  hut  themselves  betake, 

So  Juan,  following  honour  and  his  nose, 

ftnsh'd  where  the  thickest  fire  announced  most  foes. 


39. 

He  knew  not  wbero  he  was,  nor  greiitly  qiied, 
For  lie  was  diasy,  busy,  and  his  veins 
Fiird  as  with  lightning  ^  for  his  spirit  shared 
The  hour,  as  is  thonase  with  li?e|y  briuns; 
And,  where  the  hottest  fire  was  se»n  nnd  heard. 
And  the  loud  cannon  peaPd  hhi  hoarsest  strains. 
He  rush'd,  while  earth  and  air  were  sadly  shaJken 
By  thy  humane  disoovery,  Frifur  Baoonl 

34. 

And,  as  he  rush'd  along,  it  enqie  U>  pnss  he 

Fell  in  with  what  was  lata  the  second  column, 
Under  the  orders  of  the  General  ^scy, 
But  now  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume, 
Into  an  elegant  oKtract  (mni^  less  massy ) 
Of  heroism,  and  took  his  piano  with  solemn 
Air  'midst  the  rest,  who  kept  their  valiant  filpes 
And  leveird  weapons  Stitl  against  thn  glaejs. 

Just  at  this  crisis  up  onme  Johnson  too, 
Who  had  "retreated*"  as  the  phriMO  is  when 
Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 
Destruction's  jaws  iato  the  devil's  den ; 
But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 
Knew  when  and  how  <*to  cut  and  come  sgain," 
And  never  ran  away,  except  when  running 
Was  nothing  but  a  valourous  kind  of  cunning. 

30. 

And  so,  when  all  his  corps  were  dead  or  dying. 

Except  Don  Juan,  ^  a  mere  novice,  whose 

More  virgin  valow  never  dream'd  of  flying, 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 

Its  votaries,  like  inpoeence  relying 

On  its  own  strength,  with  cfureless  nerves  and  thews,  — 

Johnson  retired  a  little,  just  to  rally 

Those  who  catch  cold  in  '*shadows  of  death's  valley." 

37. 

And  there,  a  little  sheker'd  from  the  shot. 
Which  rain'd  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet, 
Rampart,  wall,  cascoaent,  bouse  —  £i>r  there  was  not 
In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 
Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil  as  yet.  — 
He  found  a  number  of  chasseurs,  all  scatter 'd 
By  the  resistance  of  the  chase  they  battcr'd. 

36. 

And  these  he  call'd  on ;  and,  what's  strange,  they  came 
Unto  his  call,  unlike  "the  spirits  from 
The  vasty  deep,"  to  whom  you  may  exclaim. 
Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  tlicy  wilj  leave  their  home. 
Their  reasons  were  uncertainty,  or  shame 
At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or  a  bomb, 
And  that  odd  impulse,  which,  in  wars  or  creeds. 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 
16* 


234 


DON  JUAN, 


CA.NTO  V1IL 


3&. 

By  Jove!  be  was  a  noble  fellow,  Johnson, 

And  thoug:h  his  name,  than  Ajax  or  Achilles, 

Sounds  less  harmonions,  underneath  the  sun  soon 

We  shall  not  see  his  likeness :  he  could  kill  his 

Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  Monsoon 

Her  steady  breath  (which  some  months  the  same  ttiU  Is); 

Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle, 

And  could  be  very  busy  without  bustle. 

40. 

And  therefore,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 
Upon  reflection,  knowing^  that  behind 
He  would  find  others  who  would  fain  be  rid  so 
Of  idle  apprehensions,  which,  like  wind^ 
Trouble  heroic  stomachs.  Though  their  lids  so 
Oft  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind, 
But  when  they  light  upon  immediate  death, 
Retire  a  little,  merely  to  take  breath. 

41. 

But  Johnson  only  ran  off,  to  return 
With  many  other  warriors,  as  we  said. 
Unto  that  rather  somewhat  misty  bourn. 
Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a  pass  of  dread. 
To  Jack  howc'er  this  gave  but  slight  concern : 
His  soul  (like  galvanism  upon  the  dead) 
Acted  upon  the  living  as  on  wire. 
And  led  them  back  into  the  heaviest  fire. 

42. 

Egad !  they  found  the  second  time  what  they 

The  first  time  thought  quite  terrible  enougk 

To  fly  from,  mal(p-6  all  which  people  say 

Of  glory,  and  all  that  immortal  stuff 

Which  fills  a  regiment  (besides  their  pay. 

That  daily  shilling  which  makes  warriors  tough)  — 

They  found  on  their  return  tlie  self-same  welcome, 

Which  made  some  think,  and  others  knaWf  a  h4lieomc* 

43. 

They  fell  as  thick  as  harvests  beneath  hail. 
Grass  before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the  sickle. 
Proving  tliat  trite  <^d  truth,  that  life's  as  frail 
As  any  other  boon  for  which  men  stickle. 
The  Turkish  batteries  thrash'd  them  like  a  flail. 
Or  a  good  boxer,  into  a  sad  pickle. 
Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knock'd 
Upon  the  head,  before  their  guns  were  cock'd. 

44. 

The  Turks  behind  the  traverses  and  flanks 

Of  the  next  bastion  fired  away  like  devils. 

And  swept,  as  gales  sweep  foam  away,  whole  ranks : 

However,  Heaven  knows  how,  the  Fate  who  levels 

TowDS,  nations,  worlds,  in  her  revolving  pranks. 

So  order'd  it,  amidst  these  sulphury  revels, 

That  Johnson  and  some  few  who  had  not  scampcr'd, 

Reached  the  interior  talus  of  the  rampart. 


4& 

First  one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  doeen 

Came  mounting  quickly  up,  for  it  was  now 

All  neck  or  nothing,  as,  like  pitch  or  rosin, 

Flame  was  shower'd  forth  above  as  welFs  below. 

So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen,  — 

The  gentlemen  tliat  were  the  first  to  show 

Their  martial  faces  on  the  parapet, 

Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet 

46. 

But  those  who  scaled  found  out  that  thdr  advance 

Was  &vonr'd  by  an  accident  or  blunder: 

The  Greek  or  Turkish  Cohorn's  ignorance 

Had  palisadocMl  in  a  way  you'd  wonder 

To  see  in  forts  of  Netherlands  or  France  — 

(Though  these  to  our  Gibraltar  must  knock  under)  — 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet 

Just  named,  these  palisades  were  primly  set: 

47. 

So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ten 
Paces  were  left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 
To  march;  a  great  convenience  to  our  men. 
At  least  to  all  those  who  were  left  alive,   . 
Who  thus  could  form  a  line  and  fight  again; 
And  that  which  further  aided  them  to  strive 
Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  palisades. 
Which  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass-bladca. 

48. 

Among  the  first,  —  I  will  not  say  the^rif, 
For  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 
Will  oftentimes  make  deadly  quarrels  burst 
Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations: 
The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 
Put  to  such  trial  John  Bull's  partial  patience, 
As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 
Was  beaten,  —  though  the  Prussians  say  so  too; 

49. 

And  that  if  BlAcher,  Bnlow,  Gneisenau, 

And  God  knows  who  besides  in  '*au"  and  *'ou/' 

Had  not  come  up  in  time  to  cast  an  awe 

Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  fought  till  now 

As  tigers  combat  with  an  empty  craw, 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  ceased  to  show 

His  orders,  also  to  receive  his  pensions, 

Which  are  the  heaviest  that  our  history  mentions. 

60. 

But  never  mind;  —  ''God  save  the  king!"  and  kings  ! 

For  if  he  don't,  I  doubt  if  men  will  longer  — 

I  think  I  hear  a  little  bird,  who  sings, 

The  people  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger : 

The  veriest  jade  will  wince  whose  harness  wrings 

So  much  into  the  raw  as  quite  to  wrong  her 

Beyond  tlie  rules  of  posting,  —  and  the  mob 

At  last  fall  sick  of  imitating  Job: 


CANTO  vin. 


DON  JUAN. 


235 


61. 

At  tnt  it  gnunbiM,  then  it  swears,  and  then. 

Like  David,  flings  smooth  pebbles  'gainst  a  giant; 

kt  last  it  takes  to  weapons,  snch  as  men 

Snaldi  when  despair  makes  homan  hearts  less  pliant 

Then  "comes  the  tag  of  war ;"  —  'twill  come  again, 

I  mther  doubt;  and  I  would  foin  say  **fie  on't," 

If  I  had  not  perceived  that  revolution 

Alone  can  save  the  earth  from  hell's  pollution. 

63. 

Bottooontinae:  —  I  say  not  Me  first,  |^ 

Bat  of  the  first,  our  little  firiend  Don  Juan 

Walk'd  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,  as  if  nursed 

Amidst  snch  scenes  —  though  this  was  quite  a  new  one 

To  him,  and  I  should  hope  to  most  The  thirst 

Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through  one, 

Pttraded  him  —  although  a  generous  creature. 

As  warm  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 

6a 

And  here  he  was  —  who  upon  woman's  breast, 
Eren  from  a  child,  felt  like  a  child :  howe'er 
The  man  in  all  the  rest  might  be  confest; 
To  him  it  was  Elysium  to  be  there; 
And  be  could  even  withstand  that  awkward  test 
Which  Rousseau  points  out  to  the  dubious  fair : 
**Observe  your  lover  when  he  leaves  your  arms ;" 
But  Juan  never  left  them,  while  they  bad  charms, 

64. 

Unless  oompelTd  by  fhte,  or  wave,  or  wind, 
Or  near  relations,  who  are  much  the  same. 
But  here  he  was !  —  where  each  tic  that  can  bind 
Humanity  must  yield  to  steel  and  flame: 
And  he,  whose  very  body  was  all  mind,  — 
Flung  here  by  fate  or  circumstance  which  tame 
The  loftiest,  —  hurried  by  the  time  and  place, 
Dssh'd  on  like  a  spnrr'd  blood-horse  in  a  race. 

66. 

So  was  his  blood  stirred  while  he  found  resistance, 

As  is  the  hunter's  at  the  five-bar  gate, 

Or  doable  post  and  tail,  where  the  existence 

Of  Britain's  youth  depends  upon  their  weight, 

.The  lightest  being  the  safest:  at  a  distance 

He  hated  cruelty,  as  all  men  hate 

Blood,  until  heated  —  and  even  there  his  own 

At  times  would  curdle  o'er  some  heavy  groan. 

66. 

The  General  Lasoy,  who  had  been  hard  prest, 
Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast. 
Who  came  as  if  just  dropp'd  down  from  the  moon, 
To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  address'd 
His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon. 
Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a  <'base  Bezonian" 
(As  Pistol  calls  it),  but  a  young  Livonian. 


67. 

Juan,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  German,  knew 
As  much  of  German  as  of  Sanscrit,  and 
In  answer  made  an  inclination  to 
The  General  who  held  him  in  command; 
For,  seeing  one  with  ribbons,  black  and  blue. 
Stars,  medals,  and  a  bloody  sword  in  hand. 
Addressing  him  in  tones  which  seem'd  to  thank. 
He  recognised  an  officer  of  rank. 

68. 

Short  speeches  pass  between  two  men  who  speak 

No  common  language;  and  besides,  In  time 

Of  war  and  taking  towns,  when  many  a  shriek 

Rings  o'er  the  dialogue,  and  many  a  crime 

Is  perpetrated  ere  a  word  can  break 

Upon  the  car,  and  sounds  of  horror  chime 

In,  like  church-bells,  with  sigh,  howl,  groan,  yell,  prayer, 

There  cannot  be  much  conversation  there. 

60. 

And  therefore  all  we  have  related  in 
Two  long  octaves,  pass'd  in  a  little  minute; 
But  in  the  same  small  minute  every  sin 
Contrived  to  get  itself  comprised  within  it 
The  very  cannon,  deafen'd  by  the  din. 
Grew  dumb,  for  yon  might  almost  hear  a  linnet. 
As  soon  as  thunder,  'midst  the  general  noise 
Of  human  nature's  agonising  voice! 

00. 

The  town  was  entered.   Oh  Eternity! — 
''God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town," 
So  Cow  per  says  —  and  I  begin  to  be 
Of  iiis  opinion,  when  I  see  cast  down 
Rome,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh  — 
All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known; 
And,  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past. 
To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last. 

61. 

Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer. 
Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most  lucky, 
Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare, 
The  General  Boon,  back-woodsman  of  Kentucky, 
Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  any  where; 
For  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 
Enjoy'd  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 
Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  mase. 

Crime  came  not  near  him  —  she  Is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude ;  Health  shrank  not  from  him  —  for 
Her  home  Is  in  the  rarely-trodden  wild, 
Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 
Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  tbpm,  as  beguiled, 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor  — 
In  cities  caged.  The  present  case  in  point  I 
Cite  is,  that  Boon  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 


236 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  vm. 


63. 

And,  whatV  stiU  8traii§per,  left  behind  a  ntme. 
For  which  men  vainly  deoimate  the  throng, 
Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  pood  fame 
Without  which  glory's  but  a  taTern-song  -^ 
Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame, 
Which  hate  nor  envy  e'er  could  tingre  with  wrong;' 
An  active  bermit»  even  in  age  the  child 
Of  nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

04. 

'Tia  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  of  his  nation. 
When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees,  — 
He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off,  for  a  station 
Where  tliere  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease; 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 
Is,  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please; 
But,  where  he  nwt  the  individual  man. 
He  sliew'd  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

06. 

He  was  not  all  alone :  around  him  grew 
A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chaoe, 
Whose  young,  unwakea'd  world  was  ever  new. 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 
On  lier  unwrinklcd  brow,  nor  could  yon  view 
A  frown  on  nature's  or  on  human  fece;  — 
The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free. 
And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree* 

66. 

And  tall  and  strong  and  swift  of  foot  were  they. 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions. 
Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 
Of  care  or  gain :  the  green  woods  were  their  portions,* 
No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  gray ; 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions; 
Simple  tliey  were,  not  savage;  and  their  rifles. 
Though  very  true»  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

67. 

Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers. 
And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 
Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 
Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil ; 
The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendour  whioh  encumbers, 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil; 
Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 
Of  this  uMighing  people  of  the  woods. 

66. 

So  mueh  fior  nature:  —  by  way  of  variety. 
Now  back  to  thy  great  joys,  civilization ! 
And  the  sweet  consequence  of  laige  society. 
War,  pestilence,  the  despot's  desolation. 
The  kingly  scourge,  the  just  of  notoriety, 
The  millions  shun  by  soldiers  for  their  ration, 
The  scenes  like  Catherine's  boudoir  at  three  score, 
With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 


60. 

The  town  was  enter'd :  first  one  oolomn  made 
Its  sanguinary  way  good  —  then  another; 
The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  Made 
Clash'd  'gainst  the  scimitar,  and  babe  and  mother 
With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  heaven  to  upbraid ;  — 
Still  closer  sulphnry-olouds  began  to  smother 
The  breath  of  mora  and  man,  where,  foot  by  foot. 
The  madden'd  Tnrks  their  city  still  diepnte. 

70, 

Koutousow,  hc^oafterwards  beat  back 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  and  snow) 

Napoleon  on  his  bold  and  bloody  traek^ 

It  happen'd  was  himself  beat  back  just  now. 

He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  and  conld  cmok 

His  jest  alike  in  face  of  friend  or  foe. 

Though  life,  and  death,  and  victory  were  at  stake  •-* 

But  here  it  seem'd  his  jokes  had  oeaacd  to  take : 

71. 

For,  having  thrown  himsdf  into  a  ditch. 
Folio w'd  in  haste  by  various  grenadiers, 
W  hose  blood  the  puddle  greatly  did  enrioh. 
He  climb'd  to  where  the  parapet  appears; 
But  there  his  project  reach'd  its  utmost  pitch, 
('Mongst  other  deaths  the  General  lUbaiipierre's 
Was  much  regretted)  —  for  the  Moslem  men 
Threw  them  all  down  into  the  ditch  again : 

72. 

And,  had  it  not  been  for  some  stray  troops,  landing 
They  knew  not  where,  -—  being  carried  by  the  stream 
To  some  spot,  where  they  lost  their  understanding. 
And  wandcr'd  up  and  down  as  in  a  dream, 
Until  they  reach'd,  as  day-break  was  expanding. 
That  which  a  portal  to  their  eyes  did  seem,  — 
The  great  and  gay  Koutousow  might  have  lain 
Where  three  parts  of  his  column  yet  remain. 

76. 

And,  scrambling  round  the  rampart,  tiieseaame  troops. 

After  the  taking  of  the  "cavalier," 

Just  as  Koutousow 's  most  ''Forlorn"  of  "Hopea" 

Took,  like  oameleons,  some  slight  tinge  of  fear, 

Open'd  ^e  gate  call'd  ''Kilia"  to  the  groups 

Of  baftied  heroes  who  stood  shyly  near, 

Sliding  knee-deep  in  lately-frozen  mud, 

Now  thaw'd  into  a  marsh  of  human  blood. 

74. 

The  Kozaks,  or,  if  so  you  please,  Cossacks  — 
(I  don't  much  pique  myself  upon  orthography. 
So  that  I  do  not  grossly  err  in  tacts, 
Statistics,  tactics,  politics,  and  geography)  — 
Having  been  used  to  serve  on  horses'  backs. 
And  no  great  dilettanti  in  topography 
Of  fortresses,  but  fighting  whore  it  pleases 
Their  chiefs  to  order,  —  were  all  cut  to  pieces. 


aicTo  vni 


DON  JUAN. 


237 


75. 

Their  colomn,  thoqgli  the  Tarkish  batteries  thmhder'd 
Upon  them,  ne'erthelcss  had  reach'd  the  rampart. 
And  nataraDy  (boogiit  they  eould  have  plander'd 
The  city,  withoat  bemg^  further  hamper'd ; 
Bot,  as  it  happens  to  braye  men,  they  Uaader^d  — 
The  Turks  at  first  pretended  to  have  scampor'd, 
Only  to  draw  them  'twist  two  bastion-corners, 
From  whence  they  saltied  on  those  Christian  scorners. 

78. 

Then  beingr  taken  by  the  tail--  a  taking 
Fatal  to  bishops  as  to  soldiers  —  these 
Cossadcs  were  all  cut  off  as  day  was  breakings, 
And  found  their  lives  were  let  at  a  short  lease  — 
But  pcrish'd  without  shiTering  or  shaking, 
Leaving  as  ladders  their  hcap'd  carcasses, 
O'er  which  Lieutenant- Colonel  Yesooskoi 
Jifarch'd  with  the  brave  battalion  of  Polouzki :  *- 

77. 

This  valiant  man  kitt'd  aH  the  T>rk8  he  met. 
But  could  not  eat  them,  being  in  bis  turn 
%in  by  some  Mussulmans,  who  would  not  yet, 
Without  resistance,  see  their  city  burn. 
The  walls  were  won,  but  'twas  an  even  bet 
Which  of  the  armies  would  have  cause  to  monm : 
Twas  blow  for  blow,  disputing  inch  by  inch. 
For  one  would  not  retreat,  nor  t'other  fiincb. 

7a 

Another  column  also  suffered  much : 

And  here  we  may  remark  with  the  historian, 

You  should  but  give  few  cartridges  to  such 

Troops  as  are  meant  to  march  with  greatest  glory  on : 

When  matters  must  be  carried  by  the  touch 

Of  the  bright  bayonet,  and  they  all  should  hurry  on, 

They  sometimes,  with  a  hankering  for  existence, 

Keep  merely  firing  at  a  foolish  distance.     • 

79. 

A  janction  of  the  General  Mdaiop's  men 
(Without  the  Genera],  who  had  fallen  some  time 
Before,  being  badly  seconded  just  then) 
Was  made  at  length,  with  those  who  dared,  to  climb 
The  death-disgorging  rampart  once  again ; 
And,  though  the  Turk's  resistance  was  sublime, 
They  took  the  bastion,  which  the  Seraskicr 
Defended  at  a  price  extremely  dear. 

80. 

Joan  and  Johnson,  and  some  volunteers 
Among  the  foremost,  offer'd  him  good  quarter, 
A  word  which  little  suits  with  Seraskicrs, 
Or  at  least  suited  not  this  valiant  Tartar. 
He  died,  deserving  well  his  country's  tears, 
A  savage  sort  of  military  martyr. 
Ao  English  naval  officer,  who  wish'd 
To  make  him  prisoner,  was  also  dish'd : 


81. 

For  all  the  answer  to  his  proposition 

Was  from  a  pistol*shot  that  laid  him  dead ; 

On  which  the  rest,  without  more  intermission, 

Began  to  lay  about  with  steel  and  lead,  — 

The  pions  metals  most  in  requisition 

On  such  occasions:  not  a  single  head 

Was  spared,  —  three  thousand  Moslems  perish'd  here. 

And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced  the  Seraskicr. 

92. 

The  city  *s  taken  —  only  part  by  part  — 
And  Death  is  drunk  with  gore :  there's  not  a  street 
Where  fights  not  to  the  last  some  desperate  heart 
For  those  for  whom  it  soon  shall  ceai^e  to  beat. 
Here  War  forgot  his  own  destructive  art 
In  more-destroying  Nature;  and  the  heat 
Of  carnage,  like  the  Nile's  sun-sodden  slime, 
Engender'd  monstrous  shapes  of  eveiyerimc. 

88. 

A  Russian  officer,  in  maKial  tread 
Over  a  heap  of  bodies,  felt  his  heel 
Seized  fast,  as  if 'twere  by  the  serpent's  head, 
Whose  fangs  five  taught  her  human  seed  to  feel. 
In  vain  he  kick'd,  and  swore,  and  writhed,  and  bled, 
And  howPd  for  help  as  wolves  do  for  a  meal  — 
The  teeth  still  kept  their  gratifying  hold. 
As  do  the  subtle  snakes  described  of  old. 

84. 

A  4ying  Moslem,  who  had  felt  the  foot 
Of  a  foe  o'er  him,  snatch'd  at  it,  and  bit 
The  very  tendon  which  is  most  acute  — 
(That  which  some  ancient  muse  or  modem  wit 
Named  after  thee,  Achilles)  and  quite  through't 
He  made  the  teeth  meet,  nor  relinquish'd  it 
Even  with  his  life  —  for  (but  they  lie)  'tis  said 
To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever'd  head. 

8ft. 

However  this  may  be,  'tis  pretty  sure 
The  Russian  officer  for  life  was  lamed, 
For  the  Turk's  teeth  stuck  faster  than  a  skewer, 
And  left  him  'midst  the  invalid  and  maimed : 
The  regimental  surgeon  could  not  cure 
His  patient,  and  perhaps  was  to  be  blamed 
More  than  the  head  of  the  inveterate  foe, 
Which  was  cut  off",  and  scarce  even  then  let  go. 

86. 

But  then  the  fact's  a  fact  —  and  'tis  the  part 
Of  a  true  poet  to  escape  from  fiction 
Whene'er  Jie  can  ;  for  there  is  little  art 
In  leaving  verse  more  free  from  the  restriction 
Of  truth  than  prose,  unless  to  suit  the  mart. 
For  what  is  sometimes  call'd  poetic  diction, 
And  that  outrageous  appetite  for  lies, 
Winch  Satan  angles  witli,  for  souls,  like  flies. 


238 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  Tin. 


87. 

The  city's  takeD,  but  not  rendered  I  —  No ! 
There's  not  a  Moslem  that  hath  yielded  sword : 
The  blood  may  ^sh  out,  as  the  Danube's  flow 
Rolls  by  the  city- wall ;  but  deed  nor  word 
Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe: 
In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roar'd 
By  the  advancing  Muscovite  —  the  groan 
Of  the  last  foe  is  echoed  by  his  own. 


The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 
And  human  lives  are  lavished  every  where. 
As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves 
When  the  stripped  forest  bows  to  the  bleak  air. 
And  groans;  and  thus  the  peopled  city  grieves, 
Shorn  of  its  best  and  loveliest,  and  left  bare; 
But  still  it  falls  with  vast  and  awful  splinters, 
As  oaks  blown  down  with  all  their  thousand  winters. 

89. 

It  is  an  awful  topic  —  but  'tis  not 

My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific: 

For  cbecquer'd  as  is  seen  our  human  lot 

With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  prolific 

Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific;  «^ 

Without,  or  with,  ofience  to  friends  or  foes, 

I  sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

90. 

And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 
Is  *'quite  refreshing"  —  in  the  affected  phrase 
Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times. 
With  all  their  pretty  milk-and-water  ways. 
And  may  serve  therefore  to  bedew  these  rhymes, 
A  little  SGorch'd  at  present  with  the  blaee 
Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 
Make  epic  poesy  90  rare  and  rich. 

91. 

Upon  a  taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 
Thousands  of  slaughtered  men,  a  yet  warm  group 
Of  murdcrM  women,  who  had  found  their  way 
To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart  droop 
And  shudder;  •—  while,  as  beautiful  as  May, 
A  female  child  often  years  tried  to  stoop 
And  hide  her  little  palpitating  breast 
Amidst  the  bodies  inll'd  in  bloody  rest. 

92. 

Two  villanous  Cossacks  pursued  the  child 

With  flashing  eyes  and  weapons :  matoh'd  with  them. 

The  rudest  brute  that  roams  Siberia's  wild 

Has  feelings  pure  and  polish'd  as  a  gem,  •— 

The  bear  is  civilized,  the  wolf  is  mild : 

And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  wc  condemn? 

Their  natures,.or  their  sovereigns,  who  employ 

All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy  ? 


93. 

Their  sabres  gKtter'd  o'er  her  little  head. 
Whence  her  fiur  hair  rose  twining  with  afiright. 
Her  hidden  ilftce  was  plunged  amidst  the  dead: 
When  Juan  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  sad  sight, 
I  shall  not  say  exactly  what  he  $aidy 
Because  it  might  not  solace  ''ears  polite;" 
But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs,  -^ 
The  readiest  way  of  reasoning  with  Cossacks. 

94. 

One's  hip  he  slash'd,  and  split  the  other's  shoulder, 
And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to  seek 
If  there  might  be  chimrgeons  who  could  solder 
The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and  shriek 
Their  baffled  rage  and  pain ;  while  waxing  colder 
As  be  turn'd  o'er  each  pale  and  gory  check, 
Don  Juan  raised  his  little  captive  from 
Tke  heap  a  moment  more  bad  made  her  tomb. 

96. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  fiioe 
A  slender  streak  of  blood  announced  how  near 
Her  &te  had  been  to  that  of  all  her  race; 
For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother  here, 
Had  scarred  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson  trace 
As  the  last  link  with  all  she  had  held  dear; 
But  else  unhurt,  she  open'd  her  large  eyes. 
And  gased  on  Juan  with  a  wild  sorprise. 

90. 

Just  at  this  instant,  while  thdr  eyes  were  fix'd 
Upon  each  other,  with  dilated  glance. 
In  Juan's  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix'd 
With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mischance 
Unto  his  prot^g^e;  while  hers,  transfix'd 
With  infant  terrors,  glared  as  from  a  trance, 
A  pure,  transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face. 
Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster-vase ;  -- 

97. 

Up  came  John  Johnson  —  (I  will  not  say  JiseA, 
For  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  common-place 
On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 
On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case)  — 
Up  Johnson  came  with  hundreds  at  his  back. 
Exclaiming:  —  ''Jnan!  Juan!  On, boy!  brace 
Your  arm,  and  I'll  bet  Moscow  to  a  dollar. 
That  you  and  I  will  win  St  George's  collar. 

98. 

The  Seraskier  is  knook'd  upon  the  head. 
But  the  stone-bastion  still  remains,  wherein 
The  old  Pacha  sits  among  some  hundreds  dead» 
Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly  'midst  the  din 
Of  our  artillery  and  his  own :  'tis  said 
Our  kill'd,  already  piled  up  to  the  chin, 
Lie  round  the  battery ;  but  still  it  batters. 
And  grape  in  volleys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 


CANTO  na 


DON  JUAN. 


239 


00. 

Tben  ap  with  me!'*  -—  But  Joan  answered :  ^'Look 
Upon  this  child  —  I  saTed  her  —  moat  not  leave 
Her  life  to  chance;  but  point  me  out  some  nook 
Of  safctj,  where  she  less  may  shrink  and  gricTe, 
And  I  am  with  you/'  —  Whereon  Johnson  took   [sleeve 
A  glance  around  —  and  sbrugg'd  —  and  twitch'd  his 
And  blsck  silk  neckcloth  —  and  replied,  '* You're  right; 
Poor  thing!  what's  to  be  done?  Tm  puuded  quite." 

loa 

Said  Juan  —  '< Whatsoever  is  to  be 

Done,  I'll  not  quit  her  till  she  seems  secure 

Of  present  life  a  good  deal  more  than  we."  — 

Quoth  Johnson  —  "Neither  will  I  quite  ensure; 

But  at  the  least  you  may  die  gloriously."  — 

Joan  replied  —  ''At  least  I  will  endure 

Whate'er  is  to  be  borne  —  but  not  resign 

Tbis  child,  who  is  parentless,  and  therefore  mine." 

101. 

Johnson  said  —  '<Juan,  we've  no  time  to  lose; 
The  child's  a  pretty  child  —  a  very  pretty  — 
I  never  saw  such  eyes  —  but  hark  I  now  choose 
Between  your  fame  and  feelings,  pride  and  pity; 
Hark!  how  the  roar  increases!  —  no  excuse 
Will  serve  when  there  is  plunder  in  a  city;  — 
I  should  be  loth  to  march  without  you,  but. 
By  God !  we'll  be  too  late  for  the  first  cut." 

102. 

BatJnan  was  immoveable;  until 
Johnson,  who  really  loved  him  in  bis  way, 
Pick'd  out  amongst  his  followers  with  some  skill 
Such  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to  prey ; 
And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 
That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  next  day, 
But  if  she  were  delivered  safe  and  sound, 
They  should  at  least  have  fifty  roubles  round ; 

103. 

And  all  allowances  besides  of  plunder 
In  fiiir  proportion  with  their  comrades;  ^  then 
Juan  consented  to  march  on  through  thunder. 
Which  tliinn'd  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  men : 
And  yet  the  rest  rush'd  eagerly  —  no  wonder, 
For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 
A  thing  which  happens  every  where  each  day  — 
No  hero  trusteth  wholly  to  half-pay. 

104. 

And  such  is  victory,  and  such  is  man ! 

At  least  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  so;  ^  God 

May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 

As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 

But  to  our  subject :  a  brave  Tartar-Khan,  — 

Or  "Sultan"  as  the  author  (to  whose  nod 

In  prose  I  bend  my  humble  verse)  doth  call 

This  chieftain  —  somehow  would  not  yield  at  all : 


105. 

But,  flank'd  by^v^  brave  sons  (such  is  polygamy, 
That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  where  none 
Are  prosecuted  for  that  false  crime  bigamy) 
He  never  would  believe  the  city  won 
While  courage  clung  but  to  a  single  twig.  —  Am  I 
Describing  Priam's,  Pelcus*,  or  Jove's  son? 
Neither,  •—  but  a  good,  plain,  old,  temperate  man. 
Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  the  van. 

loa 

To  take  him  vras  the  point   The  truly  brave. 
When  they  behold  the  brave  oppressed  with  odds, 
Are  touch'd  with  a  desire  to  shield  and  save; 
A  mixture  of  wild  beasts  and  demi-^ods 
Are  they  —  now  furious  as  the  sweeping  wave. 
Now  moved  with  pity :  even  as  sometimes  nods 
The  rugged  tree  unto  the  summer-wind. 
Compassion  breathes  along  the  savage  mind. 

107. 

But  he  would  not  be  taken,  and  replied 
To  all  the  propositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians  down  on  every  side, 
As  obstinate  as  Swedish  Charles  at  Bender. 
His  five  brave  boys  no  less  the  foe  defied; 
Whereon  the  Russian  pathos  grew  less  tender, 
As  bdng  a  virtue,  like  terrestrial  patience, 
Apt  to  wear  out  on  trifling  provocations. 

loa 

And  spite  of  Johnson  and  of  Juan,  who 

Expended  all  their  eastern  phraseology 

In  begging  him,  for  God's  sake,  just  to  show 

So  much  less  fight  as  might  form  an  apology 

For  them  in  saving  such  a  desperate  foe  — 

He  hew'd  away,  like  doctors  of  theology 

When  they  dispute  with  sceptics;  and  with  curses 

Struck  at  his  friends,  as  babies  beat  their  nurses. 

109. 

Nay,  he  had  wounded,  though  but  slightly,  both 

Juan  and  Jolinson;  whereupon  they  fell  — 

The  first  with  sighs,  the  second  with  an  oath,— 

Upon  his  angry  Sultanship,  pcU-mell, 

And  all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wroth 

At  such  a  pertinacious  infidel, 

And  pour'd  upon  him  and  his  sons  like  rain, 

Which  they  resisted  like  a  sandy  plain 

110. 

That  drinks  and  still  is  dry.  At  last  they  perish'd :  — 

His  second  son  was  levcH'd  by  a  shot; 

His  third  was  sabred ;  and  the  fourth,  most  cherish 'd 

Of  all  the  five,  on  bayonets  met  his  lot; 

The  fifth,  who,  by  a  Christian  mother  nourish'd. 

Had  been  neglected,  ill-used,  and  what  not. 

Because  deform'd,  yet  died  all  game  and  bottom, 

To  save  a  sire  who  blush'd  that  he  begot  him. 


240 


DON  JUAN. 


GAMTO  TQi 


111. 

The  eldest  was  a  trae  and  tamelesB  Tartari 
As  great  a  scorner  of  the  Nazarene, 
As  ever  Mahomet  pick'd  out  for  a  martyr, 
Who  only  saw  tlic  black-eyed  girls  in  green, 
Who^nake  the  beds  of  those  who  won't  take  quarter 
On  Barth,  in  Paradise;  and,  when  once  seen, 
Those  Houris,  like  all  other  pretty  ereatnres, 
Do  just  whatever  they  please,  by  dint  of  features. 

119. 

And  what  they  pleased  to  do  with  the  young  Khan ' 

In  heaven,  I  know  not,  nor  pretend  to  guess  jQ- 

1)ut  doubtless  they  prefer  a  line  young  man  ) 

To  tough  old  heroes,  and  can  do  no  less ;  ^ 

And  that's  the  cause,  no  doubt,  why,  if  we  scan/ 

A  field  of  battle's  ghastly  wilderness,  ""^ 

For  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  body,  ^ 

You'll  find  ten  thousand  handsome  ooxeombt  bloody.^ 

113. 

Your  Houris  also  haye  a  natural  pleasure 

In  lopping  off  your  lately  married  men 

Before  the  bridal  hours  have  danced  their  measure, 

And  the  sad,  second  moon  grows  dim  again, 

Or  dull  repentance  hath  had  dreary  leisure 

To  wish  liim  back  a  bachelor  now  and  then. 

And  thus  your  Hour!  (it  may  be)  disputes 

Of  these  brief  blossoms  the  immediate  fruits. 

114 

Thus  the  young  Khan,  with  Houris  in  his  sight. 
Thought  not  upon  the  charms  of  four  young  brides, 
But  bravely  rush'd  on  his  first  heavenly  night. 
In  short,  howe'er  oter  better  faith  derides. 
These  black-eyed  virgins  make  the  Moslems  figlit, 
As  thougli  there  were  one  heaven  and  none  besides,  — 
Whereas,  if  all  be  true  wc  hoar  of  heaven 
And  hell,  there  must  at  least  be  six  or  seven. 

115. 

So  fully  flash'd  the  phantom  on  his  eyes. 
That  when  the  very  lance  was  in  his  heart, 
He  shouted,  '^ Allah  \"  and  saw  Paradise 
With  all  its  veil  of  mystery  drawn  apart, 
And  bright  Btcrnity  without  disguise 
On  his  soul,  like  a  ceaseless  sunrise,  dart;  — 
With  Prophets,  Houris,  Angels,  Saints,  descried 
In  one  voluptuous  blase,  —  and  then  he  died: 

lie. 

But,  with  a  heavenly  rapture  on  his  face, 

The  good  old  Khan  ~  who  long  had  ceased  to  see 

Houris,  or  aught  except  his  florid  race 

Who  grew  like  cedars  round  him  gloriously  — 

When  he  beheld  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  earth,  which  he  became  like  a  feiPd  tree, 

Paused  for  a  moment  from  the  fight,  and  east 

A  glance  on  that  slain  son,  his  first  and  last. 


117. 

The  soldiers,  who  beheld  him  drop  his  point, 
Stopp'd  as  if  once  more  willing  to  concede 
Quarter,  in  ease  he  bade  them  not  ^^oint  I" 
As  he  before  had  done.    He  did  not  heed 
Their  pause  nor  signs :  his  heaK  was  out  ol  joint. 
And  shook  (till  now  unshaken)  like  a  reed, 
As  he  lookM  down  upon  his  ehildren  gone. 
And  felt  —  thougli  done  with  life  —  he  waa  alone. 

118. 

But  'twas  a  transient  tremor:  —  with  a  spring 
Upon  the  Russian  steel  his  breast  be  flnng, 
As  carelessly  as  hurls  the  moth  her  wing 
Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies :  he  elnng 
Closer,  that  all  the  deadlier  they  might  wiing. 
Unto  the  bayonets  which  had  pierced  his  young; 
And,  throwing  back  a  dim  look  on  his  sons, 
In  one  wide  wound  pour'd  forth  his  soul  at  oooe. 

110. 

'Tis  strange  enougii  —  the  rongti,  tongh  soldiera,  who 
Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  in  thdr  career 
Of  carnage,  when  this  old  man  was  pierced  tiHoagliy 
And  lay  before  them  with  his  children  near^ 
Touch'd  by  the  heroism  of  him  they  slew. 
Were  melted  for  a  moment ;  though  no  tear 
Flow'd  from  tlieir  blood-«hot  eyes,  all  red  with  striS^ 
They  honourM  such  determined  scorn  of  life. 

190. 

But  the  stone-bastion  still  kept  up  its  fire, 
Where  the  chief  Paoha  calmly  held  bis  post : 
Some  twenty  times  he  made  the  Russ  retire, 
And  baflled  the  assaults  of  all  their  host; 
At  leugth  he  condescended  to  inquire 
If  yet  the  city's  rest  were  won  or  lost; 
And  being  told  the  latter,  sent  a  Bey 
To  answer  Ribas'  summons  to  give  way. 

121. 

In  the  mean  time,  cross-legg'd,  with  great  sang-froid. 
Among  the  scorching  ruins  he  sat  smoking 
Tobacco  on  a  little  carpet;  —  Troy 
Saw  nothiog  like  the  scene  around;  —  yet,  looking 
With  martial  stoicism,  nought  seem'd  to  annoy 
His  stern  philosophy:  but  gently  stroking 
His  beard,  he  puflTd  his  pipe's  ambrosial  gales, 
As  if  he  had  three  lives  as  well  as  tails. 

122. 

The  town  was  taken  ^  whether  he  miglit  yidd 
Himself  or  bastion,  little  matter'd  now; 
His  stubborn  valour  was  no  future  shield. 
Ismail's  no  more!  The  crescent's  silver-bow 
Sunk,  and  the  crimson  cross  glared  o'er  the  field. 
But  red  with  no  redeemm<f  gore :  the  glow 
Of  burning  streets,  like  moonlight  on  the  water. 
Was  imaged  back  in  blood,  the  sea  of  slaughter. 


c&VTo  ▼ni. 


DON  JUAN. 


241 


123. 

All  that  the  niiiH!  woold  shrink  from  of  excesses; 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad ;    - 

All  that  wc  reed,  hear,  dream,  of  man's  distresses; 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  ran  stark  mad; 

Afl  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses; 

Ail  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  or  as  sad 

As  hell  ~  mere  mortals  who  their  power «buse,  — 

Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  sIacc)  let  loose. 

i24. 

ff  here  and  there  some  transient  trait  of  pity 

Was  shown,  and  some  more  noble  heart  broke  through 

ks  bloody  bond,  and  saved  perhaps  some  pretty 

Child,  or  an  aged,  helpless  man  or  two  — 

What's  this  in  dbe  annihilated  city. 

Where  tboosand  lores,  and  ties,  and  duties,  grow  ? 

Cockneys  of  London !  Mnscadins  of  l^is ! 

Just  ponder  what  a  pious  pastime  war. is. 

13& 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a  gazeUe 
Areporehased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes: 
Or,  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don't  forget 
Sach  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after-times. 
Meantime  the  taxes,  Castlereagh,  and  debt, 
Are  hints  as  good  as  sermons,  or  as  rhymes. 
Bead  your  own  hearts  and  Ireland's  present  story, 
Then  feed  her  famine  (at  wiifa  Wellesley  *s  glory. 

120. 

Bat  still  there  la  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 

A  sobjeet  of  subiimcst  exultation  — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing ! 

Howe'cr  the  mighty  locust,  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  clingy 

Gaont  Famine  never  shall  approach  the  throne  — 

Thonghlreland  starve,  great  George  weighs  twenty  stone. 

127. 

Bat  let  me  pot  an  end  unto  my  theme : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail  —  hapless  town ! 

Far  flash'd  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream. 

And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 

The  horrid  war- whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 

Boae  still;  but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown : 

Of  fiMTty  thousand  who  had  mann'd  the  wall, 

Some  hundreds  breathed  —  the  rest  wer^  silent  all! 

128. 

In  one  thing  nevertheless  'tis  fit  to  praise 

The  Russian  army  upon  this  occasion, 

A  virtue  much  in  fashion  now«a-days, 

Attd  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration: 

The  topic's  tender,  so  shall  be  my  phrase  — 

Perhaps  the  season's  chill,  and  their  long  station 

Id  winter's  depth,  or  want  of  rest  and  victual, 

Had  made  them  chaste:  r-  they  ravish'd  very  little. 


129. 

Much  did^hey  slay,  more  plunder,  and  no  less 
Might  here  and  there  occur  some  violation 
In  the  other  line;  —  but  not  to  such  excess 
As  when  the  French,  that  dissipated  nation, 
Take  towns  by  storm:  no  causes  can  I  guess, 
Except  cold  weather  and  commiseration ; 
But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score, 
Were  almost  as  much  virgins  as  before. 

180. 

Some  odd  mistakes  too  happen'd  In  the  dark, 
"Which  show'd  a  want  of  lanthorns,  or  of  taste  — 
Indeed  the  smoke  was  such  they  scarce  could  mark 
Their  friends  from  foes,~>bendes  such  things  from  haste 
Occur,  though  rarely,  when  there  Is  a  spark 
Of  light  to  save  the  venerably  chaste ;  — 
But  six  old  damsels,  each  of  seventy  years, 
Were  all  deflower'd  by  different  greiMMiiers. 

181. 

But  on  the  whole  their  oontinenee  was  great; 
So  that  some  disappointment  there  ensued 
To  those  who  had  felt  the  IneonTenient  state 
Of  '^single  blessedness,"  and  thought  it  good 
(Since  it  was  not  their  fault,  but  only  fate, 
To  bear  these  crosses)  for  each  waning  prude 
To  make  a  Roman  sort  of  Sabine  weddingj 
Without  the  expense  and  the  suspense  of  bedding. 


Sonie  voices  of  the  buxom  middle-aged 
Were  also  heard  to  wonder  in  the  din 
(Widows  of  forty  were  these  birds  long  caged) 
''Wherefore  the  ravishing  did  not  begin  !^ 
But,  while  the  thirst  for  gore  and  plunder  raged. 
There  was  small  leisure  for  superfluous  sin ; 
But  whether  they  escaped  or  no,  lies  hid 
In  darkness  •*- 1  can  only  hope  they  did. 

133. 

Suwairow  now  was  conqueror  —  a  mateh 

For  Timour  or  for  Zinghis  in  his  trade. 

While  mosques  and  streets,  beneath  his  eyes,  like  thatch 

Blazed,  and  the  cannon's  roar  was  scarce  allay'd, 

With  bloody  hands  he  wrote  his  &rst  despatch; 

And  here  exactly  follows  what  he  said :  — 

''Glory  to  God  and  to  the  Empress !"  (Powers 

Eternal!  suck namet mingled ! )  "Ismail's ours!" 

134. 

Methinks  these  are  the  most  tremendous  words, 
Since  "Mend,  Mend,  Tekel,"  and  "Upharsin," 
Which  hands  or  pens  have  ever  traced  of  swords. 
Heaven  help  me !  I'm  but  little  of  a  parson : 
Wliat  Daniel  read  was  short-hand  of  the  Lord's, 
Severe,  sublime;  the  Prophet  wrote  no  farce  on 
Tlie  fate  of  nations;  —  but  this  Russ,  so  witty. 
Could  rhyme,  like  Nero,  o'er  a  burning  city. 

16 


242 


DON  JUAN. 


cjkiiToa. 


136. 

He  wrote  this  polar  melody » and  set  it, 
Daly  accompanied  by  shrieks  and  groans, 
Which  few  will  sing,  I  trust,  but  none  forget  it  — 
For  I  will  teach,  if  possible,  the  stones 
To  rise  against  earth's  tyrants.  Never  let  it 
Be  said,  that  we  still  truckle  unto  thrones;  — 
But  ye  —  our  children's  children !  think  how  we 
Show'd  what  tMn^t  were  before  the  world  was  free! 

Ida. 

That  hoar  is  not  for  as,  bht  'tis  for  yoa ; 
And  as,  in  the  great  joy  of  your  millennium, 
You  hardly  will  believe  such  things  were  true 
As  now  occor,  I  thought  that  I  would  pen  you  'em; 
But  may  their  very  memory  perish  too !  — 
Yet,  if  perchance  remembi^'d,  still  disdain  you  'eao,- 
More  than  yoa  scorn  the  savages  of  yore,    . 
'Who  painted  their  hare  limbs,  but  not  with  gore. 

m. 

And  when  yoo  hear  historians  talk  of  thrones. 

And  tliosc  that  sate  upon  them,  let  it  be 

As  we  now  gase  upon  the  Mammoth's  bones. 

And  wonder  what  old  world  such  things  could  see, 

Or  hieroglyphics  on  Egyptian  stones, 

The  pleasant  riddles  of  fntarity  — 

Guessing  at  What  shall  happily  be  hid 

As  the  real  purpose  of  a  Pyramid. 


Reader !  I  have  kept  my  word,  at  least  so  fiur 
As  the  first  Canto  promised.  You  have  now 
Had  sketches  of  love,  tempest,  travel,  war  — 
All  very  accurate,  yoa  mast  allow. 
And  Epic,  if  plain  trath  should  prove  no  bar; 
For  I  have  drawn  much  \eMi  with  a  long  bow 
Than  my  fore-ranners.  Carelessly  I  sing, 
But  Phoebus  leads,  me  now  and  then  a  stringy 

199. 

With  which  I  Still  can  harp>  and  carp,  and  fiddle. 
What  farther  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  grand  poetic  riddle, 
I  by  and  by  may  tell  you,  if  at  all: 
But  now  I  choose  to  break  ofi'in  the  middle. 
Worn  oat  with  battering  Ismail's  stnbborn  wall. 
While  Joan  is  sent  off"  with  the  despatch. 
For  which  all  Petersbaiigh  is  on  the  watch. 

140. 

This  special  honour  was  oonferr'd,  because 
He  had  behaved  with  courage  and  humanity ; 
Which  Uut  men  like,  when  they  havo  time  to  pause 
From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity^. 
His  little  captive  gain'd  him  some  applause. 
For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 
Of  carnage;  and  I  think  he  was  more  glad  in  her 
Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  St.  Vladimir. 


Ul. 

The  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 
For  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  helpless:  all 
Her  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 
Had  perish'd  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall : 
Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a  spectre 
Of  what  it  had  been ;  there  the  Mucszin's  call 
To  prayer  was  heard  no  more!  •--  And  Juan  wept. 
And  made  a  vow  to  shield  her,  which  he  kept 


CANTO     IX. 


Oh,  Wellington!  (or  '*Vilainton"  —  for  Fame 
Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways; 
France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name. 
But  punn'd  it  down  to  this  facetious  phrase  — 
Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same; ) 
You  have  obtained  great  pensions  and  much  praise; 
Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay, 
Hamanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  *'Nay ! " 


I  don't  think  that  you  used  Kinnaird  quite  well 
In  Marinet's  affair  —  In  fact  'twas  shabby, 
And,  like  some  other  thin^ifi,  won't  do  to  tell 
Upon  your  tomb  in  Westminster's  old  abbey. 
Upon  the  rest  'tis  not  worth  while  to  dwell. 
Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  some  tabby ; 
But  though  your  years  as  man  tend  fast  to  scro. 
In  fact  your  Grace  is  still  but  ajmmy  hero. 


CANTO  IX- 


DON  JUAN. 


243 


Thoagh  Britain  owes  (and  pays  yon  too)  so  math, 
Tet  Enrope  donbCless  owes  yon  greatly  more: 
Y<m  have  repaired  Legitimaey's  crutch  — 
A  prop  not  quite  so  certain  as  before : 
liie  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  wetl  as  Dutch, 
Rare  seen,  and  felt,  how  strongly  you  restore ; 
And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor  — 
(I  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better). 


You  are  '*the  best  of  cut-throats'*  —  do  not  start ; 

The  phrase  is  Shakspeare's,  and  not  misapplied :  — 

War's  a  brain-spattering,  windpipe-slitting  art. 

Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified: 

If  jou  have  acted  once  a  generous  part, 

The  world,  not  the  world's  masters,  will  decide, 

Aod  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who, 

SsTe  you  and  yours,  have  gain'd  by  Waterloo? 


I  am  no  flatterer  —  you've  snpp'd  full  of  flattery : 
Tbey  say  you  like  it  too  —  'tis  no  great  wonder : 
He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery, 
At  last  may  gef  a  little  tired  of  thundet ; 
And,  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 
May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder; 
Caird  "Saviour  of  the  Nations"  —  not  yet  saved, 
And  <*Europe'8  Uberator"  —  still  enslaved. 


I've  done.  Now  go  and  dine  from  off"  the  plate 
Pircscntcd  by  the  Princc'of  the  Brazils, 
And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 
A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals : 
He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late, 
Some  liuogcr  too  they  say  the  people  feels : 
There  is  no  doubt  that  you  deserve  your  ration  ^— 
Bat  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 

7. 

I  don't  mean  to  reflect  ^  a  man  so  great  as 
Ton,  my  Lord  Duke !  is  for  above  reflection. 
The  high  Roman  foshion  too  of  Cincinnatiis, 
With  modem  history  has  but  small  connexion ; 
Though  as  an  Irishman  you  love  potatoes. 
Ton  need  not  take  them  under  your  direction ; 
And  half  a  million  for  your  Sabine  farm 
Ii  rather  dear !  —  I'm  sure  I  mean  no  harm. 

6. 

Great  men  have  always  scorn'd  great  recompenses : 
Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  died. 
Not  leaving  even  his  ftineral  expenses : 
George  Washington  had  thanks  and  nought  beside. 
Except  the  all-cloudless  glory  (which  few  men's  is) 
To  free  his  country:  Pitt  too  had  his  pride, 
And,  as  a  high-soul'd  minister  of  state,  is 
Bcoown'd  for  ruiniog  Great  Britain  gratis. 


Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity. 
Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more : 
You  miglit  have  firee'd  ftili'n  Europe  firom  the  Unity 
Of  Tyrants,  and  been  bless'd  from  shore  to  shore; 
And  now — what  i>  your  fame?  Shall  the  Muse  tune  it  ye  ? 
Now  —  that  the  rabble's  first  vain  shouts  are  o'er? 
Go,  hear  it  in  your  ihmish'd  country's  cries! 
Behold  the  world !  and  curse  your  victories ! 

ttK 

As  these  new  Cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats. 
To  you  the  unflattering  Muse  deigns  to  inscribe 
Truths  that  you  will  dot  read  in  the  gazettes, 
But  which,  'tis  time  to  teach  the  hireling  tribe 
Who  fatten  on  their  country's  gore  and  debts, 
Mvat  be  recited,  and  — •  without  a  bribe. 
You  didyreat  things ;  but,  not  being  great  in  mind; 
Have  left  undone  Ihe greatest — and  mankind. 

11. 

Death  laughs  —  Go  ponder  o'er  the  skeleton 
With  which  men  image  out  the  unknown  thing 
That  hides  the  past  world,  like  to  a  set  sun 
Which  still  elsewhere  may  rouse  a  brighter  spring: 
Death  laughs  at  all  you  weep  for;  -.-  look  upon 
This  hourly  dread  of  all,  whose  threaten' d  sting  • 
Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath ! 
Mark !  how  its  llpless  mouth  grins  without  breath ! 

\% 

Mark!  how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at  all  you  arc  I 
A  nd  yet  was  what  you  are :  from  ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  not  —  there  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 
So  caird;  the  Antic  long  hath  ceased  to  hear. 
But  still  he  smiles;  and  whether  near  or  far 
He  strips  from  man  that  mantle  —  (far  more  dear 
Than  even  the  tailor's)  —  his  incarnate  skin. 
White,  black,  or  copper  —  the  dead  bones  will  grin. 

la 

And  thus  Death  laughs,  ^-  it  Is  sad  merriment, 

But  still  it  is  so;  and  with  such  example 

Why  should  not  Life  be  equally  content. 

With  his  superior,  in  a  smile  to  trample 

Upon  the  nothings  which  are  daily  spent 

Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 

Than  the  eternal  deluge,  which  devours 

Suns  as  rays  -—  worlds  like  atoms  —  years  like  hours? 

14. 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be!  that  is  the  question," 
Says  Shakspeare,  who  just  now  is  much  in  fashion. 
I  am  neither  Alexander  nor  Hephaestion, 
Nor  ever  had  for  abstract  fame  much  passion ; 
But  would  much  rather  have  a  sound  digestion. 
Than  Buonaparte's  cancer :  —  could  I  dash  on 
Through  fifty  victories  to  shame  or  fiime, 
Witiiout  a  stomach  —  what  were  a  good  name? 


244 


BON  JUAN. 


CANTO  a. 


16. 

"Oh,  dura  ilia  meMoram!"  —  "Oh, 

Ye  rig^d  gois  of  reapers! "  —  I  translate 

For  the  great  benefit  of  those  who  know 

What  indigestion  is  —  that  inward  fate 

Which  makes  all  Styx  through  one  small  liyer  flow. 

A  peasant's  sweat  is  worth  his  lord's  estate: 

Let  thit  one  toil  for  bread  -^that  rack  for  rent,  — 

He  who  sleeps  best,  may  be  the  most  content. 

16. 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be?"  —  Ere  I  decide, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  hnng? 
'Tis  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide, 
And  deem,  because  we  see,  we  are  all-seeing: 
For  my  part.  Til  enlist  on  neither  side» 
Until  I  see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 
For  me,  J  sometimes  think  that  life  is  death, 
Rather  than  life  a  mere  a£Gur  of  breath. 

17. 

"Que  sais-je?"  was  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians: 

That  all  is  dubious  which  man  may  attain, 

Was  one  of  their  most  favourite  positions. 

There's  no  such  thing  as  certainty^^  that's  plain 

As  any  of  mortality's  conditions: 

So  little  do  we  know  what  we're  about  in 

This  world,  I  doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

18. 

It  is  a  pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float, 

Like  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation ; 

But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  the  boat? 

Your  wise  men  don't  know  much  of  navigation; 

And  shimming  long  in  the  abyss  of  thought 

Is  apt  to  tire:  a  calm  and  shallow  station 

Well  nigh  the  shore,  where  one  stoops  down  and  gathers 

Some  pretty  sheU,  is  best  for  moderate  bathers. 

19. 

"But  heaven,"  as  Cassio  says,  *4s  above  ail,  ^ 
No  more  of  this  then,  —  let  us  pray ! "  We  have 
Souls  to  saVc,  since  £vc's  slip  and  Adam's  fall, 
Which  tumbled  all  mankind  into  the  grave, 
Besides  fish,  beasts,  and  birds.  "The  sparrow's  fail 
Is  special  providence,"  though  how  it  gave 
Offence,  we  know  not ;  probably  it  perch'd 
Upon  the  tree  which  £vc  so  fondly  search 'd. 

da. 

Oh,  ye  immortal  Gods !  what  is  theogony  ? 

Oh,  t!:ou  too  mortal  man !  what  is  philantliropy  ? 

Oh,  world,  which  was  and  is !  what  is  cosmogony? 

Some  people  have  accused  me  of  misanthropy ; 

And  yet  I  know  no  more  than  the  mahogany 

That  forms  this  desk,  of  what  they  mean :  —  Lykanthropy 

I  comprehend ;  for,  without  transformation, 

ICen  become  wolves  on  any  slight  occasion. 


31. 

But  I,  the  mildest,  meekest  of  mankind. 

Like  Moses,  or  Melanchthon,  who  have  ne'er 

Done  any  thing  exceedingly  unkind,  — 

And  (though  I  could  not  now  and  then  forbear 

Following  the  bent  of  body  or  of  mind) 

Have  always  had  a  tendency  to  spare,  — 

Why  do  they  call  me  misanthrope?  Beoause 

They  hate  me,  mot  I  them ;  •—  And  here  we'll  pansc. 

32. 

'Tis  time  we  should  proceed  with  our  good  poem. 

For  I  maintain  that  it  is  really  good. 

Not  only  in  the  body,  but  the  proem, 

However  little  both  are  understood 

Just  now,  —  but  by  and  by  the  truth  will  show  'em 

Herself  in  her  subUmest  attitude: 

And  till  she  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 

To  share  her  beauty  and  her  banishment 

23. 

Our  hero  (and,  I  trust,  kind  reader !  yours) 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 

Of  the  immortal  Peter's  polish'd  boors, 

Who  still  have  shown  themselves  more  brave  than  witty 

I  know  its  mighty  empire  now  alhircs 

Much  flattery  —  even  Voltaire's,  and  that's  a  pity. 

For  me,  1  deem  an  absolute  autocrat 

Not  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  thai. 

24. 

And  I  will  war,  at  least  in  words  (and  —  should 
My  chance  so  happen  —  deeds)  with  all  who  war 
With  thought ;  —  and  of  thought's  foes  by  far  most  rudCt 
Tyrants  and  sycophants  have  been  and  are. 
I  know  not  who  may  conquer:  if  I  could 
Have  such  a  prescience,  it  should  be  no  bar 
To  this  my  plain,  sworn,  downright  detestatioa 
Of  every  despotism  in  every  nation^ 

35. 

It  is  not  that  I  adulate  the  people: 
Without  me,  there  are  demagogues  enough, 
And  infidels,  to  pull  down  every  steeple. 
And  set  up  in  their  stead  some  proper  stuff*. 
Whether  they  may  sow  scepticism  to  reap  hell, 
As  is  the  christian  dogma  rather  rough, 
I  do  not  know;  —  I  wish  men  to  be  free 
As  much  from  mobs  as  kings  —  from  you  as  mc. 

26. 

The  consequence  is,  being  of  no  party, 

I  shall  offend  all  parties :  never  mind ! 

My  words,  at  least,  are  more  sincere  and  hearty 

Than  if  I  sought  to  sail  before  the  wind. 

Ho  who  has  nought  to  gain  can  have  small  art :  he 

Wlio  neither  wishes  to  be  bound  nor  bind 

May  still  expatiate  freely,  as  will  I, 

Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery 's  j ackallery . 


CAirrooL 


DON  JUAK 


245 


T%€^s  an  appropriate  ninile,  thujaekail  ; 
Ftc  beard  them  in  the  Bpheaian  ruins  howl 
By  Dight,  as  do  that  meroenary  pack  all, 
Power's  base  purveyors,  who  for  pickings  prowl, 
And  socnt  the  prey  their  masters  would  attack  all. 
Howerer,  the  poor  jaokallsareless  foul 
(As  being  the  brave  lions'  keen  providers) 
Than  homan  insects,  catering  for  spiders. 

Raise  bat  an  arm!  'twill  brash  their  web  away. 
And  without  thaty  their  poison  and  their  claws 
Are  useless.   Mind,  good  people!  what  I  say  — 
(Or  rather  peoples)  —  poon  without  pause! 
The  web  of  these  tarantulas  each  day 
Incieasesy  till  yon  shall  make  common  caose: 
None,  save  the  Spanish  fly  and  Attic  bee, 
As  yet  are  strongly  stinging  to.  be  free. 


Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 
Was  left  upon  his  way  with  the  despatch. 
Where  blood  was  talk'd  of  as  we  would  of  water; 
And  carcasses,  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 
O'er  silenced  cities,  merely  served  to  flatter 
Fair  Catherine's  pastime  —  who  look'd  on  the  match 
Between  these  nations  as  a  main  of  cocks, 
Wherein  she  liked  her  own  to  stand  like  rocks. 

30. 

And  there  in  a  At'MtiUi  he  roll'd  on 

(A  corscd  sort  of  carriage  without  springs, 

Which  on  rough  roads  leaves  scarcelya^whole  bone). 

Pondering  on  glory,  chivalry,  and  kings, 

And  orders,  and  on  all  that  he  had  done  — 

And  wishing  tliat  post-horses  had  the  wings 

Of  Pegasas,  or,  at  the  least,  post -chaises 

Had  feathers,  when  a  traveller  on  deep  ways  is. 

SI. 

At  cfwy  jolt  —  and  they  were  many  —  still 
Hetnm'd  his  eyes  upon  his  little  charge, 
As  if  he  wish'd  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 
Than  he,  in  these  sad  highways  left  at  large 
To  rats,  and  flints,  and  lovely  nature's  skill, 
Who  is  no  paviour,  nor  admits  a  barge 
On  ker  canals,  where  God  takes  sea  and  land, 
Fisheiy  and  fiurm,  both  into  his  own  hand. 

At  least  he  pays  no  rent,  and  has  best  right 
To  be  the  first  of  what  we  used  to  call 
"Gentlemen  Farmers"  —  a  race  worn  out  quite, 
Soiee  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  all, 
And  ''gentlemen'^  are  in  a  piteous  plight, 
And  **fermcrs*^  can't  raise  Ceres  from  her  fall : 
She  fell  with  Buonaparte :  —  What  strange  thoughts 
Arise,  when  we  see  emperors  fiedl  with  oats ! 


38. 

Bnt  Jaan  turn*d  his  eyes  on  the  sweet  child 

Whom  he  had  saved  from  slaughter  —  what  a  trophy! 

Oh !  ye  who  build  up  monuments,  defiled 

With  gore,  like  Nadir  Shah,  that  costive  Sophy, 

Who,  after  leaving  Hlndostan  a  wild. 

And  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a  cup  of  cofiee 

To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  sinner  1 

Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner;  — 

34. 

Oh  ye!  or  we!  or  he!  or  she!  refleet. 
That  one  life  saved,  especially  if  young 
Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  recollect 
Far  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  sprung 
From  the  manure  of  human  day,  though  deok'd 
With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung : 
Though  hymn'd  by  every  harp,  unless  within 
Your  heart  joins  chorus,  fome  Is  but  a  din. 

35. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors  luminous,  voluminous ! 
Ye  twice  ten  hundred  thousand  daily  scribes ! 
Whose  pamphlets,  volumes,  newspapers  illumine  us! 
Whether  you're  paid  by  government  in  bribes, 
To  prove  the  public  debt  is  not  consuming  us  — 
Or,  roughly  treading  on  the  "courtier's  kibes" 
With  clownish  heel,  your  popular  circulation 
Feeds  you  by  printing  half  the  realm's  starvation:  — 

36. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors !  —  **A  propos  des  bottes"  — 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant  to  say, 
As  sometimes  liavc  been  greater  sages'  lots : 
'Twas  something  calculated  to  allay 
All  wrath  in  barracks,  palaces,  or  cols ; 
Certcs  it  would  have  been  hut  thrown  away. 
And  that's  one  comfort  for  my  lost  advice, 
Although  no  doubt  it  was  beyond  all  price. 

37. 

But  let  it  go :  —  it  will  one  day  be  found 
With  other  relics  of  "a  former  world," 
When  this  world  shall  be  former,  under-ground, 
Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twisted,  crisp'd,  and  curl'd. 
Baked,  fried,  or  burnt,  turn'd  insidc-ont,  or  drowned, 
Like  all  the  worlds  before,  which  have  been  hnrl'd 
First  out  of  and  then  back  again  to  Chaos, 
The  superstratum  which  will  overlay  us. 

38. 

So  Cnvier  says;  »  and  tlien  shall  come  again 

Unto  the  new  creation,  rising  out 

From  our  old  crash,  some  mystic,  ancient  strain 

Of  things  destroyed  and  left  in  airy  doubt: 

Like  to  tlie  notions  we  now  entertain 

Of  Titans,  Giants,  fellows  of  about 

Some  hundred  feet  in  height,  not  to  say  miles, 

And  Mammoths,  and  your  winged  Crocodiles. 


246 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  IX.      I 


Think  if  then  George  the  Fourth  should  he  dug  up! 
How  the  new  worldlings  of  the  then  new  East 
WUl  wonder  where  such  animals  could  sup! 
(For  they  tliemselves  will  be  but  of  the  least : 
Even  worlds  miscarry,  when  too  oft  they  pup, 
And  every  new  creation  hath  decreased 
In  size,  from  over-working  the  material  — 
Men  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  earth's  burial.) 

40. 

How  will  —  to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  oat 
From  some  fresh  paradise,  and  set  to  plough, 
And  dig,  and  sweat,  and  turn  themselves  about. 
And  plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and  grind,  and  sow. 
Till  all  the  arts  at  length  are  brought  about, 
Especially  of  war  and  taxing,  —  how, 
I  say,  will  these  great  relics,  when  they  see  'em, 
Look  like  the  monsters  of  a  new  museum? 

41. 

But  I  am  apt  to  grow  too  metaphysical: 
''The  time  is  out  of  joint,"  and  so  am  I ; 
I  quite  forget  this  poem's  merely  quizzical, 
And  deviate  into  matters  rather  dry. 
I  ne'er  decide  what  I  shall  say,  and  this  1  call 
Much  too  poetical :  men  should  know  why 
They  write,  and  for  what  end;  but,  note  or  text, 
I  never  know  the  word  which  will  come  next. 

48. 

So  on  I  ramble,  now  and  then  narrating. 
Now  pondering :  —  it  is  time  we  should  narrate: 
I  left  Don  Juan  with  his  horses  baiting  — 
Now  we'll  get  o'er  the  ground  at  a  great  rate. 
I  shall  not  be  particular  in  stating 
His  journey,  we've  so  many  tours  of  late: 
Suppose  him  then  at  Petersburgb ;  suppose 
That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows; 

4d. 

Suppose  him  in  a  handsome  uniform ; 

A  scarlet  coat,  black  facings,  a  long  plume. 

Waving,  like  sails  new  shiver'd  in  a  storm. 

Over  a  cock'd  hat,  in  a  crowded  room. 

And  brilliant  breeches,  bright  as  a  Cairn  Gorme, 

Of  yellow  cassimere  we  may  presume. 

White  stockings  drawn,  uncurdled  as  new  milk. 

O'er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  off  the  silk  : 

44. 

Suppose  him  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand, 
>Iade  up  by  youth,  fame,  and  an  army-tailor. 
That  great  enclianter,  at  whose  rod's  command 
Beauty  springs  forth,  and  Nature's  Self  turns  paler, 
Seeing  how  Art  can  make  her  work  more  grand, 
(When  she  don't  pin  men's  limbs  in  like  a  jailor)  — 
Behold  him  placed  as  if  upon  a  pillar !  He 
Seems  Love  turn'd  a  lieutenant  of  artillery  ! 


/■ 


46. 

His  baildage  slipp'd  down  into  a  cravat; 

His  wings  subdued  to  epaulettes;  his  quiver 

Shrunk  to  a  scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 

His  sides  as  a. small  sword,  but  sharp  as  ever; 

His  bow  converted  into  a  cock'd  hat; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 

Than  some  wives  (who  nuike  blunders  no  less  stupid) 

If  she  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid. 

46. 

The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whispered,  and 

The  Empress  smiled;  the  reigning  fiivourite  frowu'd  - 

I  quite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  band 

Just  then,  as  they  are  rather  numerous  found, 

Who  took  by  turns  tiiat  difficult  command 

Since  first  her  Majesty  was  singly  crown'd : 

But  they  wpre  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows. 

All  fit  to  make  a  Patagonian  jealous. 

49. 

Juan  was  none  of  these,  but  slight  and  sfim. 
Blushing  and  beardless;  and  yet  ne'ertheless     ' 
There  was  a  something  in  his  turn  of  limb, 
And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seem'd  to  express. 
That  though  he  look'd  one  of  the  Seraphim, 
There  lurk'd  a  Man  beneath  the  Spirit's  dress. 
Besides,  the  Empress  sometimes  liked  a  boy, 
And  had  just  buried  the  ihir-faoed  LanskoL 

4$. 

No  wonder  then  that  Yermoloff,  or  Momonoff, 

OrScherbatofT,or  any  other  off 

Or  oiif  might  dread  her  Majesty  had  not  room  enough 

Within  her  bosom  (which  was  not  too  tough) 

For  a  new  flame;  a  thought  to  cast  of  gloom  enough 

Along  the  aspect,  whether  smooth  or  rough. 

Of  him  who,  in  the  language  of  his  station. 

Then  held  that  ''high  official  sltuatioii." 


Oh,  gentle  ladles  t  should  you  seek  to  know 
The  import  of  this  diplomatic  phrase, 
Bid  Ireland's  Londonderry's  Marquess  show 
His  parts  of  speech;  and,  in  the  strange  displays 
Of  that  odd  string  of  words,  all  in  a  row, 
Which  none  divine,  and  every  one  obeys, 
Perhaps  you  may  pick  out  some  queer  Yunmeaning, 
Of  that  weak  wordy  harvest  the  sole  gleaning. 

60. 

I  think  I  can  explain  myself  without 

That  sad  inexplicable  beast  of  prey  — 

That  sphinx,  whose  words  would  ever  be  a  doubt, 

Did  not  his  deeds  unriddle  them  each  day  — 

That  monstrous  hieroglyphic—^ that  long  spout 

Of  blood  and  water,  leaden  Castloreagh! 

And  here  I  must  an  anecdote  relate. 

But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight 


CANTO  IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


247 


51. 

An  Engluh  lady  ask'd  of  an  Italian, 
What  ivcre  the  actaal  and  official  duties 
Of  the  strange  thing,  some  women  set  a  valne  on. 
Which  hOYcrs  oft  abont  some  married  beandes, 
Called  "Cavalier  Servente?"  —  a  Pygmalion 
Whose  statues  warm  (I  fbar,  alas !  too  tnie  'tis) 
Beneath  his  art.    The  dame,  pressed  to  disclose  them, 
Said  —  <*Lady,  I  beseech  yon  to  iupppse  them**' 

02. 

And  thns  I  supplicate  yonr  sapposition, 

And  mildest,  matron-like  interpretation 

Of  the  imperial  ihToorite's  condition. 

Twas  a  high  place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 

In  fact,  if  not  in  rank ;  and  the  suspicion 

Of  any  one's  attaining  to  his  station, 

No  doubt  gave  pain,  where  each  new  pair  of  shoulders, 

If  rather  broad,  made  stocks  rise  and  their  holders. 

53. 

Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beauteous  boy, 

And  had  rctain'd  his  boyish  look  beyond 

The  usual  hirsute  seasons  which  destroy. 

With  beards  and  whiskers  and  the  like,  the  fond 

ParisuM  aspect  which  upset  old  Troy 

And  founded  Doctors'  Commons:  —  I  hare  conn'd 

The  history  of  divorces,  whidi,  though  chequer'd, 

Calls  Dion's  the  first  damages  on  record. 

64. 

And  CatheriBe,  who  loved  all  things  (save her  lord, 
Who  was  gone  io  his  place)  and  pass*d  for  much. 
Admiring  those  (by  dainty  dames  abhorr'd) 
Gigaadc  gentlemen,  yet  had  a  touch 
Of  sentiment;  and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 
A  lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a  tear, 
And  yet  hot  made  a  middling  grenadier. 

56. 

Oh,  thou  <tetenima  causa"  of  all  "beUi !"  — 
Thou  gate  of  life  and  death !  —  thou  nondescript  I 
Whence  is  our  exit  and  our  entrance,  —  well  I 
May  pause  in  pondering  how  all  souls  are  dipt 
In  thy  perennial  fountain :  —  how  m^n  Jell,  I 
Know  not,  since  knowledge  saw  her  brandiet  stript 
Of  her  first  fruit ;  but  how  he  ftiUs  and  rises 
Since,  Thau  hast  settled  beyond  all  surmises. 

50. 

Soaieeall  thee  'the  worst  eause  of  war,"  but  I 
Maiatain  thou  art  the  h€$t :  for,  after  all, 
Prom  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we  go :  and  why 
To  get  at  thee  not  batter  down  a  wall,  - 
Or  watte  a  world?  Since  no  one  can  deny 
Thoo  dost  replenish  worlds  both  great  and  small : 
With,  or  without  thee,  all  things  at  a  stand 
Are^  or  would  be,  thou  sea  of  life's  dry  land ! 


67, 

Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 

Of  that  great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or  what 

Yon  please  (it  causes  all  tlie  things  which  be, 

So  you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or  that)  — 

Catherine,  I  say,  was  very  glad  to  see 

The  handsome  herald,  on  whose  plumage  sat 

Victory;  and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 

With  his  despatch,  forgot  to  break  the  seal. 

68. 

Then  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 

Forgetting  quite  the  woman  (which  composed 

At  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole)  she  tore 

The  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 

The  court,  that  watch'd  each  look  her  visage  wore, 

Until  a  royal  smile  at  length  disclosed 

Fair  weather  for  the  day.   Though  rather  spacious. 

Her  face  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  mouth  gracious. 

60. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys;  the  first 

Was  a  ta'en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o'er  her  aspect  burst. 

As  an  east'^indian  sunrise  on  the  main. 

These  quench'd  a  moment  her  ambition's  thirst  -^ 

So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer's  rain: 

In  vain!  —  As  fall  the  dews  on  quenchless  sands, 

Blood  only  aeryeB  to  wash  Ambition's  hands  I 

60l 

Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful ; 

She  smiled  at  mad  Suwarrow's  rhymes,  who  tlirew 

Into  a  Russian  couplet,  rather  dull, 

The  whole  gazette  of  thousands  whom  he  slew. 

Her  third  was  feminine  enough  to  annul 

The  shudder  which  runs  naturally  through 

Our  veins,  when  things  call'd  Sovereigns  think  if  best 

To  kill,  and  Generals  turn  it  into  jest 

The  two  first  feelings  ran  their  course  complete, 
And  lighted  first  her  eye  and  then  her  mouth  : 
The  whole  court  look'd  immediately  most  sweet, 
Like  flowers  well  water'd  after  a  long  drought: 
But  when  on  the  lieutenant  at  her  feet 
Her  Hajesty,  who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 
Almost  as  much  as  on  a  new  despatch, 
Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 


Tliough  somewhat  large,  exuberant,  and  truculent, 
When  wroik ;  while  ^/eaM^,  she  waaas  fine  a  figure 
As  those,  who  like  things  rosy,  ripe,  and  succulent, 
Would  wish  to  look  On,  while  they  are  In  vigour. 
She  could  repay  each  amatory  look  you  lent 
Witli  interest,  and  in  turn  was  wont  with  rigour 
To  exact  of  Cupid's  bills  the  ftill  amount 
At  sight,  nor  would  permit  you  to  discount 


248 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  II 


Witli  ber  the  latter,  though  at  times  oonvcnieiity 
Was  not  so  necessary ;  for  they  tell 
'  That  she  was  handsome,  and,  though  fierce,  /ooA'<f  lenient. 
And  always  nsed  her  favourites  too  well. 
If  onc(i  beyond  her  boudoir's  precincts  in  ye  went, 
Your  "fortune"  was  in  a  fair  way  "to  swell 
A  man,"  as  Giles  says;  for,  though  she  would  widow  all 
Nations,  she  liked  man  as  an  individual. 


/. 


64. 

What  a  strange  thing  is  man !  and  what  a  stranger 
s  woman !  What  a  whirlwind  is  her  head,  \yr 

And  what  a  whirlpool  full  of  depth  and  danger 
Is  all  the  rest  about  her !  Whether  wed. 
Or  widow,  maid  or  mother,  she  can  change  her 
Mind  like  the  wind;  whatever  she  has  said 
Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she'll  say  or  do ;  — 
The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new  \ 


05. 

Oh,  Catherine !  (for  of  all  interjections 
To  thee  both  oh  !  and  ah!  belong  of  right 
In  love  and  war)  how  odd  are  the  connexions 
Of  human  thoughts,  which  jostle  in  their  flight ! 
Just  now  ytmrs  were  cut  out  in  different  sections : 
Fint,  Ismail's  capture  caught  your  fancy  quite; 
Next,  of  new  knights,  the  fresh  and  glorious  batch; 
And,  thirdly,  he  who  brought  you  the  despatch! 

Shakspeare  talks  of  "the  herald  Mercury 

New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ;" 

And  some  such  visions  cross'd  her  Majesty, 

While  her  young  herald  knelt  before  her  still. 

'Tis  very  true  the  hill  seem'd  rather  high 

For  a  lieutenant  to  climb  up;  but  skill  [ing. 

Smoothed  even  theSimplon's  steep,  and,  by  God's  bless- 

With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  "heaven-kissing." 

67. 

Her  Magesty  look'd  down,  the  youth  look'd  up  — 
And  so  they  fell  in  love;  — •  she  with  his  face, 
His  grace,  his  God-knows- what:  for  Cupid's  cup 
With  the  first  draught  intoxicates  apace, 
A  quintessential  laudanum  or  "black  drop," 
Which  makes  one  drunk  at  once,  without  the  base 
Expedient  of  full  bumpers ;  for  the  eye 
In  love  drinks  all  life's  fountains  (save  tears)  dry. 

68. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love, 
Fell  into  that  no  less  imperious  passion, 
Self-love  —  which,  when  some  sort  of  thing  above 
Ourselves,  a  singer,  dancer,  much  in  fashion. 
Or  duchess,  princess,  empress,  "deigns  to  prove" 
('Tis  Pope's  phrase)  a  great  longing,  though  a  rash  one; 
For  one  especial  person  out  of  many. 
Makes  us  believe  ourselves  as  good  as  any. 


69. 

Besides,  he  was  of  that  delighted  age 
Which  makes  all  female  ages  equal  —  when 
We  don't  much  care  with  whom  we  may  engage, 
As  bold  as  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den. 
So  that  we  can  our  native  sun  assuage 
In  the  next  ocean,  which  may  flow  just  then. 
To  make  a  twilight  in  —  just  as  Sol's  heat  is 
Quench'd  in  the  lap  of  the  salt  sea,  or  Thetis. 

70. 

And  Catherine  (we  must  say  thus  much  for  Catherine) 
Though  bold  and  bloody,  was  the  kind  of  tiling 
Whose  temporary  passion  Was  quite  flattering. 
Because  each  lover  look'd  a  sort  of  king. 
Made  up  upon  an  amatory  pattern  — 
A  royal  husband  in  all  save  the  rtit^  — 
Which,  being  the  damn'dest  part  of  matrimony, 
Seem'd  taking  out  the  sting  to  leave  the  honey. 

71. 

And  when  you  add  to  this,  her  womanhood 
In  its  meridian,  her  blue  eyes,  or  gray  — 
(The  last,  if  they  have  soul,  are  quite  as  good. 
Or  better,  as  the  best  examples  say : 
Napoleon's,  Mary's  (Queen  of  Scotland)  should 
Lend  to  that  colour  a  transocndant  ray; 
And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue  — 
Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue)  — 

7a. 

Her  sweet  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  flgare. 
Her  plumpness,  her  imperial  condescension, 
Her  preference  of  a  boy  to  men  much  biggN* 
(Fellows  whom  Messalina's  self  wouJd  pension), 
Her  prime  of  life,  just  now  in  juicy  vigour. 
With  other  extnu,  which  we  need  not  mention,  — 
All  these,  or  any  one  of  these,  explain 
Enough  to  make  a  stripling  very  vain. 


\y 


73. 

And  that's  enough,  for  love  is  vanity* 

Selfish  in  its  beginning  as  its  end. 

Except  where  'tis  a  mere  insanity, 

A  maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  blend 

Itself  with  beauty's  frail  inanity, 

On  which  the  passion's  self  seems  to  depend : 

And  hence  some  heatiienish  philosophers 

Make  love  the  main-spring  of  the  universe. 

74. 

Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 
Of  God,  the  love  of  sentiment,  the  loving 
Of  faithful  pairs  —  (I  needs  must  rhyme  witli  dove. 
That  good  old  steam-boat  which  keeps  verses  movinip 
'Gainst  reason  — -  reason  ne'er  was  hand-and-glovc 
With  rhyme,  bat  always  leant  less  to  improving 
The  sound  than  sense)  —  besides  all  these  pretences 
To  love,  there  arc  those  things  which  words  nameseose^; 


CAKTO   IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


249 


7&, 

Those  morementfl,  those  improyements  lo  oar  Bodies, 

Which  make  al]  bodies  aDxious  to  get  dut 

Of  their  own  sand-pits  to  mix  with  a  goddess, 

For  sacii  all  women  are  at  first  no  doubt. 

How  beautiful  that  moment  I  and  how  odd  is 

That  fever  which  precedes  the  languid  rout 

Of  our  sensations !  What  a  curious  way 

The  whole  thing  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay ! 

7a 

The  noblest  kind  of  lore  is  love  Platonical,       y/^ 

To  end  or  to  begin  with ;  the  next  grand 

li  that  which  may  be  christen'd  love  canonical. 

Because  the  clergy  take  the  thing  in  hand; 

The  third  sort,  to  be  noted  in  our  chronicle 

As  flourishing  in  evefy  christian  land, 

Is,  when  chaste  matrons  to  their  other  tics 

Add  what  may  be  call'd  Marriage  in  disguise, 

77. 

Well,  we  won't  analyze  —  our  story  must 

Tell  for  itself:  the  Sovereign  was  smitten, 

Juan  much  flatter'd  by  her  love,  or  lust;  — 

I  cannot  stop  to  alter  words  once  written. 

And  the  two  are  so  mix'd  with  human  dust, 

That  he  who  names  one,  both  perchance  may  hit  on: 

But  in  such  matters  Russia's  miglity  empress 

Behaved  no  better  than  a  (tommon  sempstress. 

78. 

The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  wliisper, 
And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears; 
She  elder  ladies'  wrinkles  curl'd  much  crisper 
As  they  beheld;  the  younger  cast  some  leers 
On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  lisper 
Smiled  as  she  talk'd  the  matter  o'er;  but  tears 
Of  riTalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eve 
Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  by. 

79. 

An  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 
loquircd,  who  was  this  very  new  young  man, 
Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours? 
Which  is  full  soon  (though  life  is  but  a  span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 
Of  rubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can. 
Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
Of  several  ribbons  and  some  thousand  peasants. 


aa 

Catherine  was  generous,  —  all  such  ladies  are: 
Love,  that  great. opener  of  the  lieart  and  all 
The  ways  that  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far,^ 
Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small,  — 
Love  —  (though  she  had  a  cursed  taste  for  war. 
And  was  not  the  best  wife,  unless  we  call 
Such  Clytemiiestra;  though  perhaps  'tis  better 
That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter)  — 

81. 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover's  fortune. 

Unlike  our  own  half-cliaste  Elizabeth, 

Whose  avarice  all  disbursements  did  importune. 

If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith 

The  truth ;  and  though  grief  her  old  age  might  shorten, 

Because  she  put  a  favourite  to  death. 

Her  vile,  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation, 

And  stinginess,  disgrace  her  sex  and  station. 

82. 

But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 
In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations' 
Ambassadors  began  as  'twere  to  hustle 
Round  the  young  man  with  their  congratulations. 
Also  the  softer  silks  were  heard  to  rustle 
Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 
It  is  to  speculate  on  handsome  faces. 
Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

83. 

l^uan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 
A  general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 
As  if  born  for  the  ministerial  trade. 
Though  modest,  on  his  unembarrass'd  brow 
Nature  had  written  "gentleman."  He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose;  and  his  manner 
Flung  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 

84. 

An  order  from  her  Majesty  consign'd 
Our  young  lieutenant  to  the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  oflice :  all  the  world  look'd  kind 
(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  the  first  stare. 
Which  youth  would  not  act  ill  to  keep  in  mind). 
As  also  did  Miss  Protasoff  then  there, 
Named,  from  her  mystic  office,  "rBprouveuse," 
A  term  incxplioablc  to  the  Muse. 


85. 

With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 
Juan  retired,  —  and  so  will  J,  until 
My  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 
We  have  just  lit  on  a  "heaven-kissing  hill," 
So  lofty  that  I  feel  my  brain  turn  round. 
And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill; 
Which  Is  a  signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain. 
To  take  a  quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


16* 


250 


DON  JUAN. 


OAMTO  X 


CANTO     X. 


1. 

When  Newton  saw  an  apple  fkl],  he  found 
In  that  slig^ht  startle  from  his  contemplation  — 
'Tis  said  (for  Til  not  answer  above  ground 
For  any  sage's  creed  or  calculation)  — 
A  mode  of  proving  that  the  earth  turned  round 
In  a  most  natural  whirl,  call'd  ''Gravitation ;'' 
And  this  b  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple, 
Since  Adam,  with  a  fall,  or  with  an  apple. 


Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose. 
If  this  be  true;  for  we  must  deem  the  mode 
In  which  Sir  Isaap  Newton  could  disclose, 
Through  the  then  unpaved.stars,  the  turnpike-road, 
A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes; 
For,  ever  since,  immortal  man  hath  glow'd 
With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 
Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 


And  wherefore?  this  exordium?  —  Why,  j^st  now 

In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 

My  bosom  underwent  a  glorious  glow. 

And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a  caper : 

And  thopgh  so  much  inferior,  as  I  know. 

To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass  and  vapour, 

Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind's  eye, 

I  wish  to  do  as  ^luch  by  poesy. 


In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  sail'd,  and  sail;  but  for 

The  stars,  I  own  my  telescope  is  dim ; 

But  at  the  least  I  have  shunn'd  the  common  shore, 

And,  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 

The  ocean  of  eternity,  the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim. 

But  still  sea-worthy  skiff;  ^nd  she  may  float 

Where  ships  have  founder'd,  as  doth  many  a  boat. 


We  left  our  hero,  Juan,  in  the  bloom 
Of  favouritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush ;  — 
And  far  be  it  from  my  Muses  to  presume 
(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a  push) 
To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room : 
It  is  enough  that  fortune  found  him  flush 
Of  youth,  and  vigour,  beauty,  and  those  things 
Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 


But  soon  they  grow  again  and  leave  their  nest 

«0h ! "  saith  the  Psalmist,  ''that  1  had  a  dove's 

Pinions,  to  flee  away  and  be  at  rest!" 

And  who,  that  recollects  young  years  and  lovea,  — 

Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a  withering  breast. 

And  palsied  fancy,  which  no  longe^roves 

Beyond  its  dimm'd  eye's  sphere,  —  but  would  mudti  rather 

Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather? 

7. 

But  sighs  subside,  and  tears  (even  widows')  shrink. 
Like  Arno,  in  the  summer,  to  a  shallow, 
So  narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink, 
Which  thr(:atens  inundations  deep  and  yellow ! 
Such  difference  do  a  few  months  make.  You'd  thine' 
Grief  a  rich  field  which  never  would  lie  fallow ; 
No  more  it  doth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys. 
Who  furrow  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 


But  coughs  will  come  when  sighs  depart  •—  and  now 
And  then  before  sighs  cease;  for  oft  the  one 
Will  bring  the  other,  ere  the  lake-like  brow 
Is  ruffled  by  a  wrinkle,  or  the  sun 
Of  life  reach'd  ten  o'clock :  and,  while  a  glow^ 
Hectic  and  brief  as  summer's  day  nigh  done, 
O'erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  toapurc  for  clay. 
Thousands  blaze,  lo^,  hope,  die  —  how  happy  they !  — 


But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so  soon. 

We  left  him  in  the  focus  of  such  glory 

As  may  be  won  by  favour  of  the  moon 

Or  ladies'  fancies  —  rather  transitory 

Perhaps;  but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  Junp, —  ' 

Because  December,  with  his  breath  so  hoary. 

Must  come?  Much  rather  should  he  court  the  ray. 

To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a  wintry  day. 

10. 

Besides,  he  had  some  qualities  which  fix 

Middle-aged  ladies  even  more  than  young : 

The  former  know  what's  what;  while  new-fledged  chicks 

Know  little  more  of  love  than  what  is  sung 

In  rhymes,  or  dream'd  (for  &ncy  will  play  tricks) 

In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  love  spmog. 

Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years  —  \    / 

I  rather  think  the  moon  should  date  the  dears. 


CANTO  X- 


DON  JUAN. 


251 


11. 

A.Dd  why?  becaose  she's  changeable  and  chaste, 
I  know  no  other  reason,  whatsoe'er 
SnspicioiM  people,  who  find  (halt  in  haste, 
tfaj  choose  to  tax  me  with;  which  is  not  fair, 
Nor  flattering^  to  **their  temper  or  their  taste," 
As  mj  friend  Jeffrey  writes  with  sach  an  air: 
HoweTcr,  I  forgive  him,  and  I  tmst 
He  will  forgive  himself;  —  if  not,  I  must 

12. 

Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 
Should  so  continue  —  'tis  a  point  of  faonow ; 
And  I  know  nothing  which  conld  make  amends 
For  a  return  to  hatred :  I  would  shan  ber 
Uke  garlick,  howsoever  she  extends 
Her  hundred  arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 
Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes  — 
Converted  foes  should  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

13. 

This  were  the  worst  desertion:  renegadoes. 
Even  shuffling  Southey  ^  that  incarnate  lie  — 
Would  scarcely  join  again  the  **reformadoes," 
Wliom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  Laureate's  sty: 
And  honest  men,  from  Iceland  to  Barbadoes, 
Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 
Should  not  veer  round  with  every  breath,  nor  seize. 
To  pain,  the  moment  when  yon  c6ase  to  please. 

14. 

The  lawyer  and  the  critic  but  behold 
The  baser  sides  of  literature  and  life. 
And  nought  remains  unseen,  but  much  untold. 
By  tliosc  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
While  common  men  grow  ignorantly  old,  i/^ 

Tiic  lawyer's  brief  is  like  the  surgeon's  knife, 
Dissecting  the  whole  inside  of  a  question. 
And  with  it  all  the  process  of  digestion. 

16. 

A  legal  broom's  a  moral  chimney-sweeper. 
And  that's  the  reason  he  himsclfs  so  dirty ; 
The  endless  soot  bestows  a  tint  fer  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt;  he 
Bclains  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper  — 
At  least  some  twenty-nine  do  out  of  thirty, 
In  all  their  habits :  —  Not  so  you,  I  own ; 
Aj  Caesar  wore  his  robe  you  wear  your  gown. 

16. 

And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all  miyu;, 
Dear  Jeffrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe 
(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 
To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below), 
Are  over.  Here's  a  health  to  "A old  Lang  Syne!'* 
I  do  not  know  you,  and  may  never  know 
Toor  fyijccj  —  but  you  have  acted  on  tlie  whole 
Most  nobly,  and  I  own  it  from  my  sonl. 


17. 

And  when  I  use  the  phrase  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne  !'* 

'Tis  not  address'd  to  you  —  the  more's  the  pity 

For  me,  for  I  would  rather  take  my  wine 

With  you,  than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  your  proud  city.. 

But  somehow,  —  it  may  seem  a  schoolboy's  whine, 

And  yet  I  seek  not  to  be  grand  nor  witty. 

But  I  am  half  a  Scot  by  birth,  and  bred 

A  whole  one,  and  my  heart  flies  to  my  head :  — 

18. 

As  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  brings  Scotland,  one  and  all, 
Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods ,  the  blue  hills,  and  clear 
The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balgonnie's  Brig's  black  wall,  [streams, 
All  my  boy-feelings,  all  my  gentler  dreams- 
Of  what  I  then  dreamt,  clothed  in  their  own  pall. 
Like  Banquo's  offspring;  —  floating  past  me  seems 
My  childhood  in  this  childishness  of  mine: 
I  care  not  —■  'tis  a  glimpse  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne.*' 

10. 

And  though,  as  you  remember,  in  a  fit 

Of  wrath  and  rhyme,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 

I  rail'd  at  Scots  to  show  my  wrath  and  wit. 

Which  must  be  own'd  was  sensitive  and  snrly. 

Yet,  'tis  in  vain  such  sallies  to  permit  — 

They  cannot  quench  young  feelings  fresh  and  early : 

I  "scot^yd,  not  kill'd,"  the  Scotchman  in  my  blood, 

And  love  the  land  of  "mountain  and  of  flood." 

30. 

Don  Juan,  who  was  real  or  ideal,  — 

For  both  are  much  the  same,  since  what  men  think 

Exists  when  the  once  thinkers  are  less  real 

Than  what  they  thought,  for  mind  can  never  sink. 

And  'gainst  the  body  makes  a  strong  appeal ;        -^^^ 

And  yet  'tis  very  puzzling  on  the  brink 

Of  w  hat  is  caird  Eternity,  to  stare,      ^    ^ 

And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here,  than  there :  — 

21. 

Don  Juan  grew  a  very  polish'd  Russian  — 
How,  we  won't  mention,  why,  we  need  not  say: 
Pew  youthful  minds  can  stand  the  strong  concussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way; 
But  his  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a  cushion 
Smoothed  for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honour:  gay 
Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 
Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

22. 

The  favour  of  the  Empress  was  agreeable; 
And,  though  the  duty  wax'd  a  little  hard. 
Young  people  at  his  time  of  life  should  be  able 
To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 
He  now  was  growing  up  like  a  green  tree,  able 
For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  age's  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 


252 


DON  JUAK. 


CANTO  X 


23. 

Aboat  this  time,  as  might  have  been  anticipated, 
Sedaccd  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 
Don  Juan  grew,  I  fear,  a  little  dissipated ; 
Which  is  a  sad  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 
On  our  fresh  feelings,  but  —  as  being  participated 
With  all  kinds  of  incorrigible  samples 
Of  frail  humanity  —  must  make  us  selfish, 
And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a  shell-fish. 

24. 

This  we  pass  over.  We  will  also  pass 

The  usual  progress  of  intrigues  between 

Unequal  matches,  such  as  are,  alas.! 

A  young  lieutenant's  with  a  not  old  queen. 

But  one  who  is  not  so  youthful  as  s^e  was 

In  all  the  royalty  of  sweet  seventeen. 

Sovereigns  may  sway  materials,  but  not  matter. 

And  wrinkles  (the  damn'd  democrats)  won't  flatter; 

26. 

And  Death,  the  sovereigns'  sovereign,  though  the  great 
Gracchus  of  all  mortality,  who  levels  ^ 

With  his  agrarian  laws  the  high  estate        ^^ 
Of  him  who  feasts,  and  fights,  and  roars,  and  revels, 
To  one  small  grass-grown  patch  (which  must  await 
Corruption  for  its  crop)  with  the  poor  devils 
Who  never  had  a  f6ot  of  land  till  now,  — 
Death's  a  reformer,  all  men  must  allow. 

96. 

He  lived  (not  Death,  bat  Juan)  in  a  hurry 
Of  waste,  and  haste,  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glitter, 
rn  this  gay  clime  of  bear-skins  black  and  fiirry  — - 
Which  (though  I  hate -to  say  a  thing  that's  bitter) 
Peep  out  sometimes,  when  things  are  in  a  flurry. 
Through  all  the  ''purple  and  fine  linen,"  fitter 
For  Babylon's  than  Russia's  royal  harlot  — 
And  neutralize  her  outward  show  of  scarlet. 

27. 

And  this  same  state  we  won't  describe:  we  could 

Perhaps  from  hearsay,  or  from  recollection ; 

But  getting  nigh  grim  Dante's  "obscure  wood," 

That  horrid  equinox,  that  hateful  section 

Of  human  years,  that  half-way  house,  that  rude 

Hut,  whence  wise  travellers  drive  with  eireumspeetion 

Life's  sad  post-horses  o'er  the  dreary  frontier 

Of  age,  and,  looking  back  to  youth,  give  one  tear;  — 

^* 
I  won't  describe  —  that  is,  if  I  can  help 
Description;  and  I  won't  reflect  —  that  is, 
If  I  can  stave  off  thought,  which  —  as  a  whelp 
Clings  to  its  teat  —  sticks  to  me  through  the  abyss 
Of  this  odd  labyrinth ;  or  as  the  kelp 
Holds  by  the  rock ;  or  as  a  lover's  kiss 
Drains  its  first  draught  of  lips :  —  but,  as  I  said, 
I  won't  philosophise,  and  wUl  be  read. 


89. 

Juan,  instead  of  courting  courts,  was  courted, 
A  thing  which  happens  rarely:  this  he  owed 
Much  to  his  youth,  and  much  to  his  reported 
Valour ;  much  also  to  the  blood  he  aho  w'd. 
Like  a  race-horse;  much  to  each  dress  he  sport<>d. 
Which  set  the  beauty  off  in  which  he  glow'd, 
As  purple  clouds  befringe  the  sun ;  but  most 
He  owed  to  an  old  woman  and  his  post 

30. 

He  wrote  to  Spain:  —  and  all  his  near  relations. 
Perceiving  he  was  in  a  handsome  way 
Of  getting  on  himself,  and  finding  stations 
For  cousins  also,  answer'd  the  same  day. 
Sovernl  prepared  themselves  for  emigrations. 
And,  eating  ices,  were  o'erheard  to  say. 
That  with  the  addition  ofa  slight  pelisse, 
Madrid's  and  Moscow's  climes  were  of  a-piccc 

31. 

His  mother.  Donna  Inez,  finding  too  - 

That  in  the  lieu  of  drawing  on  his  banker, 

Where  his  assets  were  waxing  rather  few. 

He  had  brought  his  spending  to  a  handsome  anchor,  - 

Replied:  that  she  was  glad  to  see  him  through 

Those  pleasures  after  which  wild  youth  wUl  hauker; 

As  the  sole  sign  of  man's  being  in  his  senses 

Is,  learning  to  reduce  his  past  expenses. 

82. 

She  also  reoommendcd  him  to  God, 
And  no  less  to  God's  Son,  as  well  as  Mother, 
Warn'd  him  against  Greek  worship,  which  looks  odd 
In  Catholic  eyes;  but  told  him  too  to  smother 
Outward  dislike,  which  don't  look  well  abroad : 
Informed  him  that  he  had  a  little  brother 
Born  in  a  second  wedlock ;  and  above 
All,  praised  the  Empress's  maf^nui/love. 

33. 

She  could  not  too  much  give  her  approbation 
Unto  an  Empress,  who  prcferr'd  young  men 
Whose  age,  and,  what  was  better  still,  whose  nation 
And  climate,  stopp'd all  scandal  (now  and  then):  — 
At  home  it  might  have  given  her  some  vexation ; 
But  where  thermometers  sunk  down  to  ten. 
Or  five,  or  one,  or  zero,  she  could  never 
BelioTC  that  virtue  thaw'd  before  the  river. 

34. 

Oh  for  9ifort^par9on-power  to  chaunt 
Thy  praise.  Hypocrisy !  Oh  for  a  hymn    l^ 
Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt. 
Not  practise !  Oh  for  trumps  of  cherubim ! 
Or  the  ear-trumpet  of  my  good  old  aunt. 
Who,  though  her  spectacles  at  last  grew  dim. 
Drew  quiet  consolation  through  its  hint. 
When  she  no  more  could  read  the  pious  print. 


CANTO  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


253 


36. 

She  was  no  hypocrite^  at  least,  poor  soul ! 
Bat  went  to  beavea  in  as  sincere  a  way 
As  any  body  on  the  elected  roll. 
Which  portions  out  upon  the  jadgmcnt-day 
Hearen's  freeholds,  in  a  sort  of  doomsday-scroll, 
Soch  as  the  conqueror  William  did  repay 
His  knights  with,  lotting  others'  properties 
Into  some  sixty  thousand  new  knights'  fees. 

36. 

I  can't  complain,  whose  ancestors  are  there, 
Bmcis,  Radulphus  —  eight-and-forty  manors 
(If  that  my  memory  doth  not  greatly  err) 
Were  their  reward  for  following  Billy's  banners; 
And,  though  I  can't  help  thinking  'twas  scarce  fair 
To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydet,  like  tanners, 
Tet  as  they  founded  churches  with  the  produce. 
You'll  deem,  no  doubt,  they  put  it  to  a  good  use. 

37. 

The  gentle  Juan  flourished,  though  at  times 

He  felt  like  other  plants  —  calFd  sensitiyc. 

Which  shrink  from  touch,  as  monarchs  do  from  rhymes, 

Save  such  as  Southcy  can  afford  to  gi?e. 

Perhaps  he  long*d,  in  bitter  frosts,  for  climes 

In  which  the  Neva's  ice  would  cease  to  live 

Before  Mayday :  perhaps,  despite  his  doty, 

lo  royalty's  vast  arms  he  sigh'd  for  beauty : 

38. 

Perhaps,  —  but,  tant  perhaps,  we  need  not  seek 

For  causes  young  or  old:  the  canker-worm 

Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  check. 

As  well  as  further  drain  the  wither'd  form :  y^ 

Care,  like  a  house-keeper,  brings  every  week     v 

His  bills  in,  and,  however  we  may  storm. 

They  must  be  paid;  though  six  days  smoothly  run, 

The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a  dun. 

39. 

I  don*t  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick: 

The  Empress  was  alarm'd,  and  her  pliysician 

(The  same  who  physick'd  Peter)  found  the  tick 

Of  his  fierce  pulse  betoken  a  condition 

Which  augur'd  of  the  dead,  however  quick  ^ 

Itself,  and  show'd  a  feverisfi  disposition ; 

At  which  the  whole  court  was  extremely  troubled. 

The  Sovereign  shock'd,  and  all  his  medicines  doubled. 

40. 

Low  were  the  whispers,  manifold  the  rumours: 
Some  said  he  had  been  poison'd  by  Potemkin; 
Othets  talk'd  learnedly  of  certain  tumours. 
Exhaustion,  or  disorders  of  the  same  kin ; 
Some  said  'twas  a  concoction  of  the  humours, 
Which  with  the  blood  too  readily  will  claim  kin ; 
Others  again  were  ready  to  maintain, 
Twas  only  the  fatigue  of  last  campaign. 


41. 

But  here  is  one  prescription  out  of  many : 

''Sodse-Sulphat.  3.  vi.  3.  s.  Ililaiinas  optim. 

Aq.  fervent  F.  3.  iss.  3^.  tinct  Sennas 

Haustus."  (And  here  the  surgeon  came  and  cnpp'd  him) 

'*R.  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iii.  Ipecacuanhae." 

(With  more  beside  if  Juan  had  not  stopp'd  'em) 

"Bolus  Potassae  sulphuret  sumendus, 

£t  haustus  ter  in  die  oaplendus." 

40. 

This  is  the  way  physicians  mend  or  end  us,    . 
Secundum  artcm :  but  although  we  sneer 
In  health  —  when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  as. 
Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer: 
While  that  "hiatus  maxime  deflendns," 
To  be  fiird  up  by  spade  or  mattock,  's  near. 
Instead  of  gliding  graciously  down  Lethe, 
We  tease  mild  Baillie,  or  soft  Abernethy. 

43. 

Juan  dcmurr'd  at  this  first  notice  to 
Quit ;  and,  though  death  had  threaten'd  an  ejection. 
His  youth  and  constitution  bore  him  through. 
And  sent  the  doctors  in  a  new  direction. 
But  still  his  state  was  delicate :  the  hue 
Of  health  but  flickered  with  a  foint  reflection 
Along  his  wasted  check,  and  seem'd  to  gravel 
The  faculty  -*  who  said  that  he  must  tfavcK 

44. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him, 
Meridian-born,  to  bloom  in.    This  opinion 
Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a  little  grim, 
Who  did  not  like  at  first  to  lose  her  minion : 
But  when  she  saw  his  dazzling  eye  wax  dim. 
And  drooping  like  an  eaglc*s  with  dipt  pinion. 
She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  mission, 
But  in  a  style  becoming  his  condition. 

There  was  just  then  a  kind  of  a  discussion, 

A  sort  of  treaty  or  negociation 

Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintain'd  with  all  the  due  prevarication 

With  which  great  states  such  things  arc  apt  to  push  on ; 

Something  about  the  Baltic's  navigation. 

Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis, 

Which  Britons  deem  their  "uti  possidetis." 

46. 

So  Catherine,  who  had  a  handsome  way 

Of  fitting  out  her  ihvourites,  conferr'd 

This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 

At  once  her  royal  splendour,  and  reward 

His  services.   He  kiss'd  hands  the  next  day. 

Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card, 

Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honours. 

Which  show'd  what  great  discernment  was  the  donor's. 


254 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  X 


47. 

But  she  was  lacky,  and  lock's  all.   Yoar  Qaeens 
Are  generally  prosperous  in  reigning; 
Which  puzzles  us  to  know  what  Fortune  means. 
But  to  continue :  though  her  years  were  waning, 
Her  climacteric  teased  her  like  her  teens ; 
And  though  her  dignity  brook'd  no  complaining, 
So  much  did  Juan's  setting  off  distress  her. 
She  could  not  find  at  first  a  fit  successor. 

48. 

But  Time,  tlie  comforter,  will  come  at  last; 

And  four-and-twcnty  hours,  and  twice  that  number 

Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placed, 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  night  a  quiet  slumber :  — 

Not  that  she  meant  to  ^x  again  in  haste, 

Nor  did  she  find  the  quantity  encumber, 

But,  always  choosing  with  deliberation, 

Kept  the  place  open  for  their  emulation. 

49. 

While  this  high  post  of  honour's  in  abeyance, 
For  one  or  two  days,  reader,  we  request 
You'll  mount  with  our  young  hero  the  conveyance 
Which  wafted  him  from  Pctcrsburgh :  the  best 
Barouche,  which  had  the  glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  Czarina's  autocratic  crest 
(When,  a  new  Iphigene,  she  went  to  Tauris), 
Was  given  to  heriavourite,  and  now  bore  his, 

60. 

A  bull-dog,  and  a  bnll-finch,  and  an  ermine, 

All  private  favourites  of  Don  Juan ;  for 

(Let  deeper  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 

He  had  a  kind  of  inclination,  or 

Weakness,  for  wliat  most  people  deem  mere  vermin  — 

Live  animals :  — -  an  old  maid  of  threescore 

For  cats  and  birds  more  penchant  ne'er  display 'd, 

Although  he  was  not  old,  nor  even  a  maid. 

61. 

The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 

Their  station:  there  were  valets,  secretaries. 

In  other  vehicles ;  but  at  his  side 

Sat  little  Leila,  who  survived  the  parries 

He  made  'gainst  Cossack  sabres,  in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.   Though  my  wild  Muse  varies 

Her  note,  she  don't  forget  the  infant  girl 

Whom  he  preserved,  a  pure  and  living  pearl. 

62. 

Poor  little  thing !   She  was  as  fair  as  docile, 

And  with  that  gentle,  serious  character 

As  rare  in  living  beings  as  a  fossilc 

Man,  'midst  thy  mouldy  mammoths,  grand  Cuvier ! 

Ill  fitted  with  her  ignorance  to  jostle 

With  this  o'erwiielming  world,  where  all  must  err : 

But  she  was  yet  but  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 

Was  tranquil,  though  she  knew  not  why  or  wherefore. 


63. 

Don  Juan  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him,  as 

Nor  brother,  father,  sister,  daughter  love. 

I  cannot  tell  exactly  what  it  was; 

He  was  not  yet  quite  old  enough  to  prove 

Parental  feelings,  and  the  other  class, 

Caird  brotherly  affection,  could  not  move 

His  bosom  —  for  he  never  had  a  sister: 

Ah !  if  he  had,  how  much  he  would  have  miss'd  her. 

64. 

And  still  less  was  it  sensual ;  for  besides 

That  he  was  not  an  ancient  debauchee 

(Who  like  sour  fruit,  to  stir  their  veins'  salt  tides. 

As  acids  rouse  a  dormant  alkali), 

Although  (^twill  happen  as  our  planet  guides) 

His  youth  was  not  the  chastest  that  might  be. 

There  was  the  purest  Platonism  at  bottom 

Of  all  his  feelings  —  only  he  forgot  'cm. 

66. 

Just  now  there  was  no  peril  of  temptation; 

He  loved  the  infiamt  orphan  he  had  saved, 

As  patriots  (now  and  then)  may  love  a  nation; 

His  pride  too  felt  that  she  was  not  enslaved. 

Owing  to  him ;  —  as  also  her  salvation. 

Through  his  means  and  the  church's,  might  be  paved. 

But  one  thing's  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted  — 

The  little  Turk  refused  to  be  converted. 

66. 

'Twas  strange  enough  she  should  retain  the  impression 
Through  such  a  scene  of  change,  and  dread,  and  slaughter 
But,  though  three  bishops  told  her  the  transgression. 
She  show'd  a  great  dislike  to  holy  water: 
She  also  had  no  passion  for  confession ; 
Perhaps  she  had  nothing  to  confess :  —  no  matter; 
Whate'er  the  cause,  the  church  made  little  of  it  - 
She  still  held  out  that  Mahomet  was  a  prophet 

67. 

In  fact,  the  only  Christian  she  could  bear 
Was  Juan,  whom  she  seera'd  to  have  selected 
In  place  of  what  her  home  and  friends  once  were. 
He  naturally  loved  what  he  protected; 
And  thus  they  form'd  a  rather  curious  pair : 
A  guardian  green  in  years,  a  ward  connected 
In  neither  clime,  time,  blood,  with  her  defender; 
And  yet  this  want  of  ties  made  theirs  more  tender. 

68. 

They  joumey'd  on  through  Poland  and  through  Warsaw. 
Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron : 
Through  Curland  also,  which  that  famous  farce  saw 
Which  gave  hcr«dukcs  the  graceless  name  of  "Biron.'* 
'Tis  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern  Mars  saw. 
Who  march'd  to  Moscow,  led  by  Fame,  the  syren! 
To  lose,  by  one  month's  frost,  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 


CANTO  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


255 


ft9. 

Let  not  this  seem  an  anti-climax:  —  '<Oh ! 

Hy  giuurd !  my  old  guard !"  exclaim'd  that  God  of  clay.- 

Think  of  the  thunderer's  foiling  down  below 

Carotid-artery-catting  Castlereagh !  ~ 

Alas !  that  glory  should  be  chill'd  by  snow ! 

But  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 

Through  Poland,  there  is  Kosdusko's  name 

Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like  Hecla's  flame. 

do. 

From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia  proper. 

And  Koenigsbcrg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt. 

Besides  some  reins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper. 

Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant. 

Juan,  who  cared  not  a  tobacco-stopper 

Aboat  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 

To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions 

Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  postiUioDS. 

61. 

And  tlicnoe  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the  like, 
Until  be  rcach'd  the  castellated  Rhine:  — 
Tc  glorious  Gothic  scenes !  how  much  ye  strike 
All  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine : 
A  gray  wall,  a  green  ruin,  rusty  pike, 
Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Between  the  present  and  past  worlds,  and  hover 
Upon  their  airy  eonfinc,  half-seas-over. 

62. 

Bat  Juan  posted  on  through  Manheim,  Bonn, 
Which  Drachenfels  frowns  over,  like  a  spectre 
Of  the  good  feudal  times  for  ever  gone. 
On  which  I  have  not  time  just  now  to  lecture. 
From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  to  Cologne. 
A  city  which  presents tothc  inspector 
Bleven  thousand  maidenheads  of  bone. 
The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  known. 

03. 

From  tlieDoe  to  Holland'.<t  Hague  and  Hclvoet^lnys^ 
That  water-land  of  Dutchmen  and  of  ditches. 
Where  juniper  expresses  its  best  juice  — 
The  poor  man's  sparkling  substitute  for  riches. 
Senhtes  and  sages  have  condemned  its  use  — 
Bat  to  deny  the  mob  a  cordial  which  is 
Too  often  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel 
Good  government  has  left  them,  seems  but  cruel 

64. 

Here  he  onbark'd,  and,  with  a  flowing  sail. 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  free, 
Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half  a  gale; 
Higli  dash*d  the  spray,  the  bows  dipp'd  in  the  sea, 
And  sea-sick  passengers  turn'd  somewhat  pale: 
Bat  Juan»  seasoned,  as  he  well  might  be 
By  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skiffs 
Which  pass'd,  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  difls. 


65. 

At  length  they  rose,  like  a  white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea's  border;  and  Don  Juan  felt  ~ 
What  even  young  strangers  feel  a  little  strong 
At  the  first  sight  of  Albion's  chalky  belt  — 
A  kind  of  pride  that  he  should  be  among 
Those  haughty  shop-keepers,  who  sternly  dealt 
Their  goods  and  edicts  out  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  made  the  very  bUlows  pay  them  toll. 

66. 

I  have  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth, 
Which  holds  what  might  have  been  the  noblest  nation : 
But,  though  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mix'd  regret  and  veneration 
For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 
Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transportation) 
Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level, 
When  a  man's  country's  going  to  the  devil. 

67. 

Alas!  could  she  but  folly,  truly,  know 
How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr'd; 
How  eager  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 
Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword; 
How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe. 
That  worse  than  worst  of  foes  —  the  once  adored 
False  friend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  mankind, 
\ lid  now  would  chain  them,  to  the  very  mind;  — 

66. 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free, 
Who  is  but  first  of  slaves?  The  nations  are 
In  prison ;  but  the  jailor,  what  is  he? 
No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 
Is  the  poor  privilege,  to  turn  the  key 
Upon  the  captive,  freedom?  He's  as  far 
From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 
Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 

6a 

Don  Juan  now  saw  Albion's  earliest  beauties, 
Thy  cliffs,  dear  Dover!  harbour,  and  hotel; 
Thy  custom-house,  with  all  its  delicate  duties; 
Thy  waiters  running  mucks  at  every  bell; 
Thy  packets,  all  whose  passengers  arc  booties 
To  tiiosc  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell; 
And  last,  not  least  to  strangers  uninstructed, 
Thy  long, long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  deducted. 

70. 

Juan,  though  careless,  young,  and  magnifiqne. 
And  rich  in  rubles,  diamonds,  cash,  and  credit, 
Who  did  not  limit  much  his  bills  per  week, 
Yet  stared  at  this  a  little,  though  he  paid  it  — 
(His  maggior-duomo,  a  smart,  subtle  Greek, 
Before  him  summ'd  the  awful  scroll  and  read  it;) 
But  doubtless  as  the  air,  though  seldom  sonny; 
Is  free,  the  respiration's  worth  the  monev. 


256 


DON  JUAN 


CAMt)  I 


71. 

On  with  the  horses !  Off  to  Canterbury !  [paddle ; 

Tramp,  tramp,  o'er  pebble,  and  splash,  splash,  through 

Hurrah !  how  swiftly  speeds  the  post  so  merry! 

Not  like  slow  Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 

Along  the  road,  as  if  they  went  to  bury 

Their  feu-e ;  and  also  pause,  besides,  to  fuddle 

With  "schnapps"  —  sad  dogs!  whom  **Hundsfot"  or 

Afifect  no  more  than  lightning  a  conductor.  ["Verflacter" 


72. 

Now,  there  is  nothing  gives  a  man  such  spirits. 

Leavening  his  blood  as  Cayenne  doth  a  curry, 

As  going  at  full  speed  —  no  matter  where  its 

Direction  be,  so  'tis  but  in  a  hurry. 

And  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  own  merits : 

For  the  less  ciEiuse  there  is  for  all  this  flurry, 

The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving 

At  the  great  end  of  travel  —  which  is  driving. 

73. 

They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  Cathedral; 
Black  Edward's  helm,  and  Becket's  bloody  stone. 
Were  pointed  out  as  usual  by  the  bedral, 
In  the  same  quaint,  uninterested  tone :  — 
There's  glory  again  for  you,  gentle  reader !  All 
Ends  in  a  rusty  casque  ilnd  dubious  bone. 
Half-solved  into  those  sodas  or  magnesias, 
Which  form  that  bitter  draught,  the  human  species. 

74. 

The  effect  on  Juan  was  of  course  sublime: 

He  breathed  a  thousand  Cressys,  as  he  saw 

That  casque,  which  never  stoop 'd,  except  to  Time* 

Even  the  bold  Churchman's  tomb  excited  awe, 

Who  died  in  the  then  great  attempt  to  climb 

O'er  kings,  who  note  at  least  must  talk  of  law, 

Before  they  butclier.  Little  Leila  gazed. 

And  ask'd  why  such  a  structure  had  been  raised: 

76. 

And  being  told  it  was  "God's  house/'  she  said 
He  was  well  lodged,  but  only  wondcr'd  how 
He  suffer'd  infidels  in  his  homestead, 
The  cruel  Nazarenes,  who  had  laid  low 
His  holy  temples  in  the  lands  which  bred 
The  true  believers;  —  and  her  infant  brow 
Was  bent  with  grief  that  M!ahomet  should  resign 
A  mosque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine. 

76. 

On,  on !  through  meadows,  managed  like  a  garden, 
A  paradise  of  hops  and  high  production; 
For,  after  years  of  travel  by  a  bard  in 
Countries  of  greater  heat  but  lesser  suction, 
A  green  field  is  a  sight  which  makes  him  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction, 
Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices, 
Glaciers,  volcanos,  oranges,  and  ices. 


y 


77. 

And  when  I  think  upon  a  pot  of  beer  — 

But  I  won't  weep!  —  and  so,  drive  on.  postiilions! 

As  the  smart  boys  spurr'd  fast  in  their  career, 

Juan  admired  these  highways  of  free  millions; 

A  country  in  all  senses  tlie  most  dear 

To  foreigner  or  native,  save  some  silly  ones. 

Who  "kick  against  the  pricks"  just  at  thi»  janctnre, 

And  for  their  pains  get  only  a  fresh  puncture. 

78. 

What  a  delightful  thing's  a  turnpike-road ! 
So  smooth,  so  level,  such  a  mode  of  shaving 
The  earth,  as  scarce  the  eagle  in  the  broad 
Air  can  accomplish,  with  his  wide  wings  waving. 
Had  such  been  cut  in  Phaeton's  time,  the  God 
Had  told  his  son  to  satisfy  his  craving 
With  the  York  mail ;  —  but,  onward  as  wc  roll, 
''Surgit  amari  aliqoid"  —  the  toll ! 

79. 

Alas!  how  deeply  painful  is  all  payment ! 

Take  lives,  take  wives,  take  aught  except  men's  purser 

As  M^chiavel  shows  those  in  purple  raiment. 

Such  is  the  shortest  way  to  general  curses. 

They  hate  a  murderer  much  less  than  a  claunant 

On  that  sweet  ore  which  every  body  nurses ; 

Kill  a  man's  family,  and  he  may  brook  it  — 

But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches'  pocket. 

80. 

So  said  the  Florentine :  ye  monarchs,  hearken 
To  your  instructor !  Juan  now  was  borne. 
Just  as  the  day  began  to  wane  and  darken, 
O'er  the  high  hill  which  looks  with  pride  or  scorn 
Toward  the  great  city :  —  ye  who  have  a  spark  in 
Your  veins  of  Cockney-spirit,  smile  or  mourn. 
According  as  you  take  things  well  or  ill  — 
Bold  Britons,  we  are  now  on  Shooter's  Hill ! 

81. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose  up,  as  from 
A  half-unquench'd  volcano,  o'er  a  space 
Which  well  beseem'd  the  "Devil's  drawing-room," 
As  some  have  qualified  that  wondrous  place. 
But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home. 
As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race^ 
Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother. 
Who  butcher'd  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  t'other. 

82. 

A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping. 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 

Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 

Of  masts ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe,  through  their  sea-coal  canopy ; 

A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 

On  a  fool's  head  —  and  there  is  London  Town ! 


CAMTO  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


257 


83. 

But  Joan  saw  not  this :  each  wreath  of  smoke 
Appeared  to  him  bat  as  the  magic  vapour 
Of  some  alchymic  furnace,  from  whence  broke 
The  wealth  of  worlds  (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper) : 
The  gloomy  clouds,  which  o'er  it  as  a  yoke 
Are  bow'dy  and  put  the  sun  out  like  a  taper. 
Were  nothing  but  the  natural  atmosphere  — 
Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely  clear. 

84. 

He  paused  —  and  so  will  I ;  as  doth  a  crew 
Before  they  give  their  broadside.  By  and  by. 
My  gentle  countrymen,  we  will  renew 
Our  old  acquaintance;  and  at  least  Til  try 
To  tell  you  truths  you  will  not  take  as  true, 
Because  they  are  so :  —  a  male  Mrs.  Fry, 
With  a  soft  besom  will  I  sweep  your  halls, 
And  brash  a  web  or  two  from  off  the  walls. 


86. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Fry!  why  go  to  Newgate?  Why 
Preach  to  poor  rogues?  And  wherefore  not  begin 
With  Carlton,  or  with  other  houses?  Try 
Your  hand  at  hardened  and  imperial  sin. 
To  mend  the  people 's  an  absurdity, 
A  jaigon,  a  mere  philanthropic  din. 
Unless  you  make  their  betters  better:  —  Fie ! 
I  thought  you  had  more  reli^on,  Mrs.  Fry. 

88. 

Teach  them  the  deoendes  of  good  threescore : 
Cure  them  of  tours,  Hussar  and  Highland  dresses ; 
Tell  them  that  youth  once  gone  returns  no  more; 
That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land's  distresses: 
Tell  them  Sir  William  Curtis  is  a  bore. 
Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses  ^ 
The  witless  Falstaff  of  a  hoary  Hal, 
A  fool  whose  bells  have  oeased  to  ring  at  all;  — 


87. 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  be  perhaps  too  late 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 
To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 
'Tis  not  so  to  be  good ;  and  be  it  stated, 
The  worthiest  kiogs  have  ever  loved  least  state; 
And  tell  them  —  but  you  won't,  and  t  have  prated 
Just  now  enough ;  but  by  and  by  I'll  prattle 
Like  Roland's  horn  in  Ronccsvalles'  battle. 


CANTO     XL 


Camtm  DL  ,  X.,  and  XL  were  written  «t  Pin,  end  imMUhed  In 
Landea,  by  Hr.  John  Hant,  in  Aegiut,  1833.  '^Tliat  tbere  b  a  great 
deal  of  what  i»  ol^ectioDable'in  tlicje  tliree  cantos ,  who  can  deny  f  Bat 
MSB  Don  Jnan  ia,  wlthoot  exception ,  the  first  of  Lord  Byron's  works. 
It  is  by  ftr  the  most  original  in  point  of  conception.  It  is  decidedly 
oilllnal  in  point  of  tone.  It  contains  the  finest  specimens  of  Indicroas 
poetry  that  0«r  age  luu  witnessed.  Don  Jaan»  say  tbe  canting  world 
what  It  will,  la  destined  to  hold  a  permanent  rank  in  the  llteratnre  of 
•v  cooiCry.  It  will  always  be  referred  to  as  famishing  the  most  powerftil 
pkmre  of  that  rein  of  thoi^ht  (no  matter  bow  flUse  and  bad)  which 
( a  great  portion  of  the  thinking  people  of  our  time." 


Whem  Bishop  Berkeley  said  ^'there  was  no  matter/' 
And  proved  it  —  'twas  no  matter  what  he  said: 
They  say  his  system  'tis  in  vain  to  batter. 
Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head ; 
And  yet  who  can  believe  it?  I  would  shatter, 
Gfaidly,  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  Iead» 
Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a  spirit. 
And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it 


What  a  sublime  discovery  'twas  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  Egotism  I 

That  all's  ideal  —  aU  wraelves:  I'll  stake  the 

World  (be  it  what  you  will)  that  tha^t  no  schism,  [thee, 

OhyDoubtl— if  thou  be'st  Doubt,  for  which  some  take 

But  which  I  doubt  extremely  —  thou  sole  prism 

Of  the  truth's  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spirit! 

Heaven's  brandy  —  though  bur  brain  can  hardly  bear  it 


For  ever  and  anon  comes  indigestion, 
(Not  the  most  ''dainty  Ariel")  and  perplexes 
Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question : 
And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes 
Is,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye  on, 
Without  conftision  of  the  sorts  and  Bex.e%^ 
Of  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder, 
The  world,  which  at  the  worst's  a  glorious  blunder  — 
17 


258 


DON  JtJAi*; 


CANTO  XL 


4. 

If  it  be  chance;  or  if  it  be  according^ 
To  the  old  text,  still  better :  —  lest  it  should 
Turn  out  so,  we'll  say  nothing  'gainst  the  wording, 
As  several  people  think  such  hazards  rude : 
They're  right :  our  days  are  too  brief  for  affording 
Space  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 
Decide,  and  every  body  one  day  will 
Know  very  clearly  —  or  at  least  lie  still. 


And  therefore  will  I  leave  off  metaphysical 
Discussion,  which  is  neither  here  nor  tlicre: 
If  I  agree  that  what  is,  is  —  then  this  I  call 
Being  quite  perspicuous  and  extremely  fair. 
The  truth  is,  I've  grown  lately  rather  phthisical: 
I  don't  know  what  tl»e  reason  is  —  the  air 
Perhaps;  bat,  as  I  suffer  from  the  shocks 
Of  illness,  I  grow  much  more  orthodox. 


'^ 


The  first  attack  at  once  proved  the  Divinity ; 

(But  that  I  never  doubted,  nor  the  Devil ;) 

The  next,  tlie  Virgin's  mystical  virginity ; 

The  third,  the  usual  Origin  of  Evil ; 

The  fourth  at  once  establish'd  the  whole  Trinity 

On  so  incontrovertible  a  level, 

That  I  devoutly  wish'd  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

7. 

To  our  theme : — The  man  who  has  stood  on  the  Acropolis, 

And  look'd  down  over  Attica;  or  he 

Who  has  sail'd  where  picturesque  Constantinople  is. 

Or  seen  Tpmbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 

In  small-eyed  China's  crockery-ware  metropolis. 

Or  sat  amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 

May- not  think  much  of  London's  first  appearance  — 

But  ask  him  what  lie  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence? 

8. 

Don  Juan  had  got  out  on  Slmoter's  Hill ; 
Sunset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivity 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  good  and  ill 
Where  London-streets  ferment  in  ftill  activity; 
While  every  thing  around  was  calm  and  still, 
Kxcept  the  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot  he 
Heard  —  and  that  bee-like,  bubbling,  busy  hum 
Of  cities,  that  boils  over  with  their  scum:  — 

9. 

I  say,  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 
Walk'd  on  behind  his  carriage,  o'er  the  summit, 
And  lost  in  wonder  of  so  great  a  nation, 
Gave  way  to't,  sine  a  he  could  not  overcome  it. 
"And  here,"  he  cried,  "is  Freedom's  chosen  station ; 
Here  peals  the  people's  voice,  nor  can  entomb  it 
Racks,  prisons,  inquisitions;  resurrection 
Awaits  it,  each  new  meeting  or  election. 


Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives;  here  people  pay 

But  what  they  please;  and  if  that  things  be  dear, 

'Tis  only  that  they  love  to  throw  away 

Their  cash,  to  show  how  much  they  have  a-ycar. 

Here  laws  are  all  inviolate;  none  lay 

Traps  for  the  traveller;  every  highway's  dear: 

Here  — "  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knife. 

Withy  "Damn  your  eyes  I  your  money  or  your  life!" 

11. 

These  fi-ee-bom  sounds  proceeded  from  four  pads> 
In  ambush  laid,  who  had  perceived  hi^  loiter 
Behind  his  carriage;  and,  like  handy  lads, 
Had  seized  the  lucky  hour  to  reconnoitre, 
In  which  the  heedless  gentleman  who  gads 
Upon  the  road,  unless  he  prove  a  fighter, 
May  find  himself  within  that  isle  of  riches 
Exposed  to  lose  his  life  as  well  as  breeches. 

12. 

Juaiii  who  did  not  understand  a  word 

Of  English,  save  their  shibboleth,  ''God  damn ! " 

And  even  that  he  had  so  rarely  heard. 

He  sometimes  thought  'twas  only  their  "Salam,** 

Or  "God  bo  with  you ! "  —  and  'tis  not  absurd 

To  think  so;  for  half  English  as  I  am 

(To  my  misfortune)  never  can  1  say 

I  beard  them  wish  "God  with  you,"  save  that  way;  — 

13. 

Juan  yet  quickly  understood  their  gesture, 

And,  being  somewhat  choIciTc  and  sudden, 

Drew  forth  a  pocket-pistol  from  his  vesture. 

And  fired  it  into  one  assailant's  pudding  — 

Who  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o'er  in  his  pasture. 

And  roared  out,  as  he  writhed  his  native  mud  in. 

Unto  his  nearest  follower  or  henchman, 

"Oh  Jack!  I'm  floor'd  by  that  ere  bloody  Frenchman!' 

14. 

On  which  Jack  and  his  train  set  off  at  speed, 
And  Juan's  suite,  late  scattered  at  a  distance, 
Came  up,  all  marvelling  at  snch  a  dc^d, 
And  offering,  as  usual,  late  assistance. 
Juan,  who  saw  the  moon's  late  minion  bleed 
As  if  his  veins  would  pour  out  his  existence^ 
Stood  caUing  out  for  bandages  and  lint, 
And  wish'd  he  had  been  less  hasty  with  his  flint 

15. 

"Perhaps,"  thought  he,  "it  is  the  country's  wont 

To  welcome  foreigners  in  this  way :  now 

I  recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don't 

Differ,  except  in  robbing  with  a  bow. 

In  lieu  of  a  bare  blade  and  brazen  front 

But  what  is  to  be  done?  I  can't  allow 

The  fellow  to  lie  groaning  on  the  road : 

So  take  him  up ;  I'll  help  yon  with  the  load." 


CAKTO  XU 


DON  JUAN. 


259 


But,  cretbcy  coaVd  perform  this  ptoas  duty. 

The  dyln^  man  cried,  "Hold !  r?c  got  my  gjael ! 

Oh!  for  a  glass  of  max/  We're  miss'd  our  liooty; 

L*t  mc  die  where  I  am! "  And,  as  the  fuel 

Of  life  shrunk  in  his  lieart,  and  thick  and  sooty 

The  drops  fell  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew  ill 

His  breath,  he  from  his  swelling  throat  untied 

A  kcrchiet;  crying **Give  Sal  that!''  —  and  died. 

17. 

Tlie  cravat,  stain'd  witli  bloody  drops,  fell  down 
Before  Don  Joan's  lEeet :  he  could  not  tell 
Bxactly  why  it  was  before  him  thrown, 
Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man's  fiu*ewelL 
Poor  Tom  was  once  a  kiddy  upon  town, 
A  thorougii^vvpiint,  and  a  real  swell, 
Foil  flash,  al!  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled  — 
Uis  pockets  first,  and  then  his  body  riddled. 

18. 

Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 
In  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 
As  soon  as  Crowner's  quest  a  I  low 'd,  pursued 
•His  travels  to  the  capital  apace ;  — 
Esteeming  it  a  little  hard  he  should 
In  twelve  hours'  time,  and  very  little  space. 
Have  been  obliged  to  slay  a  free-bom  native 
In  self-defence;  tills  made  him  meditatiYC. 

10. 

He  from  the  world  had  cut  off  a  great  man. 
Who  in  his  time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 
Who  in  a  row  like  Tom  could  lead  the  van, 
Booze  in  the  ken,  or  at  the  spMlken  hustle? 
Who  queer  a  flat?  Who  (spite  of  Bowstreet's  ban) 
Od  the  high  toby-spice  so  flash  the  muzzle? 
Who  on  a  lark,  with  black-eyed  Sal  (his  blowing), 
So  prime,  so  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing? 

20. 

Bnt  Tom's  no  more  —  and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 
Heroes  must  die;  and,  by  God's  blessing,  'tis 
Not  long-  before  the  most  of  them  go  home.  — 
Hail !  Thamis,  hail !  Upon  thy  verge  it  is 
That  Juan's  chariot,  rolling  like  a  drum 
In  thander,  holds  the  way  it  can't  well  miss, 
Tbrougii  Kcnnington  and  all  the  other  '^ons," 
Which  make  us  wish  ourselves  in  town  at  once;  -^ 

21. 

Through  g^ves,  so  eall'd  as  being  void  of  trees 
(Uke  lucus  from  no  light) ;  through  prospects  named 
Mount  Pleasant,  as  containing  nought  to  please, 
Kor  much  to  climb;  through  little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to  let  the  dust  in  at  your  ease, 
With  '^o  be  let,"  upon  their  doors  proclaim'd; 
Through  ''Rows"  most  modestly  oall'd  "Paradise," 
Which  Eve  might  quit  irithout  much  sacrifioe;  — 


Through  coaches,  drays,  choked  turnpikes,  and  a  whirl 
Of  wheels,  and  roar  of  voices  and  confusion; 
Here  taverns  wooing  to  a  pint  of  "purl," 
There  malls  fast  flying  oft' like  a  delusion; 
There  barbers'  blocks  with  pern  wigs  in  curl 
In  windo\vs;  here  the  lamp-lighter's  infusion 
Slowly  distill'd  into  the  glimmering  glass 
(For  in  those  days  we  had  not  got  to  gas) ;  — 

2a. 

Through  this,  and  much,  and  more,  is  the  approach 
Of  travellers  to  mighty  Babylon : 
Whether  they  come  by  horse,  or  chaise,  or  coach, 
With  slight  exceptions,  all  the  ways  seem  one. 
I  could  say  more,  but  do  not  choose  to  encroaeli 
Upon  the  guide-book's  privilege.  The  sun 
Had  set  some  time,  and  night  was  on  the  ridge 
Of  twilight,  as  the  party  cross'd  the  bridge. 

24. 

That's  rather  fine,  the  gentle  sound  of  Thamis  — 

Who  vindicates  a  moment  too  his  stream  — 

Though  hardly  heard  through  multifkrious  <*dammc's.*' 

The  lamps  of  Westminster's  more  regular  gleam. 

The  breadth  of  pavement,  and  yon  shrine  where  Fame  i» 

A  spectral  resident  —  whose  pallid  beam 

In  shape  of  moonshine  hovers  o'er  the  pile  — 

Make  this  a  sacred  part  of  Albion's  isle. 

25. 

The  Druid's  groves  are  gone  —  so  much  the  better: 
Stone-Henge  is  not  —  but  what  the  devil  is  it? 
But  Bedlam  still  exists  with  its  sage  fetter, 
That  madmen  may  not  bite  you  on  a  visit; 
The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a  debtor ; 
The  Mansion-House  too  (though  some  people  quiz  it) 
To  me  appears  a  stiff  yet  grand  erection; 
But  then  the  Abbey's  worth  the  whole  collection. 

ad. 

The  line  of  lights  too  up  to  Charing-Cross, 
Pall-Mail,  and  so  forth,  have  a  coruscation 
Like  gold  as  in  comparison  to  dross, 
Match'd  with  the  Continent's  illumination, 
Whose  cities  Night  by  no  means  deigns  to  gloss : 
The  French  were  not  yet  a  lamp-lighting  nation, 
And  when  they  grew  so  — -  on  their  new*>found  lanthorn, 
Instead  of  wicks,  they  made  a  wioked  man  tarn. 

27. 

A  row  of  gentlemen  along  the  streets 

Suspended,  may  illuminate  mankind, 

As  also  bonfires  made  of  eountry-scats ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the  purblind : 

The  other  looks  like  phosphorus  on  sheets, 

A  sort  of  ignis-fatuus  to  the  mind, 

Which,  though  'tis  certain  to  perplex  and  frigbtcn, 

Must  burn  more  mildly  ere  it  can  enlighten. 


260 


DON  JUAN. 


CA2IT0I1. 


28. 

Bot  London's  so  well  lit,  that  if  Diogenes 
Coald  recommence  to  hunt  his  konBtt  manj 
And  found  him  not  amidst  the  yarions  progenies 
Of  this  enormoos  city's  spreading  spawn, 
'Twere  not  for  want  of  lamps  to  aid  his  dodging  his 
Yet  ondiscover'd  treasure.  What  /can, 
I've  done  to  find  the  same  thronghoat  life's  journey. 
But  see  the  world  is  only  one  attorney. 

39. 

Over  the  stones  still  rattling,  up  PaII-M!a11, 
Through  crowds  and  carriages  —  but  waxing  thinner 
As  thnnder'd  knockers  broke  the  long-seal'd  spell 
Of  doors  'gainst  duns,  and  to  ah  early  dinner 
Admitted  a  small  party  as  night  fell,  ~ 
Don  Juan,  our  young  diplomatic  sinner, 
Pursued  his  path,  and  drove  past  some  hotels, 
St  James's  Palace  and  St  James's  <*Hells/' 

90. 

They  reach'd  the  hotel:  forth  streamed  from  the  front-door 
A  tide  of  well-dad  waiters,  and  around 
The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 
Of  those  pedestrian  Paphiaus  who  abound 
In  decent  London,  when  the  daylight's  o'er; 
Commodious  but  immoral,  they  are  found 
Useful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting  marriage:  — 
But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  bb  carriage 

31. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels. 
Especially  for  foreigners  —  and  mostly 
For  those  whom  favour  or  whom  fortune  swells, 
And  cannot  find  a  bill's  small  items  costly. 
There  many  an  envoy  either  dwelt  or  dwells 
(The  den  of  many  a  diplomatic  lost  lie), 
Until  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass, 
And  blazon  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 

32. 

Juan,  whose  was  a  delicate  comnussion, 
Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 
No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 
The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er,  i 
'Twas  merely  known  that  on  a  secret  missiop 
A  foreigner  of  rank  had  graced  our  shore,     . 
Yonng,  handsome,  and  accomplish'd,  who  was  said 
(In  whispers)  to  bave  tum'd  his  sovereign's  bead;! 

33.  V       J 

Some  rumour  also  of  some  strange  adventuresii    ^ 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  bis  wars  and  loves; 
And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters, 
And,  above  all,  an  Englishwoman's  roves 
Into  tbe  excursive,  breaking  the  Indentures 
Of  sober  reason,  wheresoc'er  it  moves. 
He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fiishion, 
Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a  passion. 


34. 

I  don't  mean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  tjinle 

The  contrary ;  but  then  'tis  in  the  head; 

Yet,  as  the  consequences  lure  as  bright 

As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead. 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 

Of  ladies' lucubrations?  So  they  lead  .y 

In  safety  to  the  place  for  which  you  start, 

What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart? 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  place, 

To  proper  placemen,  every  Russ  credentia]; 

And  was  received,  with  all  tbe  due  grimace. 

By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential; 

Who,  seeing  a  handsome  stripling  with  smooth  feoe, 

Thought  (what  in  statc-afiiairs  is  most  essential) 

That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster, 

As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a  woodland  songster. 

36. 

They  err'd,  as  aged  men  will  do ;  but  by 
And  by  we'll  talk  of  that;  and  if  we  don't, 
'Twill  be  because  our  notion  is  not  high 
Of  politicians  and  their  double  front, 
Who  live  by  lies,  yet  dare  not  bcddly  lie:  —  ^ 
Now  what  I  love  in  women  is,  they  won't  J/^ 
Or  can't  do  otherwise  than  lie,  but  do  it 
So  well,  tbe  very  truth  seems  falsehood  to  it 

37. 

And,  after  all,  what  ia  a  lie?  'Tis  but 
The  truth  in  masquerade;  and  I  defy 
Historians,  heroes,  lawyers,  priests,  to  put      ^ 
A  fact  without  some  leaven  of  a  lie.  ^/^ 

The  very  shadow  of  true  truth  would  shut 
Up  annals,  revelations,  poesy. 
And  prophecy  —  except  it  should  be  dated 
Some  years  before  tbe  incidents  related. 

38. 

Praised  be  all  liars  and  all  lies !  Who  now 

Can  tax  my  mild  Muse  with  misanthropy? 

She  rings  the  world's  "Te  Deum,"  and  her  brow 

Blushes  for  those  who  will  not :  —  but  to  sigh 

Is  idle;  let  us,  like  most  others,  bow. 

Kiss  hands,  feet  —  any  part  of  Majesty, 

After  the  good  example  of  "Green  Erin," 

Whose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for  vretring. 

39. 

Don  Juan  was  presented,  and  his  dress 
And  mien  excited  general  admiration  -^ 
I  don't  know  which  was  most  admired  or  less: 
One  monstrous  diamond  drew  much  observatioa. 
Which  Catherine,  in  a  moment  of  **ivresse" 
(In  love  or  brandy's  fervent  fermentation), 
Bestow'd  upon  him  as  the  public  learn'd; 
And,  to  say  truth,  it  bad  been  fairly  eam'd. 


;.•.! 


CAKTO  XL 


DON  JUAN. 


261 


40. 

Besides  the  ministers  and  anderliogs. 

Who  must  be  coorteoas  to  accredited 

IHpioinatista  of  rather  iwaTeriag  kings, 

Until  their  royal  riddle's  ftiUy  read, 

The  very  clerks  —  those  somewhat  dirty  springs 

Of  oflSce,  or  the  house  of  office,  fed 

By  fon)  oomiption  into  streams  —  even  they 

Were  hardly  mde  enough  to  earn  their  pay. 

41. 

And  insolence  no  doubt  is  what  they  are 

Employ  *d  for,  since  it  is  their  daily  labour. 

In  the  dear  offices  of  peace  or  war; 

And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next  nei{^bonr, 

When  for  a  passport,  or  some  other  bar 

To  freedom,  he  applied  (a  grief  and  a  bore) 

If  he  found  not  this  spawn  of  tax-boru  riches, 

Like  lap-dogs,  the  least  dvil  sons  of  bitches. 


But  Joan  was  receiTed  with  much  ''empressement:''  — 

These  phrases  of  refinement  I  must  borrow 

From  our  next  neighbours'  land,  where,  like  a  chessman, 

There  is  a  more  set  down  for  joy  or  sorrow. 

Not  only  in  mere  talking,  but  the  press.    Man, 

In  islands,  is,  it  seems,  downright  and  thorough, 

More  than  on  continents  —  as  if  the  sea 

(See  BiHingsgate)  made  even  the  tongue  more  free. 

48. 

And  yet  the  British  <<Damme"  's  rather  Attic : 
Tour  continental  oaths  are  but  incontinent, 
And  turn  on  things  which  no  aristocratic 
Spiiit  would  name,  and  therefore  even  I  won't  anent 
This  subject  quote;  as  it  would  be  schismatic 
In  politesse,  and  haye  a  sound  affronting  in 't:  — 
Bat  '^Damme^'  's  quite  etiiereal,  though  too  daring-* 
Platonic  blasphemy,  the  soul  of  swearing. 

44. 

For  downright  rudeness  ye  may  stay  at  home; 
For  true  or  false  politeness  (and  scarce  that 
Ntw)  yon  may  cross  the  blue  deep  and  white  foam  -^ 
The  iSrst  the  emblem  (rarely  though)  of  what 
You  leave  behind,  the  next  of  much  you  come 
To  meet.    However,  'tis  no  time  to  chat 
On  general  topics :  poems  must  confine 
Themselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 

45. 

In  the  great  world,  —  which,  being  interpreted, 

Meaneth  the  west  or  worst  end  of  a  city, 

And  about  twice  two  thousand  people  bred 

By  no  means  to  be  very  wise  or  witty, 

Alt  to  sit  up  while  others  lie  in  bed, 

And  look  down  on  the  universe  with  pity  — 

Jnan^  as  an  inveterate  patrician, 

Was  well  reoeived  by  persons  of  condition. 


4a 

He  was  a  bachelor,  which  is  a  matter 

Of  import  both  to  virgin  and  to  bride, 

The  former's  hymeaeal  hopes  to  flatter; 

And  (should  she  not  hold  fast  by  love  or  pride) 

'Tis  also  of  some  moment  to  the  latter : 

A  xib's  a  thorn  in  a  wed  gallant's  side. 

Requires  decorum,  and  is  apt  to  double 

The  horrid  sin  —  and,  what's  still  worse,  the  trouble, 

47. 

But  Juan  was  a  bachelor  —  of  arts, 

And  parts,  and  hearts :  he  danced  and  sung,  and  had 

An  air  as  sentimental  as  Mozart's 

Softest  of  melodies :  and  could  be  sad 

Or  cheerful,  without  any  ''flaws  or  starts,^' 

Just  at  the  proper  time;  and,  though  a  lad, 

Had  seen  the  world  —  which  is  a  curious  sight, 

And  very  much  unlike  what  people  write. 

48. 

Fair  virgins  blush'd  upon  him ;  wedded  dames 
Bloom'd  also  in  less  transitory  hues  ; 
For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Thames, 
The  painting  and  the  painted ;  youth,  ceruse, 
Against  his  heart  preferr*d  their'usual  claims. 
Such  as  no  gentleman  can  quite  refuse; 
Daughters  admired  his  dress,  and  pious  mothers 
Enquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 

49. 

The  milliners  who  furnish  '^drapery-misses" 

Throughout  the  season,  upon  speculation 

Of  payment  ere  the  honey-moon's  last  kisses 

Have  waned  into  a  crescent's  coruscationr-^ 

Thought  such  an  opportunity  as  this  is. 

Of  a  rich  foreigner's  initiation. 

Not  to  be  overlooked  —  and  gave  such  credit, 

Tha^  future  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh'd,  and  paid  it 

60. 

The  Blues,  that  tender  tribe,  who  sigh  o'er  sonnets, 
And  with  the  pages  of  the  last  review 
Line  the  interior  of  their  heads  or  bonnets. 
Advanced  in  all  their  azure's  highest  hue: 
They  talk'd  bad  French  or  Spanish,  and  upon  its 
Late  authors  ask'd  him  for  a  hint  or  two ; 
And  which  was  softest,  Russian  or  Castilian? 
And  whether  in  his  travels  he  saw  Bion? 

51. 

Juan,  who  was  a  little  superficial. 

And  not  in  literature  a  great  Drawcansir, 

Examined  by  this  learned  and  especial 

Jury  of  matrons,  scarce  knew  what  to  answer: 

His  duties  warlike,  loving,  or  official, 

His  steady  application  as  a  dancer. 

Had  kept  him  from  the  brink  of  Hippocrene, 

Which  now  he  found  was  blue  instead  of  green. 


262 


DON  JUAN. 


C&liTO  XL 


5% 

However,  be  replied  at  hazard,  with 

A  modest  coufidenee  and  calm  assurance, 

Which  lent  his  learned  lucubrations  pith, 

And  pass'd  for  arguments  of  good  endurance. 

That  prodigy,  MJss  Araminta  Smith 

(Who,  at  sixteen,  translated  *'Hercules  Furens" 

Into  as  furious  English),  with  her  best  look, 

Set  down  his  sayings  in  her  commou-place-book. 

d3. 

Juan  knew  sereral  languages  —  as  well 
He  might  —  and  brought  them  up  with  skill,  in  time' 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplished  belle. 
Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 
There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 
His  qualities  (with  them)  into  sublime : 
Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Mae  via  Mannish, 
Both  long'd  extremely  to  be  sung  in  Spanish. 

64. 

However,  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 
Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banqno's  glass, 
At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small. 
He  saw  ten  thousand  livtng  authors  pass. 
That  being  about  their  average  numeral; 
Also  the  eighty  ^'greatest  living  poets," 
As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  its. 

5& 

In  twice  five  years  the  "greatest  living  poet," 

Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 

Is  call'd  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 

Although  'tig  an  imaginary  thing. 

Evcu  I  —  albeit  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 

Nor  sought  of  foolscap-subjects  to  be  king  — 

Was  reckon'd,  a  considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

66. 

But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  5Iont-Saint-Jean  seems  Cain : 

<*La  Belle- Alliance"  of  dunces  down  at  zero, 

Now  that  the  lion's  fall'n,  may  rise  again : 

But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero; 

Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign; 

Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  jailors  go. 

With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe. 

67. 

Sir  Walter  reign'd  before  me;  Moore  and  Campbell 
Before  and  after ;  but  now,  grown  more  holy. 
The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 
With  poets  almost  clergymen,  or  wholly; 
And  Pegasus  hath  a  psalmodie  amble 
Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 
Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 
A  modern  Ancient  Pistol  —  by  the  hilts ! 


,     68- 

Then  there's  my  gentle  Bapbnes,  who,  they  amy, 
Setsjip  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me; 
He'll  find  it  rather  difiicult  some  day 
To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 
Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway; 
And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three; 
And  that  deep-mouth'd  Boeotian,  '*Savage  Landor,*' 
Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey'a  gander. 

6a 

John  Keats  —  who  was  kiird  off  by  one  criti^e. 
Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great. 
If  not  intelligible, —  without  Greek 
Contrived  to  talk  about  the  Gods  of  late. 
Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 
Poor  fellow !  His  was  an  untoward  fiftte: 
'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle. 
Should  let  itself  be  snuff'd  out  by  an  article. 

60. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 

To  that  which  none  will  gain  —  or  none  will  know 

The  conqueror  at  least;  who,  ere  time  renders 

His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass  grow 

Above  his  burnt-out  brain  and  sapless  cinders. 

If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 

Their  chances ;  —  they're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty 

Mock  tyrantSj  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd  bat  dirty. 

61. 

This  is  the  literary  hwer  empire. 
Where  the  Praetorian  bands  take  up  the  matter:  — 
A  ^'dreadful  trade,"  like  his  who  "gathers  stmapbire/' 
The  insolent  soldiery  to  sootlie  and  Batter, 
With  the  same  feelings  as  you'd  coax  a  vampire. 
Now,  were  I  once  at  home,  and  in  good  satire, 
I'd  try  conclusions  with  those  Janizaries, 
And  show  them  what  an  intellectual  war  la. 


I  think  I  know  a  trick  or  two,  would  turn 
Their  flanks;  —  but  it  is  hardly  worth  my  while 
With  such  small  gear  to  give  myself  concern : 
Indeed  I've  not  the  necessary  bile ; 
My  natural  temper's  really  aught  but  stern, 
And  even  my  Muse's  worst  reproofs  a  smile; 
And  then  she  drops  a  brief  and  modern  curtsey. 
And  glides  away,  assured  she  never  hurts  yc. 

63. 

My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 

Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  pass'd 

With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so  sterile. 

Being  tired  in  time,  and  neitlier  least  nor  last. 

Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very  ill; 

And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gaily  clasa'd 

Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day. 

The  sun's  true  son  —  no  vapour,  but  a  ray. 


CANYO  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


263 


04. 

Hb  monif  he  paaa'd  in  basloess  —  whioh,  dissected, 

Was  like  all  business,  a  laborioas  nothing, 

TUat  leads  to  lassitude,  tlie  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessas  garb  of  mortal  clothing, 

And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected, 

And  talk  in  tender  liorrors  of  our  loathing 

AH  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  out  country's  good  — 

Which  grows  no  better,  though  'tis  time  it  should. 

eft. 

His  afternoons  he  pass'd  in  visits,  luncheons, 

Loosging  and  boxing;  and  the  twilight-hour 

In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons 

Caird  "Parks,"  where  there  is  neither  frtrit  nor  flower 

Enough  to  gratify  a  bee's  slight  munchings : 

But  after  all  it  is  the  only  "bower" 

(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashionable  fair 

Can  form  a  slight  acquaintance  with  fresh  air. 

Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world ! 
Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  wheels,  then  roar 
Through  street  and  square  fast  flashing  chariots,  hurl'd 
Idke  baraess'd  meteors !  then  along  the  floor 
Chalk  mimics  painting;  then  festoons  are  twir!*d ; 
Then  roll  the  brasen  thunders  of  the  door, 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
An  earthly  Paradise  of  ''or  molu.'^ 

07. 

There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall  sink 
With  the  three-thousandth  curtsey ;  there  the  waits  — 
The  only  dance  which  teaches  girls  to  think  — 
Hakes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very  faults. 
Saloon,  room,  hall  overflow  beyond  their  brink, 
And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 
^Midst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condemned  to  climb, 
A.nd  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a  time. 

Tfaiice  happy  he,  who,  after  a  survey 

Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  corner, 

A  door  that's  in,  or  boudoir  oni  of  the  way, 

Where  he  may  fix  himself,  like  small  ''Jack  Horner," 

had  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may, 

And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scorner, 

Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator. 

Yawning  a  little  as  the  night  grows  later. 


Bat  this  won't  do,  save  by  and  by ;  and  he 
Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active  share, 
Must  steer  with  care  through  all  that  glittering 'Sca 
Of  gems  and  plumes,  and  pearls  and  silks,  to  where 
nt  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be; 
Vkadtfing  in  the  waits  to  some  soft  air, 
Or  pcondlier  prancing  with  mercurial  skill 
Where  seienoe  marshals  forth  her  own  quadrille. 


70. 

Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 
Upon  an  heiress  or  his  neighbour's  bride. 
Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  he  pursues 
Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 
Full  many  an  eager  gentleman  oft  rues 
His  iiaste :  impatience  is  a  blundering  guide 
Amoiigst  a  people  Ikmons  for  reflection. 
Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circumspection. 

71. 

But,  if  you  can  contrive,  get  next  at  supper; 
Or,  if  forestall'd,  get  opposite  and  ogle:  — 
Oh,  ye  ambrosial  moments !  always  upper 
In  mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental  bogle, 
Which  sits  for  ever  upon  memory's  crupper, 
The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in  vogue!  Ill 
Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a  single  ball. 

7% 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 

Only  the  common  run,  who  must  pursue. 

And  watch,  and  warxl;  whose  plans  a  word  too  much 

Or  little  overturns;  and  not  the  few 

Or  many  (for  the  number's  sometimes  such) 

Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  If  new. 

Or  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,  sense,  or  noniiense, 

Permits  whate'er  they  please,  or  did  not  long  since. 

73. 

Our  hero,  as  a  hero,  young  and  handsome, 
Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a  stranger. 
Like  other  riaves  of  course  must  pay  his  ransom 
Before  he  can  escape  from  so  much  danger 
As  will  environ  a  conspicuous  man.    Some 
Talk  about  poetry,  and  "rack  and  manger," 
And  ugliness,  disease,  as  toil  and  trouble  $  — 
I  wish  they  knew  the  life  of  a  young  noble. 

74. 

They  are  young,  but  know  not  youth  —  it  is  anticipated; 
Handsome  but  wasted,  rich  without  a  sou; 
Their  vigour  in  a  thousand  arms  is  dissipated; 
Their  cash  comes/rom,  their  wealth  goes  to  a  Jew; 
Both  senates  sec  their  nightly  votes  participated 
Between  the  tyrant's  and  the  tribunes'  crew; 
And,  having  voted,  dined,  drank,  gamed,  and  whored, 
The  family-vault  receives  another  lord. 

7ft. 

*' Where  is  the  world,*'  cries  Young,  "at  eipAty  f    Where 
The  world  in  which  a  man  was  born?"  Alas! 
Where  is  the  world  o£eiffkt  years  past?  ' 7Wa#  thtre  — 
I  look  for  it » 'tis  gone,  a  globe  of  glass  1 
Crack'd,  shiver'd,  vanish'd,  scarcely  gazed  on,  ero 
A  silent  change  dissolves  the  glittering  mass. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kings. 
And  dandies,  all  are  gone  on  the  wind's  wings. 


264 


^     €■ 


ly 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  n 


v:     ^«- 

Where  is  Napoleon  the  Grand  ?  God  knows : 
Where  little  Cafitlereagh?  The  Devil  can  tell: 
Where  Grattan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 
Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in  their  spell? 
Where  is  the  unhappy  Queen,  with  all  her  woes? 
And  where  the  daughter,  whom  the  Isles  loved  well  ? 
Where  are  those  martyr'd  Saints,  the  Five  per  Cents? 
And  where  —  oh  where  the  devil  are  the  Rents?        \ 

^'  [Diddled. 

Where'sBnimmcl?Di8h'd.Where'sLongPoleWellcsley? 
Where's  Whitbread?Romilly?Where's6eorge  the  Third? 
Where  is  his  will?  (That's  not  so  soon  unriddled  I) 
And  where  is  "Fum"  the  Fourth,  our  "royal  bird?" 
Gone  down  it  seems  to  Scotlandjjo  be^fiddfled 
''^  Unto  by  Sawney's  violin,  wo  have  heard: 

"Caw  me,  caw  thee" — for  six  months  bath  been  hatching 
*  This  scene  of  royal  itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

78. 

Where  is  Lord  This?  And  where  my  Lady  That? 
The  Honourable  Mistresses  and  Misses? 
Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  opera-hat, 
Married)  unmarried,  and  remarried  •^  (this  is 
An  evolution  oft  performed  of  late). 
Where  are  the  Dublin  shouts  —  and  London  hisses? 
Where  are  the  Grenvilles?  Tum'd  as  usaaL  Where 
My  friends  the  Whigs?  JBxaotly  where  they  were. 

79. 

Where  are  the  Lady  Carolines  and  Fraooefles  ? 

Divorced  or  doing  thereaneni  Ye  annals 

So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is  — 

Thou  Morning-Post,  sole  record  of  the  panneis 

Broken  in  carriages,  and  all  the  phantasies 

Of  fashion  —  say  what  streams  now  fill  those  channels? 

Some  die,  some  fly,  some  languish  on  the  continent; 

Beoaose  the  times  have  hardly  left  them  one  tenant 

90. 

Some  who  once  set  their  caps  at  cautious  dukes, 
Have  taken  up  at  length  with  younger  brothers ; 
Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers'  hooks; 
Some  maids  have  been  made  wives— somemerely  mothers; 
"Others  have  lost  their  fresh  and  ihiry  looks  : 

In  short,  the  list  of  alterations  bothers.  v 

y- There's  little  strange  in  this,  but  something  strange  is  ) 
^  The  unusual  quickness  of  these  common  <dianges.  ^ 

8L 

Talk  not  of  seventy  years  as  age ;  in  seven 

I  have  seen  more  changes,  down  from  monarchs  to 

The  humblest  individual  under  heaven, 

Than  might  suffice  a  moderate  century  through. 

I  knew  that  nought  was  lasting,  but  now  even      ^ 

Change  grows  too  changeable,  without  being  new) 

Nought's  permanent  among  the  human  race. 

Except  the  Whigs  not  getting  into  place. 


'U^ 


62. 


I  have  seen  Napoleon,  who  seem'd  quite  a  Jupiter, 
Shrink  to  a  Saturn.  I  have  seen  a  duke 
(No  matter  which)  turn  politician  stupider. 
If  that  can  well  be,  than  his  wooden  look. 
But  it  is  time  that  I  should  hoist  my  '*blue  Peter/' 
And  sail  for  a  new  theme :  I  have  seen  —  and  shook 
To  see  it  —  the  King  hiss'd,  and  then  caress'd; 
But  don't  pretend  to  settle  which  was  best. 

8a. 

I  have  seen  the  landholders  without  a  rap  — 
I  have  seen  Joanna  Southoote  —  I  have  seen 
The  House  of  Commons  turn'd  to  a  tax-trap  — 
I  have  seen  that  sad  afiair  of  the  late  Queen  — 
I  have  seen  crowns  worn  instead  of  a  fool's  cap  -~ 
I  have  seen  a  Congress  doing  all  thaf  s  mean  — 
^  1  have  seen  some  nations  like  o'erloaded  asses 
Kick  off  their  burthens  —  meaning  the  high  daises* 

84. 

I  have  seen  smaH  poets,  and  great  prosers,  and 

Interminable  —  not  eternal  —  speakers  — 

I  have  seen  the  ftmds  at  war  with  house  and  land  — 

I've  seen  the  country-gentlemen  turn  squeakers  — 

I've  seen  the  people  ridden  o'er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on  horseback  —  I  have  seen  malt  liquors 

Exchanged  for  *'thin  potations"  by  John  Bull  — 

I  have  seen  John  half  detect  himself  a  fooL 

) 

But  **Carpe  diem,"  Juan,  *'Carpe,  earpcl" , 

To-morrow  seen  another  race  as  gay 

And  transient,  and  devour'd  by  the  same  harpy.       y 

^'Life's  a  poor  player"  —  then  ''play  out  the  play\/ 

Ye  villains!"  and,  above  all,  keep  a  sharp  eye 

Much  less  on  what  you  do  than  what  you  say: 

Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 

Not  what  you  teem,  but  always  what  you  #••• 

86. 

But  how  shall  I  relate  in  other  Cantos 

Of  what  befell  our  hero  in  the  land 

Which  'tis  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 

A  moral  country?  But  I  hold  my  hand  — 

For  I  disdain  to  vrrite  an  Atalantis ; 

But  'tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand. 

You  are  not  a  moral  people,  and  you  know  it 

Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet 

87. 

What  Juan  saw  and  underwent,  shall  be 
My  topic  with  of  course  the  due  restriction 
Which  is  required  by  proper  courtesy; 
)^And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction. 
And  that  I  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me. 
Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of  oiction. 
Will  hint  allusions  never  meant  Ne'er  doubt 
TkU  —  when  I  speak,  I  don't  hiiU,  but  speak  out. 


\ 


GAKTO  Xa 


DON  JUAN. 


265 


8& 

Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 

Offspring  of  some  sage,  hosbaad-hantiiig  Countess, 

Or  whether  with  some  virgia  of  more  worth 

(I  mean  in  fortune's  matrimonial  bounties) 

He  took  to  regularly  peopling  earth, 

Of  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount  is  — 

Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damagesy 

For  being  too  excursive  in  hia  homages,  — 


89. 

Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I  will  back 

Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attack 

As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime. 

By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 

So  much  the  better !  —  I  may  stand  alone. 

But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a  throne. 


CANTO     XII. 


a.rJ 


1. 

09  all  the  barbarous  middle  ages,  that 
Which  is  most  barbarous  Is  the  middle  age 
Of  maa;  it  is  —  I  really  scarce  know  what; 
But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  sage. 
And  don't  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at  — 
A  period  something  like  a  printed  page. 
Black  letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 
Grows  grizzled,  and  we  are  not  what  we  were;  — 


/ 


Too  old  for  youth  —  too  young,  at  thirty-five. 

To  herd  with  boys,  or  hoard  with  good  threescore,  — 

1  wonder  people  should  be  left  alive; 

But,  since  tliey  are,  that  epoch  is  a  bore: 

Love  lingers  still,  although  'twere  late  to^^ixft;^  • 

And  as  for  other  love,  the  illusion's  o'er ;  '. 

And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination. 

Gleams  only  through  the  dawn  of  its  creation. 


Oh  gold !  why  call  we  misers  miserabfe? 

Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall ; 

Theirs  is  the  best  bower-anchor,  the  chain-cable 

Wbirfa  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small. 

Te  who  but  see  the  saring  man  at  table. 

And  sooro  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  aU, 

And  wonder  bow  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing. 

Know  not  what  visions  sprin^^Bm  each  cheese^paring. 


Love  or  Just  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker; 
Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss ; 
But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker,  \/ 

And  adding  still  a  little  through  each  cross 
(Which  wiU  come  over  things)  beats  love  or  liquor. 
The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  iifoun 
Ob  gold !  I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper>^  . 
Which  makes  bank-credit  like  a  bark  of  vapour;^ 


Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world?  Who  reign 

O'er  Congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal? 

Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain  ? 

(That  makcold  Europe's  journals  squeak  and  gibber  all) 

Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in  pain 

Or  pleasure?  .Who  make  politics  run  glibber  all ! 

The  shade  of  Bonaparte's  noble  daring  ?  ~> 

Jew  Rothschild,  and  his  fellow  Christian. Baring, 


Those,  and  the  truly  liberal  LaUte,. 
Are  the  true  lords  of  Europe.  Every  loan 
Is  not  a  merely  speculative  hit, 
But  seats  a. nation  or  upsets  a  throne. 
Republics  also  get  involved  a  bit; 
Colivnbia's  stock  hath  holders  not  unknown 
On  'ebange;  and  even  thy  silver-soil,  Peru, 
Most  get  itself  discounted  by  a  Jew. 


Why  call  the  miser  miserable?  ^s 

I  said  before:  the  frugal  life  is  his, 

Whidi  in  a  saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  praise:  a  hermit  would  not  miss 

Canonization  for  the  self-same  cause, 

And  wherefore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austerities? 

Because,  you'll  say,  nought  calls  for  such  a  trial;  - 

Then  there's  more  merit  In-his  self-deniaL 


He  is  your  only  poet ;  -*  passion,  pure 
And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays, 
Po99e$9%  the  ore^  of  which  mere  hope$  allure 
Nations  athwart  the  deep :  the  golden  rays 
Flash  up  in  ingots  from  the  mine  obscure ; 
On  him  the  diamond  pours  its  brilliant  blase, 
While  the  mild  emerald's  beam  shades  down  the  dyes 
Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  miser's  eyes. 
17* 


266 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  W 


The  lands  on  either  side  are  bis :  the  ship 
From  Ceylon,  Inde,  or  for  Cathay,  onloads 
For  him  the  fragrant  produce  of  each  trip; 
Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  jp-oan  the  roads. 
And  the  vine  blushes  like  Aurora's  lip ; 
His  very  cellars  might  be  kings'  abodes  ; 
While  he,  despising  every  sensual  call, 
Commands  —  the  intellectual  lord  of  all. 

10. 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind, 
To  buUd  a  college,  or  to  found  a  race, 
An  hospital,  a  church,  —  and  leave  behind 
Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face  : 
Perhaps  he  fain  would  liberate  mankind 
Even  ^ith  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  base; 
Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation, 
Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 

11. 

But  whether  all,  or  eaoh,  or  none  of  tlicse  • 

May  be  the  hoarder's  principle  of  action. 
The  fool  will  call  such  mania  a  disease;  — 
What  is  his  oum?  Go  —  look  at  each  transaction. 
Wars,  revels,  loves  —  do  these  bring  men  more  ease 
Than  the  mere  plodding  through  eaoh  "vulgar  fraction?" 
Or  do  they  benefit  uMinkiud  ?  Lean  miser ! 
Let  spendthrifts'  heirs  enquire  of  yours  —  who's  wiser? 

How  beauteous  areVonleaus!  how  charming  chests 
Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 
(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 
Weigh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines. 
But)  of  fine  unclipp'd  gold,  where  dully  rests 
Some  likeness  which  the  glittering  cirque  confines, 
Of  modern,  reigning,  sterling,  stupid  Mamp:  / 

Yes  if  ready  money  is  Aladdin's  lamp.  ^  V 

13. 

'Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove,"  ^'*for 
Is  heaven,  nnd  heaven  is  love :"  —  ^o  sings  tlie  bard 
Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 
Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  *Hhe  grove/' 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  ''love; "  but  I'm  prepared 
To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 
If  "courts"  and  "camps"  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

14 

But  if  love  don't,  emsk  does,  and  cash  alone: 
Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides ; 
Without  cash^  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  now* ; 
Without  cash,  Maltbus  tells  you  —  "take  no  brides."     / 
So  cash  rules  love  the  ruler,  on  his  own  v  \ 

Hig^  ground,  as  Virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides; 
And,  as  for  "heaven"  being  "love,"  why  not  say  honey 
Is  wax?  Heaven  is  not  love,  'tis  matrimony. 


r/ 


16. 

Is  not  an  love  prohibited  whatever, 
Bxceptiog  marriage?  which  is  love,  no  doubt. 
After  a  sort;  but  somehow  people  never 
With  the  same  thought  the  two  words  have  help'd  out: 
Love  may  exist  with  marriage  and  should  ever. 
And  marriage  also  may  exist  without ;  y 

But  love  sans  banns  is  both  a  sin  and  shame,     X 
And  ought  to  go  by  quite  another  name.         y 

16. 

Now  if  the  "court"  and  "camp"  and  "grove"  be  not 

Recruited  all  with  constant  married  men. 

Who  never  coveted  their  neighbour's  lot, 

I  say  that  line 's  a  lapsus  of  the  pen ;  — 

Strange  too  in  my  "buon  camcrado"  Scott, 

So  celebrated  for  his  morals,  when 

M.y  Jeffrey  held  him  up  as  an  example 

To  me;  —  of  which  these  morals  arc  a  sample. 

17. 

Well,  if  I  don't  snooeed,  I  kmvs  succeeded. 
And  that's  enough  -,  succeeded  in  my  youth. 
The  only  time  when  much  success  is  needed: 
And  my  success  produced  what  I  in  sooth 
Cared  most  about;  it  need  not  now  be  pleaded  — 
Whate'cr  it  was,  'twas  mine;  I've  paid,  in  truth. 
Of  late  the  penalty  of  such  success. 
But  have  not  learn'd  to  wish  it  any  less. 

18. 

That  suit  in  Chancery,  -^  which  some  persons  plead 

In  an  appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they. 

In  the  faith  of  their  procreative  erecd. 

Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay,  — 

To  me  aeems  but  a  dubious  kindpf^'ced 

To  lean  on  for  support  in  any  way; 

Since  odds  are  that  posterity  will  know 

No  moje  of  them,  than  they  of  her,  I  trow. 

la. 

Why,  I'm  posterity  —  and  so  arc  you ; 

And  whom  do  we  remember?  Not  a  hundred 

Were  every  memory  written  down  all  true; 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  be  but  blander'd: 

Even  Plutarch's  Lives  have  but  pick'd  out  a  few. 

And  'gainst  those  few  your  annalists  have  thuadcr'd; 

And  Mitford,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 

Gives,  with  Greek  tmtta||^  good  old  Greek  the  lie. 

ao. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  degree, 
Ye  gentle  readers  and  ungentle  writers, 
In  this  twelfth  Canto  'tis  my  wish  to  be 
As  serious  as  if  I  had  for  inditers 
Maltbus  and  Wilberforce :  —  the  last  set  free 
The  Negroes,  and  is  worth  a  million  fighters ; 
While  Wellington  has  but  enslaved  the  whites, 
^nd  Malthas  does  the  thing  'gainst  which  he  writes. 


CANTO  xn. 


DON  JUAN. 


267 


X 


21. 

I'm  serioas  —  so  are  all  men  upon  paper; 
And  why  should  I  not  form  m j  specalatioii, 
And  bold  ap  to  the  son  my  little  taper? 
Mankind  jnst  now  seem  wrapt  in  roeditatioD 
On  coostitations  and  steam-boats  of  vapour; 
Willie  sages  write  against  all  procreation. 
Unless  a  man  can  calculate  his  means 
Of  feeding  brats  the  moment  bis  wife  weans. 

Thafs  noble!  thafs  romantic!  For  my  part, 
I  think  tbat  '^philo-gemtiveness"  is  — 
(Now  here's  a  word  quite  after  my  own  heart. 
Though  there's  a  shorter  a  good  deal  than  this, 
If  that  politeness  set  it  not  apart; 
But  I'm  resolved  to  say  nought  thaf  s  amiss)  — 
1  say,  metbinks  that  ^'philo-genitiveness" 
Might  meet  Irom  men  a  little  more  forgiveness. 


And  now  to  business.  Ob,  my  gentle  Jnan ! 
Thou  art  in  London  —  in  that  pleasant  place 
Where  every  kind  of  mischief's  daily  brewing. 
Which  can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild  race. 
Tis  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a  new  one; 
Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  chase 
Of  early  life;  but  this  is  a  new  land 
Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 

What  with  a  small  «liversity  of  climate. 
Of  hot  or  cold,  mercurial  or  sedate, 
I  eouJd  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a  primate. 
Upon  the  rest  of  Europe's  social  state; 
Bat  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at, 
Great-Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  penetrate : 
AO  countries  have  tlieir  "lions,"  but  in  tliee 
There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 

35. 

But  I  am  sick  of  polities.  Bcgin^ 

**Pknlo  majora."  Juan,  undecided 

Amongst  the  paths  of  being  ''taken  in," 

Above  the  ioe  had  like  a  skaiter  glided : 

When  tired  of  piay^  he  flirted  witlioat  sin 

With  some  of  those  fair  creatures  who  have  prided 

Themselves  on  innocent  tantalization, 

And  hate  all  vice  except  its  roagation. 

36. 

Bat  tlie8e>are  few,  and  in  the  end  they  make 

Some  devilish  escapade  or  stir,  which  shows 

That  even  tlie  purest  people  may  mistake 

Thdr  way  through  virtue's  primrose  paths  of  snows  t^ 

Aad  then  men  stare,  as  if  a  new  ass  spake 

To  Balaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o'er6ows 

Qidck-silvcr  small-talk,  ending  (if  yon  note  it)        [it?" 

Wkhtiiekindworld'samen!— ''Who  would  havethongbt 


37. 

The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes 

And  taciturn  Asiatic  disposition, 

(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  surprise. 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 

Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 

To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition) 

Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history, 

Became  a  kind  of  &shiona1>le*mystery. 

38. 

The  women  mudi  divided  —  as  is  usual 

Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great 

Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I  mean  to  abuse  you  all  - 

I  have  always  liked  you  better  than  I  state: 

Since  I've  grown  moral,  still  I  must  accuse  you  all 

Of  bei ng  apt  to  talk  at  a  great  rate ; 

And  now  there  was  a  general  sensation 

Amongst  you,  about  Leila's  education. 

39. 

Jif  one  point  only  were  you  settled  and 

You  had  reason;  'twas  that  a  young  Child  of  Grace, 

As«beautifui  as  her  own  native  land. 

And  for  away,  the  last  bud  of  her  race, 

Howe V  our  friend  Don  Juan  might  command 

Himself  for  iaye,  four,  three,  or  two  years'  apace, 

Would  be  much  better  taught  beneath  the  eye 

Of  peeresses  whose  follies  bad  run  dry. 

30. 

So  first  there  was  a  generous  emulation, 

And  then  there  was  a  general  competition 

To  undertake  the  orphan's  education. 

As  Jnan  was  a  person  of  condition, 

It  had  been  an  aflfront  on  this  occasion 

To  talk  of  a  subscription  or  petition ; 

But  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she-sages. 

Whose  tale  belongs  to^*Hallam's  Middle  Ages," 

31. 

And  one  or  two  sad,  separate  wives,  without 
A  fruit  to  bloom  upon  tiieir  withering  bough  — 
Bogg'd  to.  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  "out,"  -- 
For  that's  the  phrase  that  settles  all  tfaUigs  now. 
Meaning  a  virgin's  first  blush  atn  rout. 
And  all  her  points  as  thorough^bred  to  show: 
And  I  assure  you,  that  like  virgin-honey 
Tastes  their  first  season  (mostly  if  they  have  money). 


How  all  the  needy  honourable  misters, 
Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy^ 
The  watchful  mothers  and  the  careful  sisters 
(Who,  by  the  bye,  when  clever,  are  more  handy  ^ 
At  making  matches,  where  **'tis  gold  that  glisters/' 
Than  their  iU-relatives)  like  flies  o'er  candy 
Boas  round  "the  Fortune"  with  their  busy  battery. 
To  turn  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery ! 


268 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  in 


33. 

Each  aant,  each  coasin  hath  her  speculation ; 
Nay,  married  dames  will  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 
I've  known  them  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 
"Tantaene!"  Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 
Bven  in  the  hopeful  isle,  whose  outlet 's  "Dover !" 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares, 
Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had'bad  male  heirs. 

34. 

Some  are  soon  ba§rg:'d,  but  some  reject  three  dosen. 
'Tis  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 
And  wild  dismay  o'er  every  angry  cousin 
(Friends  of  the  party)  who  begin  accusals 
Such  as  —  *' Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 
Poor  Frederick,  why  did  she  accord  perusals 
TohisbiUets?  IFAy  waltz  with  him?  Why,  I  pray, 
Look  yet  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day?  • 

Why?  —  Why?  —  Besides,  Fred,  really  was  aiUch'd-t^ 
'T  was  not  her  fortune  —  he  has  enough  without :        w 
The  time  will  eome  she'll  wish  that  she  had  snatch'd  ^ 
So  good  an  opportunity,  no  doubt: —  t^ 

But  the  old  marchioness  some  plan  has  hatch'd,  tfu 
As  I'll  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow's  rout :  |^ 

And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better  —    c^ 
Pray,  did  you  see  her  answer  to  liis  letter  ?  '^        ^-^ 

36. 

Smart  uniforms  and  sparkling  coronets 
Are  spurn'd  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives. 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 
Upon  the  sweep-stakes  for  substantial  wives : 
And  when  at  last  the  pretty  creature  gets 
Some  gentleman  who  tights,  or  writes,  or  drives. 
It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  how  very  badly  she  selected. 


S7. 

For  sometimes  they  accept  some  long  pursuer. 

Worn  out  with  importunity ;  or  fall 

(But  here  perhaps  the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  him  who  scarce  pursued  at  all. 

A  ha«y  widower  turn'd  of  forty 's  sure 

(If  'tis  not  vain  examples  to  recall) 

To  draw  a  high  priae :  now,  ho we'cr  he  got  her,  I     ' 

See  nought  more  strange  in  this  than  t'other  lottery. 

38. 

I,  for  my  part  —  (one  ^'modern  instance"  more, 
"True,  'tis  tf  pity  —  pity  'tis,  'tis  true")  ^ 
Was  chosen  from  out  an  amatory  score, 
Albeit  my  years  were  less  discreet  than  few ; 
But  though  I  also  had  reform'd  before 
T.hose  became  one  lachnsopn  were  to  be  two ; 
I'll  not  gainsay  the  generous  pubfic^s  voice  — 
That  the  young  lady  made  a  monstrous  choice. 


.^^ 


39. 

Oh,  pardon  my  digression  —  or  at  least 
Peruse !  'Tis  always  with  a  moral  end 
That  I  dissert,  like  grace  before  a  feast : 
For  like  an  aged  aunt,  or  tiresome  friend, 
A  rigid  guardian,  or  a  sealous  priest. 
My  Muse  by  exhortation  means  to  mend 
All  people,  at  all  times,  and  in  most  places. 
Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  grave  paces. 

4a 

But  now  I'm  going  to  be  immoral ;    now 
I  mean  to  show  things  really  as  they  are, 
Not  as  they  ought  to  be :  for  I  aTOw, 
That  till  we  see  wbaf  s  what  in  fact,  we're  fiur 
From  much  improvement  with  that  virtuous  plough 
Which  skrms  the  surface,  leaving  scarce  a  scar 
Upon  the  black  loam  long  manured  by  Vice, 
Only  to  keep  its  corn  at  the  old  price. 

41. 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we'll  dispose ; 

For,  like  a  day-dawn,  she  was  young  and  pure. 

Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be  sure, 

Like  many  people  every  body  knows. 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to  secure 

A  goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  ofcai^. 

Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

43. 

Besides,  he  had  foui^  out  that  he  was  no  tutor 
(I  wish  that  others  would  find  out  the  same) : 
And  rather  wish'd  in  such  things  to  stand  neuter, 
For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blame: 
So,  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor 
To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame» 
^Consulting  the  "Society  for  Vice- 
Suppression/'  Lady  Pinehbeck  was  his  cboiec. 


43. 

Olden  she  was  —  but  had  been  very  young  : 

Virtuous  she  was  —  and  had  been,  I  beliere: 

Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 

That but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  receive 

An  echo  of  a  syllable  that's  wrong : 
In  fact,  there's  nothing  makes  me  so  much  grieve 
t  As  that  abominal^le  tittle  tattle. 
Which  is  the  cud  eschetflUy  human  cattle. 

Moreover  I'veremark'd  (and  I  was  once 
A  slight  observer  in  a  modest  way), 
And  so  may  every  one  except  a  dunce. 
That  ladies  in  their  youth  a  little  gay. 
Besides  their  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  scns^ 
Of  the  sad  consequence  of  going  astray,  v/ 

Are  wiser  in  their  warnings  'gainst  the  woe. 
Which  the  mere  passionless  can  never  know. 


CJL!iTO  XII. 


DON  JUAN. 


269 


45. 

While  the  harsh  pnide  indemnifies  her  virtne 
'Bj  railing  at  the  anicnown  and  envied  passion, 
Seeking  far  less  to  save  ^ou  than  to  hurt  you, 
Or,  what's  still  worse,  to  put  you  out  of  fashion,  — 
The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  will  court  you, 
Bntreating  yon  to  pause  before  you  dash  on ; 
Expounding  and  illustrating  the  riddle 
Of  epic  love's  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 

46. 

Now,  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  stricter. 
As  better  knowing  why  they  should  be  so, 
( think  you'll  find  from  many  a  family-picture^ 
That  daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 
The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by  lecture, 
Tom  out  much  better  for  the  Smithfield-show 
Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage-mart. 
Than  those  bred  up  by  prudes  without  a  heart 

.    47. 

I  said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk'd  about  — 

As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty? 

Bat  now  no  more  the  ghost  of  scandal  stalk'd  about; 

She  merely  was  deem'd  amiable  and  witty, 

And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk'd  about  ; 

Then  she  was  given  to  charity  and  pity, 

And  pass'd  (at  least  the  latter  years  of  life) 

For  being  a  most  exemplary  wife. 

48. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 

She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young 

Whenever  —  which  means  every  day  —  they'd  shown 

Ad  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 

The  quantity  of  good  she  did's  unknown,  — 

Or  at  the  least  would  lengthen  out  my  song : 

lo  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  Bast 

Had  raised  an  interest  in  her  which  increased. 

49. 

Joan  too  was  a  sort  of  favourite  with  her, 

Because  she  thought  him  a  good  heart  at  bottom, 

A  little  spoird,  but  not  so  altogether; 

Which  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who  got  htm, 

And  how  he  had  been  toss'd,  he  scarce  knew  whither : 

Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  not  him, 

At  least  entirely  —  for  he  had  seen  too  many 

Changes  in  youth  to  be  surpciscd  at  any. 

60. 

And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth; 

For  when  they  happen  at  a  riper  age, 

People  are  apt  to  blame  the  fiites,  forsooth, 

And  wonder  Providence  is  not  more  sage.  ^ 

Adversity  is  the  first  path  to  truth :  \/^ 

Re  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman's  rage. 

Whether  bis  winters  be  eighteen  or  eighty, 

Aath  won  the  experience  which  is  deem'd  so  weighty. 


61. 

How  fhr  it  profits  is  another  matter.  — 
Our  hero  gladly  saw  his  little  charge 
Safe  with  a  lady,  whose  last  grown-up  daughter 
Being  long  married,  and  thus  set  at  large. 
Had  left  all  the  accomplishments  she  taught  her 
To  be  transmitted,  like  the  Lord-Mayor's  barge, 
To  the  next  comer ;  or  —  as  it  will  tell 
More  muse-like  —  say  like  Cy  therca's  shell. 

63. 

I  call  such  things  transmission ;  for  there  is 
A  floating  balance  of  accomplishment 
Which  forms  a  pedigree  from  Miss  to  Miss, 
According  as  their  minds  or  backs  are  bent 
Some  waltz;  some  draw;  some  fathom  the  abyss 
Of  metaphysics;  others  are  content 
With  music ;  the  most  moderate  shine  as  wits, 
While  others  have  a  genius  turn'd  for  fits. 

63. 

But  whether  fits,  or  wits,  or  harpsichords, 

Theology,  fine  arts,  or  finer  stays 

May  be  the  baits  for  gentlemen  or  lords, 

With  regular  descent,  in  these  our  days 

The  last  year  to  the  new  transfers  its  hoards; 

New  vestals  claim  men's  eyes  with  the  same  praise 

Of  "elegant,"  et  cetera,  in  fresh  batches  — 

All  matchless  creatures  and  yet  bent  on  matches. 

64. 

But  now  I  will  begin  my  poem.   'Tis 
Perhaps  a  little  strange,  if  not  quite  new, 
That  from  the  first  of  Cantos  up  to  this 
I've  not  begun  what  we  have  to  go  through. 
These  first  twelve  books  are  merely  flourishes, 
Preludios,  trying  just  a  string  or  two 
Upon  my  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sure ; 
And  when  so,  you  shall  have  the  overture. 

66. 

My  Muses  do  not  care  a  pinch  of  rosin 

About  what's  call'd  success,  or  not  succeeding: 

Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they've  chosen; 

'Tis  a  "great  moral  lesson"  they  are  reading. 

I  thought,  at  setting  off",  about  two  dozen 

Cantos  would  do;  but,  at  Apollo's  pleading. 

If  that  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  founder'd, 

I  think  to  canter  gently  through  a  hundred. 


? 


60. 

Don  Juan  saw  that  microcosm  on  stilts, 
^lYclept  the  great  worid ;  for  it  is  the  least, 
iTffihough  the  highest:  but  as  swords  have  hilts 
By  which  their  power  of  mischief  is  increased, 
When  man  in  battle  or  in  quarreWilts, 
Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 
Must  still  obey  the  high  —  which  is  their  handle, 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their  farthing-candle. 


270 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  XII 


67. 

He  had  many  friends  who  had  many  wives,  and  was 
Well  look'd  upon  by  both,  to  that  extent 
Of  friendship  which  you  may  accept  or  pass, 
It  does  nor  good  nor  harm ;  being-  merely  meant 
To  keep  the  wheels  goings  of  the  higher  class, 
And  draw  them  nightly  when  a  ticket's  sent : 
And  what  with  masquerades,  and  fdtes,  and  balls, 
For  the  first  season  such  a  life  scarce  palls. 

68. 

A  30ung  unmarried  man,  with  a  good  name 
And  fortune,  has  an  awkward  part  to  play; 
t'or  good  society  is  but  a  game, 
"^Hjhc  royal  game  of  goose,"  as  I  may  say, 
AVhere  every  body  has  some  separate  aim, 
An  end  to  answer,  or  a  plan  to  lay  — 
The  single  ladies  wishing  to  be  double, 
The  married  ones  to  save  the  virgins  trouble. 

60. 

I  don't  mean  this  as  general,  but  particular 
Examples  may  be  found  of  such  pursuits: 
Though  several  also  keep  their  perpendicular 
Like  poplars,  with  good  principles  for  roots ; 
Yet  many  have  a  method  more  reticular  — 
'^Fishers  for  men,"  like  Sirens  with  soft  lutes: 
For  talk  six  times  with  the  same  single  lady, 
And  you  may  get  the  wedding-dresses  ready. 


60. 


1 


7 


Perhaps  you'll  have  a  letter  from  the  mother. 
To  say  her  daughter's  feelings  are  tcepann'd ; 
Perhaps  you'll  have  a  visit  from  the  brother. 
All  strut,  and  stays,  and  whiskers,  to  demand 
What  "your  intentions  are?"  —  One  way  or  othej 
It  seems  tbe  virgin's  heart  expects  your  band; 
And,  between  pity  for  her  case  and  yours, 
You'll  add  to  matrimony's  list  of  cures. 

61. 

I've  known  a  dozen  weddings  made  even  thus. 
And  some  of  them  high  names:  1  have  also  known 
Young  men  who  —  though  they  hated  to  discuss 
Pretensions  whidi  they  never  droam'd  to  have  shown  • 
Yet  neither  frighten'd  by  a  female  fuss, 
Nor  by  mustachios  moved,  were  let  alone. 
And  lived,  as  did  tbe  broken-hearted  fair, 
In  happier  plight  than  if  they  formed  a  pair. 

62. 

There's  also  nightly,  to  the  uninitiated, 

A  peril  —  not  indeed  like  love  or  marriage. 

But  not  the  less  for  this  to  be  depreciated : 

It  is  —  I  meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 

The  show  of  virtue  even  in  the  vitiated  — 

It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage  — 

But  to  denounce  the  amphibious  sort  of  harlot, 

'^Coaleor  de  rose,"  who's  neither  white  nor  scarlet. 


63. 

Such  is  your  cold  coquette,  who  can't  say  **No,*' 
And  won't  say  **Yes,"  and  keeps  you  on  and  off-ing, 
On  a  lee  shore,  till  it  begins  to  blow  ~ 
Then  sees  your  heart  wreck'd,  with  an  inward  scoffing: 
This  works  a  world  of  sentimental  woe. 
And  sends  new  Werters  yearly  to  their  coffin ; 
But  yet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation,  / 

Not  quite  adultery,  but  adulteration.  ^ 

64. 

"Ye  Gods,  T  grow  a  talker!"  Let  us  prate. 
The  next  of  perils,  though  I  place  it  sternest^ 
Is  when,  without  regard  to  "Church  or  State," 
A  wife  makes  or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest 
Abroad,  such  things  decide  few  women's  fote  — 
(Such,  early  traveller!  is  the  truth  thou  leamest)  — 
But  in  old  England  when  a  young  bride  errs,  / 

Poor  thing!  Eve's  was  a  trifling  case  to  hers;      ^ 

66. 

For  'tis  a  low,  newspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit- 
Country,  where  a  young  couple  of  the  same  age 
Can't  form  a  friendship  but  the  world  o'erawes  it. 
Then  there's  the  vulgar  trick  of  those  damn'd  damages! 
A  verdict  --  grievous  foe  to  those  who  cause  it !  — 
Forms  a  sad  climax  to  romantic  homages; 
Besides  those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleaders. 
And  evidences  which  regale  all  readers ! 

66. 

But  they  who  blunder  thus,  are  raw  beginners : 
A  little  genial  sprinkliug  of  hypocrisy 
Has  saved  the  fame  of  thousand  splendid  sinners. 
The  loveliest  Oligarchs  of  our  Gynocracy ; 
You  may  see  such  at  all  the  balls  and  dinners. 
Among  the  proudest  of  our  Aristocracy, 
So  gentle,  charming,  charitable,  chaste  — 
And  all  by  having  tact  as  well  as  taste. 

67. 

Juan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predicament 

Of  a  mere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  more; 

For  he  was  sick  —  no,  'twas  not  the  word  tick  I  meant  — 

But  he  had  seen  so  much  good  love  before, 

That  he  was  not  in  heart  so  very  weak;  —  I  meant 

But  thus  much,  and  no  sneer  against  the  shore 

Of  white  cliffs,  white  necks,  blue  eyes,  bluer  stockings, 

Tithes,  taxes,  dons,  and  doors  with  double  knockings 

68. 

But  coming  young  from  lands  and  scenes  romantic, 
Where  lives,  not  lawsuits,  must  be  risk'd  for  passion, 
And  passion's  self  must  have  a  spice  of  frantic. 
Into  a  country  where  'tis  half  a  fashion, 
Seem'd  to  him  half  commercial,  half  pedantic. 
Howe'er  he  might  esteem  this  moral  nation ; 
Besidet  (alas !  his  taste  —  forgive  and  pity !) 
At  first  he  did  not  think  the  women  pretty. 


CANTO  XIL 


DON  JUAN. 


271 


I  say  Atjirst  —  for  he  found  out  at  last. 

Bat  by  dej^rees,  that  they  were  fairer  far 

Than  the  more  glowing  dames  whose  lot  is  cast 

Beneath  the  influence  of  the  eastern  star  -- 

A  further  proof  we  should  not  judge  in  haste ; 

Yet  bexperience  could  not  be  his  bar 

To  taste:  -^  the  truth  is,  if  men  would  confess. 

That  noyeliiea  please  less  than  they  impress, 

70. 

Though  traTell'd,  I  have  never  had  the  luck  to 
Trace  up  those  shuffling  negroes,  Nile  or  Niger, 
To  that  impracticable  place,  Timbuctoo, 
Where  Geography  finds  no  one  to  oblige  her 
With  such  a  chart  as  may  be  safely  stuck  to  — 
.    For  Europe  ploughs  in  Afric  like  *'bos  piger  :** 
But  if  I  had  been  at  Timbuctoo,  there 
No  doubt  I  should  be  told  that  black  is  fair 

\ 

It  is.  I  will  not  swear  that  black  is  white ; 
Bat  I  suspect  in  fact  that  white  Ls  black. 

I    And  the  whole  matter  rests  upon  eye-sight. 

I    Ask  a  blind  man,  the  best  judge.  You'll  attack 
Perhaps  this  new  position  —  but  I'm  right; 
Or  if  I'm  wrong,  I'll  not  be  ta'cn  aback:  — 
He  hath  no  morn  nor  night,  but  all  is  dark 
Within;  and  what  scest  thou?  A  dubious  spark. 

72. 

Bot  I'm  relapsing  into  metaphysics. 
That  labyrinth,  whose  clue  is  of  the  same 
Construction  as  your  cures  for  hectic  phthisics, 
Those  bright  moths  fluttering  round  a  dying  flame: 
And  this  reflection  brings  mc  to  plain  physics. 
And  to  the  beauties  of  a  foreign  dame, 
Compared  with  those  of  our  pure  pearls  of  price. 
Those  polar  sununers,  all  sun,  and  some  ice. 

73. 

Or  say  they  arc  like  virtuous  mermaids,  whose 
Beginnings  are  fair  faces,  ends  mere  fishes;  — 
Not  that  there's  not  a  quantity  of  those 
Who  have  a  due  respect  for  their  own  wishes. 
Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows 
Arc  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  vicious  • 
They  warm  into  a  scrape,  but  keep  of  course. 
As  a  reserve,  a  plunge  into  remorse. 

74, 

But  this  has  nought  to  do  with  their  outsides. 
I  said  that  Juan  did  not  think  them  pretty 
At  the  first  blush ;  for  a  fair  Briton  hides 
Half  her  attractions  —  probably  from  pity  —  /  ^ 
And  rather  calmly  into  tlie  heart  glides.  '  *S 

Than  storms  it  as  a  foe  would  take  a  city . 
Bat ODce  there  (if  you  doubt  this,  prithee  try)  ^ 
She  keeps  it  for  you  like  a  true  ally. 


76. 

She  cannot  step  as  does  an  Arab  barb, 

Or  Andalusian  girl  from  mass  returning, 

Nor  wear  as  gracefully  as  Gauls  her  garb, 

Nor  in  her  eye  Ausonia's  glance  is  burning; 

Her  voice,  though  sweet,  is  not  so  fit  to  warb*^^     '^ 

le  those  bravuras  (which  I  still  am  learning 

To  like,  though  I  have  been  seven  years  in  Italy, 

And  have,  or  had,  an  ear  that  served  me  prettily) ;   - 

7d. 

She  cannot  do  these  things,  nor  one  or  two 

Others,  in  that  off-hand  and  dashing  style 

Which  takes  so  much  ^  to  give  the  devil  his  due; 

Nor  is  she  quite  so  ready  with  her  smile. 

Nor  settles  all  things  in  one  interview 

(A  thing  approved  as  saving  time  and  toil) ; 

But  though  the  soil  may  give  you  time  and  trouble, 

Well  cultivated,  it  will  render  double. 

77. 

And  if  in  foct  she  takes  to  a  *'grande  passion," 

It  is  a  very  serious  thing  indeed: 

Nine  times  in  ten  'tis  but  caprice  or  fashion, 

Coquetry,  or  a  wish  to  take  the  lead, 

The  pride  of  a  mere  child  with  a  new  sash  on, 

Or  wish  to  make  a  rival's  bosom  bleed ; 

But  the  tenth  instance  will  be  a  tornado, 

For  there's  no  saying  what  they  will  or  may  do. 

78. 

The  reason's  obvious :  if  there's  an  ddat, 

They  lose  their  caste  at  once,  as  do  the  Parias; 

And  when  the  delicacies  of  the  law 

Have  fill'd  their  papers  with  their  comments  various. 

Society,  that  china  without  flaw, 

(The  hypocrite!)  will  banish  them  like  Marius, 

To  sit  amidst  the  ruin  of  their  guilt: 

For  Fame's  a  Carthage  not  so  soon  rebuilt. 

70. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  it  should  be;  —  it  is 
A  comment  on  the  Gospel's  "Sin  no  more, 
And  be  thy  sins  forgiven;"  —  but  upon  this 
I  leave  the  saints  to  settle  tlieir  own  score. 
Abroad,  though  doubtless  they  do  much  amiss, 
An  erring  woman  finds  an  open  door 
For  her  return  to  Virtue  —  as  they  call 
That  Lady  who  should  be  at  home  to  all. 

80. 

For  me,  I  leave  the  matter  where  I  find  it, 

Knowing  that  such  uneasy  Virtue  leads 

People  some  ten  times  less  in  fact  to  mind  it. 

And  care  but  for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 

And  as  for  Chastity,  you'll  never  bind  it 

By  all  the  laws  the  strictest  lawyer  pleads, 

But  aggravate  the  crime  you  have  not  prevented, 

By  rendering  desperate  those  who  had  else  repented. 


/ 


272 


DON  JUAN 


OAHTO  U 


81. 

Bat  Joan  was  no  oasaist,  nor  had  ponder'd 
Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind : 
Besides,  he  bad  not  seen,  of  several  hundred, 
A  lady  altogether  to  his  mind. 
A  little  **blfs6"  —  'tis  not  to  be  wonder'd 
At,  titat  his  heart  had  got  a  tougher  rind : 
And  though  not  vainer  from  his  past  success. 
No  doubt  bis  sensibilities  were  less. 

82. 

He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights  - 
The  Parliament  and  all'the  other  houses; 
Had  sate  beneath  the  gallery  at^ights. 
To  hear  debates  whose  thunder  roused  (not  ratues) 
The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights 
'Which  flashed  as  far  as  where  the  muskbull  browses; 
He  had  also  stood  at  times  behind  the  throne, 
But  Grey  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone. 


He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session. 
That  noble  sight,  when  realfy  free  the  nation, 
A  king  in  constitutional  possession 
Of  such  a  throne  as  is  the  proudest  station, 
Though  despots  know  it  not  —  till  the  progression 
Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 
'Tis  not  mere  splendour  makes  the  show  august 
To  eye  or  heart  —  it  is  the  people's  trust. 

84. 

There  too  he  saw  (whate'cr  he  may  be  now) 
A  prince,  the  prince  of  princes,  at  the  time 
With  fascination  in  his  very  bow, 
And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 
Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow. 
He  bad  then  the  grace  too,  rare  in  every  clime, 
Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 
A  finished  gentleman  from  top  to  toe. 


86. 

And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said. 
Into  the  best  society :  and  there 
Occurr'd  what  often  happens,  I'm  afraid, 
However  disciplined  and  debonnaire : 
The  talent  and  good  humour  he  display'd, 
Besides  the  mark'd  distinction  of  his  air, 
Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation, 
£ven  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

86. 

But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when,  and  why 

Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together; 

And  as  my  object  is  morality 

(Whatever  people  say)  I  don't  know  whether 

ril  leave  a  single  reader's  eyelid  dry. 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings  till  they  wither. 

And  hew  out  a  huge  monument  of  pathos, 

As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  witii  Athos. 


87. 

Here  the  twelfth  Canto  of  our  introduction 
Ends.  When  the  body  ofthe  book's  begun, 
IQCltflhind  it  of  a  different  construction 
From  what  some  people  say  'twill  be  when  done : 
The  plan  at  present's  simply  in  concoction. 
I  can't  oblige  you,  reader !  to  read  on ; 
^That's  your  aflbir,  not  mine :  a  real  spirit 
should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  to  bear  it. 

88. 

And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles, 

Remember,  reader !  yon  have  had  before 

The  worst  of  tempests  and  the  best  of  battles 

That  e'er  were  brew'd  from  elements  or  gore,      [else :  — 

Besides  the  most  sublime  of  —  Heaven  knows  what 

An  usurer  could  scarce  expect  much  more  — 

But  my  best  Canto,  save  one  on  astronomy. 

Will  turn  upon  'Apolitical  economy." 


TTkat  is  your  present  theme  for  popularity: 

Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  scarce  a  stake, 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  charity. 

To  show  the  people  the  best  way  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  f,  if  but  for  singularity. 

Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Mean  time  read  all  the  national-debt-sinkers, 

And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  your  great  thinkers. 


MNTO  XOL 


DON  JUAK. 


273 


CANTO     XHL 


1. 

I  NOW  mean  to  be  serioas ;  —  it  is  time, 
Since  laughter  now-a-days  is  dcem'd  too  serious. 
A  jest  at  vice  by  virtue's  cali'd  a  crime. 
And  critically  held  as  deleterious; 
Besides,  the  sad's  a  source  of  the  sublime, 
Although,  ivhcn  long,  a  little  apt  to  weary  us; 
And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high  and  solemn. 
As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a  column. 


The  Lady  Adeline  Amundcvillc 
('Tis  an  old  Norman  name,  and  to  be  found 
In  pedigrees  by  those  who  wander  still 
Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  ground) 
Was  high-bom,  wealthy  by  her  father's  will, 
And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most  abound. 
In  Britain  —  which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 


ni  not  gainsay  them ;  it  is  not  my  cue ; 

I  leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt  the  best: 

And  eye's  an  eye,  and  whether  black  or  blue^ 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  'tis  in  request : 

lis  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a  hue  — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  as  a  test 

Hie  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair;  and  no  man, 

Tili  thirty,  should  perceive  there's  a  plain  woman. 


y 


And  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 

^locfa,  that  awkward  corner  tum'd  for  days 

More  qoiet,  when  our  moon's  no  more  at  full, 

We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise; 

Because  indifference  begins  to  lull 

Oar  passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdom's  ways ; 

Also  because  the  figure  and  the  face 

Kfll,  that  'tis  time  to  g^ve  the  younger  place. 


I  know  that  some  would  foin  postpone  this  era, 

BelQctant  as  all  placemen  to  resign 

Their  post;  but  theirs  is  merely  a  chimera. 

For  they  have  pass'd  life's  equinoctial  line 

But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  madeira 

To  irrigate  the  dryness  of  decline ; 

And  county-meetings  and  the  Parliament, 

And  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent 


/ 


And  is  there  not  religion,  and  reform. 

Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what's  call'd  the  '*Nation  " 

The  struggle  to  be  pilots  in  a  storm? 

The  landed  and  the  monied  speculation? 

The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm,    y 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 

Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure; 

Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 

7. 

Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  profoss'd, 
Right  honestly,  "he  liked  an  honest  hater"  — 
The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confest 
Within  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later. 
Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest:  — 
For  my  part,  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator, 
And  gaze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is, 
Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe's  Mephistopheles; 

6. 

But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess ; 

Though  'twas  not  once  so.  If  I  sneer  sometimes, 

It  is  because  I  cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes. 

I  should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  cheek  than  punish  crimes. 

Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 

Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  efforts  fell. 


Of  an  tales  'tis  the  saddest  —  and  more  sad. 
Because  it  makes  us  smile;  his  hero's  right. 
And  still  pursues  the  right;  —  to  curb  the  bad. 
His  only  object,  and  'gainst  odds  to  fight 
His  guerdon:  'tis  his  virtue  makes  him  mad  ! 
But  his  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight;  — 
A  sorrier  still  is  the  great  moral  taught 
By  that  real  Epic  unto  all  who  haye  thougiit. 

10. 

Redressing  iiyary,  revenging  wrong, 
To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff; 
Opposing  singly  the  united  strong, 
From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native;  — 
Alas  I  must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song. 
Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  theme  creative; 
A  jest,  a  riddle,  feme  through  thin  and  thick  sought? 
And  Socrates  himself  but  wisdom's  Quixote? 
18 


274 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  xm. 


11. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away ; 

A  single  laugh  demolished  the  right  arm 

Of  bis  own  country;  —  seldom  since  that  day 

Has  Spain  had  heroes.  While  Romance  could  charm, 

The  world  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array : 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 

That  all  their  glory,  as  a  composition, 

Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 

12. 

I'm  *'at  my  old  Lunes''  —  digression,  and  forget 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville; 

The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 

Although  she  was  not  evil,  nor  meant  ill ; 

But  destiny  and  passion  spread  the  net 

(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  for  our  own  will). 

And  caught  them;  —  what  do  they  not  catch,  mctliinka? 

But  I'm  not  Oedipus,  and  life's  a  Sphinx. 

13. 

I  tell  the  talc  as  it  is  told,  nor  dare 
To  venture  a  solution :  '*Davus  sum !" 
And  now  I  will  proceed  upon  the  pair. 
Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum, 
Was  the  queen-bee,  the  glass  of  all  that's  fair; 
Whose  charms  made  all  men  speak,  and  women  dumb. 
The  last's  a  miracle,  and  sucli  was  rcckon'd, 
And  since  that  time  there  has  not  been  a  second. 

14. 

Chaste  was  she,  to  detraction's  desperation. 
And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well  -- 
A  man  known  in  the  eouocils  of  the  nation, 
Cool,  and  quite  English ;  imperturbable, 
Though  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion; 
Proud  of  himself  and  her;  the  world  could  tell 
Nought  against  either,  and  both  seem'd  secure  — 
She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 

16. 

It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations, 
Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 
Himself  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 
Into  close  contact  Though  reserved,  nor  caught 
By  specious  seeming,  Juan's  youth,  and  patience, 
And  talent,  on  his  haughty  spirit  wrought. 
And  form'd  a  basis  of  esteem,  which  ends 
In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

16. 

And  thns  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautious  as 
Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full  slow 
In  judging  men  —  when  once  bis  judgment  was 
Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe, 
Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride  has, 
Which  knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious  How, 
And  loves  or  hates,  disdaining  to  be  guided, 
Because  Its  own  good  pleasure  hath  dccidi'd. 


17. 

His  friendships  therefore,  and  no  less  aversions. 
Though  oft  well  founded,  which  confirm'd  but  more 
His  prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians 
And  Medes,  would  ne'er  revoke  what  went  before. 
His  feelings  bad  not  those  strange  fits,  like  tertians, 
Of  common  likings,  which  make  some  deplore 
What  they  should  laugh  at  —  the  mere  ague  still 
Of  men's  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chili. 

18. 

^'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success; 

But  do  you  more,  Sempronius  --  don*t  deserve  it;*' 

And  take  my  word,  you  won't  have  any  less  i 

Be  wary,  watch  the  time,  and  always  serve  it; 

Give  gently  way,  when  there's  too  great  a  press ; 

And  for  your  conscience,  only  learn  to  nerve  it;  — 

For,  like  a  racer  or  a  boxer  training, 

'Twill  make,  if  proved,  vast  efforts  without  paining. 

19. 

Lord  Henry  also  liked  to  be  superior, 
As  most  men  do,  the  little  or  the  grreat; 
The  very  lowest  find  out  an  inferior. 
At  least  they  think  so,  to  exert  their  state 
Upon :  for  there  are  very  few  things  wearier 
Than  solitary  pride's  oppressive  weight, 
Which  mortals  generously  would  divide. 
By  bidding  others  carry  while  they  ride. 

20. 

In  birth,  in  rank,  in  fortune  likewise  equal. 
O'er  Juan  he  could  no  distinction  claim ; 
in  years  he  had  the  advantage  of  time's  sequel ; 
And,  as  he  thought,  in  country  much  the  same  — 
Because  bold  Britons  have  a  tongue  and  free  quill. 
At  which  all  modern  nations  vainly  aim; 
And  the  Lord  Henry  was  a  great  debater, 
So  that  few  members  kept  the  House  up  later. 

21. 

These  were  advantages :  and  then  he  thought  -— 
It  was  his  foible,  but  by  no  means  sinister  — 
That  few  or  none  more  than  himself  had  caught 
Court-mysteries,  having  been  himself  a  minister: 
He  liked  to  teach  that  which  he  bad  been  taught. 
And  greatly  shone  whenever  there  had  been  a  stir; 
And  reconciled  all  qualities  which  grace  man. 
Always  a  patriot,  and  sometimes  a  placeman. 

22. 

He  liked  the  gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gra\ity ; 

He  almost  honour'd  him  for  his  docility, 

Because,  though  young,  he  acquiesced  with  suavity. 

Or  contradicted  but  with  proud  humility. . 

He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  sec  depravity 

In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the  soil's  fertility, 

If  that  the  weeds  o'erlive  not  the  first  crop,  — 

For  then  they  are  very  difficult  to  stop. 


CANTO  xm. 


DON  JUAN, 


275 


23. 

And  then  he  talk'd  with  hhn  about  Madrid, 
CoDstaDtiDOple,  and  racfa  distant  places; 
Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid, 
Or  did  what  they  should  not  with  foreign  graces. 
Of  coursers  also  spake  they:  Henry  rid 
Well,  like  most  Bnglishmen,  and  loved  the  races; 
And  Juan,  like  a  true-born  Andalusian, 
Could  back  a  horse,  as  despots  ride  a  Kussian. 

24. 

And  thus  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs, 

And  diplomatic  dinners,  or  at  other  — 

For  Juan  stood  well  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 

As  in  Freemasonry  a  higher  brother. 

Vpon  his  talent  Henry  had  no  doubts, 

His  manner  sbow'd  him  sprung  from  a  high  mother; 

And  all  men  like  to  show  their  hospitality 

To  him  whose  breeding  marches  with  his  quality. 

At  Blank-Blank-Square  ;-^  for  we  will  break  no  squares 
By  naming  streets :  since  men  are  so  censorious, 
And  apt  to  sow  an  author's  wheat  with  tares, 
Reaping  allusions  priTate  and  inglorious. 
Where  none  were  dreamt  of,  unto  love's  affairs, 
Which  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be  notorious ; 
That  therefore  do  I  previously  declare. 
Lord  Henry's  mansion  was  in  Blank-Blank-Square. 

20. 

Also  there  bin  another  pious  reason 
For  making  squares  and  streets  anonjmons ; 
Which.is,  that  there  Is  scarce  a  single  season 
Which  doth  not  shake  some  very  splendid  house 
With  some  slight  heart-quake  of  domestic  treason  — 
A  topic  scandal  doth  delight  to  rouse: 
Such  I  might  stumble  over  unawares, 
Unless  I  knew  the  very  chastest  squares. 

27. 

Tis  true,  I  might  have  chosen  Piccadilly, 

A  place  where  peccadillos  are  unknown; 

But  I  have  motives,  whether  wise  or  silly, 

For  letting  that  pure  sanctuary  alone. 

Therefore  I  name  not  square,  street,  place,  until  I 

Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown, 

A  vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  heart: 

Such  are  —  but  I  have  lost  the  London  Chart. 

28. 

At  Henry's  mansion  then  in  Blank-Blank-Square, 
Was  Juan  a  recherthi,  welcome  guest, 
As  many  otiier  noble  scions  were ; 
And  some  who  had  but  talent  for  their  crest; 
Or  wealth,  which  is  a  passport  every  where; 
Or  even  mere  fashion,  which  indeed's  the  best 
Rreommendation;  —  and  to  be  well  drest 
Win  very  often  supersede  the  rest 


2d. 

And  since  "there's  safety  in  a  multitude 

Of  counsellors,"  as  Solomon  has  said. 

Or  some  one  for  him,  in  some  sage,  grave  mood;  — 

Indeed  we  see  the  daily  proof  displayed 

In  senates,  at  the  bar,  in  wordy  feud, 

Where'er  collective  wisdom  can  parade. 

Which  is  the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess, 

Of  Britain's  present  wealth  and  happiness;  — 

30. 

But  as  there's  safety  grafted  in  the  number 

Of  counsellors  for  men,  —  thus  for  the  sex 

A  large  acquaintance  lets  not  virtue  slumber; 

Or  should  it  shake,  the  choice  will  more  perplex  — 

Variety  itself  will  more  encumber* 

'Midst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrecks; 

And  thus  with  women:  howsoe'er  it  shock  some's 

Self-love,  therc'/i  safety  in  a  crowd  of  coxcombs. 

31. 

But  Adeline  had  not  the  least  occasion 

For  such  a  shield,  which  leaves  but  little  merit 

To  virtue  proper,  or  good  education. 

Her  chief  resource  was  in  her  own  high  spirit, 

Which  judged  mankind  at  their  due  estimation ; 

And  for  coquetry,  she  disdain'd  to  wear  it: 

Secure  of  admiration,  its  impression 

Was  faint,  as  of  an  every-day  possession. 

32. 

To  aU  she  was  polite  without  parade; 
To  some  she  show'd  attention  of  that  kind 
Which  flatters,  but  is  flattery  convey'd 
In  such  a  sort  as  cannot  leave  behind 
A  trace  unwortliy  either  wife  or  maid;  — 
A  gentle,  genial  courtesy  of  mind, 
To  those  who  were  or  pass'd  for  meritorions, 
Just  to  console  sad  Glory  for  being  glorious; 

33. 

Which  is  in  all  respects,  save  now  and  then, 
A  dull  and  desolate  appendage.  Gaze 
Upon  the  shades  of  those  distinguish'd  men, 
Who  were  or  are  the  puppet-shows  of  praise, 
The  praise  of  persecution.  Gaze  again 
On  the  most  fovonr'd ;  and,  amidst  the  blaze 
Of  sunset-halos  o'er  the  laurel-brow'd, 
What  can  ye  recognize  ?  —  A  glided  cloud. 

34. 

There  also  was  of  coarse  in  Adeline 
That  calm  patrician  polish  in  the  address. 
Which  ne'er  can  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Of  any  thing  which  Nature  would  express; 
Just  as  a  Mandarin  finds  nothing  fine,  ^ 
At  least  his  manner  suffers  not  to  guess 
That  any  thing  he  views  can  greatly  please. 
Perhaps  we  have  borrow'd  this  from  the  Chinese  — 


276 


DON  JUAN- 


GAMTO  Xm. 


35. 

Perhaps  from  Horace :  his  ^^Nil  admirart" 
Was  what  he  call'd  the  ''Art  of  Happiness/' 
An  art  on  which  the  artists  greatly  vary, 
And  have  not  yet  attained  to  much  success. 
However,  'tis  expedient  to  be  wary: 
Indifference  certes  don't  produce  distress; 
And  rash  enthusiasm  in  good  society 
Were  nothing  but  a  moral  inebriety. 

36. 

But  Adeline  was  not  indifferent :  for, 

(iVbte;  for  a  common-place ! )  beneath  the  snow, 

As  a  Volcano  holds  the  lava  more 

Within  —  et  catera.  Shall  I  go  on  ?—  No ! 

I  hate  to  hunt  down  a  tired  metaphor: 

So  let  the  often-used  volcano  go. 

Poor  thing!  how  frequently,  by  me  and  others. 

It  hath  been  stirr'd  up  till  its  smoke  quite  smothers ! 

37. 

I'll  have  another  figure  in  a  trice:  — 

What  say  you  to  a  bottle  of  Champaign? 

Frozen  into  a  very  vinous  ice, 

Which  leaves  few  drops  of  that  immortal  rain; 

Yet  in  the  very  centre,  past  all  price, 

About  a  liquid  glassful  will  remain ; 

And  this  is  stronger  than  the  strongest  grape 

Could  e'er  express  in  its  expanded  shape: 


'Tis  the  whole  spirit  brought  to  a  quintessence; 
And  thus  the  chilliest  aspects  may  concentre 
A  hidden  nectar  under  a  cold  presence. 
And  such  are  many  —  though  I  only  meant  her. 
From  whom  I  now  deduce  these  moral  lessons, 
On  which  the  Muse  has  always  sought  to  enter 
And  your  cold  people  are  beyond  all  price. 
When  once  you  have  broken  their  confounded  ice. 


But  after  all  they  are  a  north-west-passage 
Unto  the  glowing  India  of  the  soul ;  V 

And  as  the  good  ships  sent  upon  that  message 
Have  not  exactly  ascertain'd  the  Pole 
(Though  Parry's  efforts  look  a  lucky  presage)^ 
Thus  gentlemen  may  run  upon  a  shoal; 
For,  if  the  Pole's  not  open,  but  all  frost 
(A  chance  still)  'tis  a  voyage  or  vessel  lost 

40. 

And  young  banners  may  as  well  commence 

With  quiet  cruising  o'er  the  ocean  woman; 

While  those  who  are  not  beginners,  should  have  sense 

Enough  to  make  for  port,  ere  time  shall  summon 

With  his  gray  signal-flag:  and  the  past  tense, 

The  dreary  ^*Fuimus*'  of  all  things  human, 

Must  be  declined,  while  life's  thin  thread's  spun  out 

Between  the  gaping  heir  and  gnawing  gout. 


41. 

But  Heaven  must  be  diverted :  its  diversion 
Is  sometimes  truculent  —  but  never  mind : 
The  world  upon  the  whole  is  worth  the  assertion 
(If  but  for  comfort)  that  all  things  are  kind : 
And  that  same  devilish  doctrine  of  the  Persian, 
Of  the  two  principles,  but  leaves  behind 
As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine  / 

Has  ever  pnssled  Faith  withal,  or  yoked  her  in.^ 

42. 

The  English  winter  —  ending  in  July, 

To  recommence  in  August  —  now  was  done. 

'Tis  the  postillion's  paradise:  wheels  fly ; 

On  roads,  east,  south,  north,  west,  there  is  a  ran. 

But  for  post-horses  who  finds  sympathy? 

Man's  pity's  for  himself,  or  for  his  son. 

Always  premising  that  said  son  at  college 

Has  not  contracted  much  more  debt  than  knowledge. 

43. 

The  London  winter's  ended  in  July  — 
Sometimes  a  little  later.  I  don't  err 
In  this:  whatever  other  blunders  lie 
Upon  my  shoulders,  here  I  must  aver 
My  Muse  a  glass  of  Weatherology ; 
For  Parliament  is  our  barometer: 
Let  Radicals  its  other  acts  attack. 
Its  sessions  form  our  only  almanack. 

44. 

When  its  quicksilver's  down  at  zero,  —  lo ! 
Coach,  chariot,  luggage,  baggage,  equipage ! 
Wheels  whirl  from  Carlton-Palace  to  Soho, 
And  happiest  they  who  horses  can  engage; 
T.he  turnpikes  glow  with  dust;  and  Rotten  Row 
Sleeps  from  the  cliivalry  of  this  bright  age; 
And  tradesmen,  with  long  bills  and  longer  faces. 
Sigh  »  as  the  postboys  fasten  on  the  traces. 

46. 

They  and  their  bills,  ''Arcadians  both,"  are  left 

To  the  Greek  kalends  of  another  session. 

Alas!  to  them  of  ready  cash  bereft. 

What  hope  remains?  Oihope  the  full  possession. 

Or  generous  draft,  conceded  as  a  gift. 

At  a  long  date  —  till  they  can  get  a  fresh  one, 

Hawk'd  about  at  a  discount,  small  or  large,  — 

Also  the  solace  of  an  overcharge. 

4& 

But  these  are  trifles.  Downward  flies  my  Lord, 
Nodding  beside  my  Lady  in  his  carriage. 
Away!  away!  **Fresh  horses!"  arc  the  word, 
And  changed  as  quickly  as  hearts  after  marriage ; 
The  obsequious  landlord  hath  the  change  restored; 
The  postboys  have  no  reason  to  disparage 
Their  fee;  but,  ere  the  water'd  wheels  may  hiss  hence. 
The  ostler  pleads  for  a  reminiscence. 


ciirro  xm. 


DON  jtan: 


277 


47. 

Tb  granted ;  and  the  ralet  mounts  the  dickey  — 
Tliat  gentleman  of  lords  and  gentlemen; 
Also  my  Lady's  gentlewoman,  tricky, 
Tri<:k'd  out,  bat  modest  more  than  poet's  pen 
Can  paint,  **Con  viaggino  i  riechi!" 
(Excuse  a  foreign  slipslop  now  and  then, 
IF  hat  to  show  I've  traveU'd ;  and  what's  traye]. 
Unless  it  teaches  one  to  quote  and  caWl?) 

48. 

The  London-winter  and  the  country-summer 

Were  well  nigh  over.  'Tis  perhaps  a  pity, 

When  Nature  wears  the  gown  that  doth  become  her, 

To  lose  those  best  months  in  a  sweaty  city, 

And  wait  until  the  nightingale  grows  dumber, 

Listening  debates  not  very  wise  or  witty, 

Ere  patriots  their  true  country  can  remember ; 

But  there's  no  shooting  (save  grouse)  till  September. 

4a 

Fve  done  with  my  tirade.  The  world  was  gone  ,* 

The  twice  two  thousand,  for  whom  earth  was  made. 

Were  vanish'd  to  be  what  they  call  alone,  ^ 

That  is,  with  thirty  servants  for  parade, 

JU  many  guests  or  more ;  before  whom  groan 

As  many  covers,  duly,  daily  laid. 

Let  none  accuse  old  England's  hospitality  — 

Its  <|aantity  is  but  condensed  to  quality. 

50. 

Lord  Henry  and  the  Lady  Adeline 

Departed,  like  the  rest  of  their  compeers, 

The  peerage,  to  a  mansion  very  fine ; 

The  Gothic  Babel  of  a  thousand  years. 

None  than  themselves  could  boast  a  longer  line. 

Where  Time  through  heroes  and  through  beauties  steers; 

And  oaks,  as  olden  as  their  pedigree. 

Told  of  their  sires,  a  tomb  in  every  tree. 

61. 

A  paragraph  in  every  paper  told 
Of  their  departure:  such  is  modern  fame: 
Tis  pity  that  it  takes  no  further  hold 
Than  an  advertisement,  or  much  the  same; 
When,  ere  the  ink  be  dry,  the  sound  grows  cold. 
The  Morning-Post  was  foremost  to  proclaim  — 
''Departure,  for  his  country-seat  to-day. 
Lord  H.  Amundeville  and  Lady  A. 

60. 

<«We  understand  the  splendid  host  intends 

To  entertain,  this  autunm,  a  select 

And  numerous  party  of  his  noble  friends ; 

'Midst  whom,  wc  have  heard  from  sources  quite  correct, 

The  Duke  of  D —  the  shooting  season  spends, 

With  many  more  by  rank  and  fashion  deck'd; 

Also  a  foreigner  of  high  condition, 

The  envoy  of  the  secret  Russian  mission." 


68. 

And  thus  we  see  —  who  doubts  the  Monung-Post? 
(Whose  articles  are  like  the  "Thirty  Nine," 
Which  those  most  swear  to  who  believe  them  most)  ~ 
Our  gay  Russ-Spaniard  was  ordain'd  to  shine, 
Deck'd  by  the  rays  reflected  from  his  host. 
With  those  who,  Pope  says,  "greatly  daring  dine." 
'Tis  odd,  but  true,  —  last  war,  the  news  abounded 
More  with  these  dinners  than  the  kiJl'd  or  wounded;  — 

64. 

As  thus :  "On  Thursday  there  was  a  grand  dinner ; 
Present,  Lords  A.  B.  C."  -—  Earls,  dukes,  by  name 
Announced  witli  no  less  pomp  than  victory's  winner: 
Then  underneath,  and  in  the  very  same 
Column :  Date,  "Falmouth:  There  has  lately  been  here 
The  Slap-Dash  regiment,  so  well  known  to  fame; 
Whose  loss  in  the  late  action  we  regret : 
The  vacancies  are  fiU'd  up  —  see  Gazette." 

66. 

To  Norman- Abbey  whirl'd  the  noble  pair,  — 
An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,  of  a  rich  and  rare 
Mix'd  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 
Withal :  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low, 
Because  the  monks  preferr'd  a  lilli  behind, 
To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the  wind. 

66. 

It  stood  embosom'd  in  a  happy  valley, 

Crown'd  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid-oak 

Stood  like  Caractacos  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder-stroke; 

And  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to  sally 

The  dappled  foresters  —  as  day  awoke. 

The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his  herd, 

To  quaff  a  brook  which  murmur'd  like  a  bird. 

67. 

Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake. 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By  a  river,  which  its  soften'd  way  did  take 

In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 

Around:  the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 

And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed: 

The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  stood 

With  their  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood. 

68. 

Its  outlet  dash*d  into  a  steep  cascade. 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding 

Its  shriller  echoes  —  like  an  infant  made 

Quiet  —  sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 

Into  a  rivulet;  and,  thus  allay 'd, 

Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 

Its  windings  through  the  woods;  now  clear,  now  blue, 

According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 


278 


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CANTO  JUIL 


60. 

A  glorions  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's),  stood  half  apart 

In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  soreen'd  many  an  aisle. 

These  last  had  disappeared  —  a  loss  to  art : 

The  first  yet  frown'd  soperbly  o'er  the  soil. 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart. 

Which  mourn'd  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's  march, 

In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch. 

60. 

Within  a  niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle. 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  stone: 

Bat  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 

Bat  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  his  throne. 

When  each  house  was  a  fortalioe  —  as  tell 

The  annals  of  fall  many  a  line  undone,  — 

The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 

For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 

61. 

But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 
The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  child, 
With  her  son  in  her  blessed  arms,  looked  round, 
Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoifd; 
She  made  the  ea'th  below  seem  holy  ground. 
This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 
But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 
Of  any  worship,  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

62. 

A  mighty  window,  hollow  tn  the  centre, 
Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colourings, 
Through  which  the  deepen'd  glories  once  could  enter, 
Streaming  from  off  the  sun  like  seraph's  wings, 
Now  yawns  all  desolate :  now  loud,  now  Winter, 
The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  qaench'd  like  fire. 

63. 

But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 

The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven. 

There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 

Is  musical  —  a  dying  accent  driven 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 

Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 

Back  to  the  night-wind  by  the  waterfall, 

And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall : 

64. 

Others^  that  some  original  shape  or  form. 
Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 
(Though  less  than  thatof  Memnon's  statue,  warm 
.  In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fix'd  hour) 
To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm. 
Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower : 
The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve;  but  sach 
The  fact:  —  I've  heard  it,  —  once  perhaps  too  much . 


66. 

Amidst  the  codrt  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd. 

Symmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carving?  quaint  — 

Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint: 

The  spring  gush'd  through  grim  mouths,  of  granite  made. 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 

Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 

Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

66. 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 

With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved :  the  cloisters  still  were  stable. 

The  cells  too  and  refectory,  I  ween : 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able. 

Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene; 

The  rest  had  been  reform'd,  replaced,  or  sunk. 

And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 

67. 

Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  join 'd 

By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts. 

Might  shock  a  connoisseur;  but,  when  combinrd, 

Form'd  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 

Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  arc  in  their  hearts. 

We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature. 

Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

68. 

Steel  Barons,  molten  the  next  generation 

To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter'd  Earls. 

Glanced  from  the  walls  in  goodly  preservation : 

And  Lady  Marys,  blooming  into  girls. 

With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  kept  their  station : 

And  Countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls : 

Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lcly, 

Whose  drapery  hints  we  may  admire  them  frociy ; 


Judges,  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 

The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would  determine 

His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to  right ; 

Bishops,  who  had  not  left  a  single  sermon ; 

Attorneys-General,  awful  to  the  sight; 

As  hinting  more  (unless  our  jadgments  warp  us  > 

Of  the  "Star  Chamber''  than  of ''Habeas  Corptis." 

70. 

Generals,  some  all  in  armour,  of  the  old 
And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  ta'en  the  lead ; 
Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough's  martial  fold, 
Hugcr  than  twelve  of  our  degenerate  breed : 
Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold : 
Nimrods,  whose  canvass  scarce  contain'd  the  steed ; 
And  here  and  there  some  stern  high  patriot  stood. 
Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  he  sued. 


CAKTO  3Cni. 


DON  JUAN. 


279 


71. 

Bat,  cTcr  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision, 

Fatigaed  with  these  hereditary  glories, 

There  rose  a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  Titiao, 

Or  wilder  [proap  of  savage  Salvatore's: 

Here  dancMsd  Albano's  boys,  and  here  the  sea  shone 

In  Vernct*s  ooean-Kghts;  and  there  the  stories 

Of  martyrs  a  vred,  as  Spagnoletto  tainted 

His  hnish  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted. 

TO. 

Here  sweetly  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine; 
There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  eqnal  light, 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio's  gloomier  stain 
Bronced  o'er  some  lean  and  stoic  anchorite :  — 
Bat  lo!  a  Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain, 
Yoor  eyes  to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight: 
His  bell-raouth'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish 
Or  Dutch  with  tliirst  -^  What  ho!  a  flask  of  Rhenish. 

78. 

Oh,  reader!  If  that  thou  canst  read,  —  and  know 
*Tis  not  enoagh  to  spell,  or  even  to  read. 
To  constitute  a  reader ;  there  mast  go 
Virtues  of  which  both  you  and  I  have  need. 
Firstly,  begin  with  the  beginning'  (though 
That  clause  is  hard) ;  and  secondly,  proceed ; 
Thirdly,  commence  not  with  the  end  —  or,  sinning 
In  this  sort,  end  at  least  with  the  beginning. 

74. 

But,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late, 
While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear. 
Have  built  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a  rate, 
Dan  Phoebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 
That  poets  were  so  from  their  earliest  date. 
By  Homer's  "Catalogue  of  Ships"  is  clear ; 
But  a  mere  modern  must  be  moderate  — 
I  spare  you,  then,  the  furniture  and  plate. 

76. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 

Tlie  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  com  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game ; 

The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket :  —  lynx-like  in  his  aim, 

Foil  grows  his  bag,  and  wonder/if/  his  feats. 

Ah,  nntbrown  partridges !  ah,  brilliant  pheasants! 

And  ah,  ye  poachers!  —  ^Tis  no  sport  for  peasants.  ' 

7«. 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines, 
BJujhiog^  with  bacchant  coronals  along 
The  paths,  o'er  which  the  for  festoon  entwines 
The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song, 
Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines ; 
The  elaret  light,  and  the  madeira  strong. 
If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her. 
The  very  best  of  vineyards.is  the  cellar. 


77. 
Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 
Which  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day  appear 
As  if 'twould  to  a  second  spring  resign 
The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear,  — 
Of  in-door  comforts  still  she  hath  a  mine  ^ 
The  sea-coal-fires,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 
Without  doors  too  she  may  compete  in  mellow, 
As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gainM  in  yellow. 

78. 
And  for  the  effeminate  villegffitUyra  — 
Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds  —  she  hath  the  chase, 
So  animated  that  it  might  allure  a 
Saint  from  his  beads  to  join  the  jocund  race; 
Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura, 
And  wear  the  Melton  jacket  for  a  space:  — 
If  she  bath  no  wild  boars,  she  hath  a  tame 
Preserve  of  bores,  who  ought  to  be  made  game. 

7ft 

The  noble  guests,  assembled  at  the  abbey, 

Consisted  of —  we  give  the  sex  iYiapas  — 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke ;  the  Countess  Crabbey ; 

The  Ladies  Seilly,  Busey;  —  Miss  EcUt, 

Miss  Bombazcen,  Miss  Mackstay,  Miss  OTabbey, 

And  Mrs.  Rabbj,  the  rich  banker's  squaw : 

Also  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Sleep, 

Who  look'd  a  white  lamb,  yet  was  a  black  sheep  : 

do. 

With  other  Countesses  of  Blank  -—  but  rank  ; 
At  once  the  "lie"  and  the  "<?/iV  of  crowds; 
Who  pass  like  water  filter'd  in  a  tank, 
All  purged  and  pious  from  their  native  clouds; 
Or  paper  turn'd  to  money  by  the  Bank : 
No  matter  how  or  why,  the  passport  shrouds 
The  "passie**  and  the  past;  for  good  society 
Is  no  less  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety, 

81. 

That  is,  up  to  a  certain  |>oint;  which  point 
Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation 
Appearances  appear  to  form  the  joint 
On  which  it  hinges  in  a  higher  station; 
And  so  that  no  explosion  cry  '*Aroint 
Thee,  Witch  V*  or  each  Medea  has  her  Jason ; 
Or  (to  the  point  with  Horace  and  with  Puici), 
"  Omne  tulitpunctum,  quae  miseuit  utile  dvlci  *' 

82. 

I  can't  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  right. 
Which  hath  a  little  leaning  to  a  lottery  : 
I've  seen  a  virtuous  woman  put  down  quite 
By  the  mere  combination  of  a  coterie; 
Also  a  so-so  matron  boldly  fight 
Her  way  back  to  the  world  by  dint  of  plottery, 
And  shine  the  very  Stria  of  the  spheres. 
Escaping  with  a  few  slight  searless  sneers 


280 


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CANTO  3EIIL 


83. 

I  have  seen  more  than  Fll  say :  —  bat  we  will  see 
How  oar  mUeggiatura  will  get  on. 
The  party  might  consist  of  thirty-three 
Of  highest  caste  —  the  Bramins  of  the  ton. 
I  have  named  a  few,  not  foremost  in  degree. 
But  ta'en  at  hazard  as  the  rhyme  may  ran. 
By  way  of  sprinkling,  scatt^'d  amongst  these. 
There  also  were  some  Iristi  absentees. 

84. 

There  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  bally, 

Who  limits  all  his  battles  to  the  bar 

And  senate:  when  invited  elsewhere,  truly. 

He  shows  more  appetite  for  words  than  war. 

There  was  the  young  bard  Kackrhyme,  who  had  newly 

Come  out  and  glimmer'd  as  a  six-weeks'  star. 

There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  free-thinker; 

And  Sir  John  Pottlcdeep,  the  mighty  drinker. 

86. 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  was  a  —  duke. 
Ay,  every  inch  a  duke;  there  were  twelve  peers 
Like  Charlemagne's  —  and  all  such  peers  in  look 
And  intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
For  commoners  had  ever  them  mistook. 
There  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds  —  pretty  dears! 
All  song  and  sentiment;  whose  hearts  were  set 
Less  on  a  convent  than  a  coronet 

8& 

There  were  four  honourable  Misters,  whose 
Honour  was  more  before  their  names  than  after; 
There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Ruse, 
Whom  France  and  Fortune  lately  dcign'd  to  waft  here, 
Whose  chiefly  harmless  talent  was  to  amuse; 
But  the  clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter. 
Because  —  such  was  his  mag^c  power  to  please — 
The  dice  seem'd  charm'd  too  with  his  repartees. 

87. 

There  was  Dick  Dubious,  the  metaphysician^ 
Who  loved  philosophy  and  a  good  dinner; 
Angle,  the  soi-disant  mathematician; 
Sir  Henry  Silvercup,  the  great  race-winner. 
There  was  the  reverend  Rodomont  Precisian, 
Who  did  not  hate  so  much  the  sin  as  sinner; 
And  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet, 
Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  a  bet 

88. 

There  was  Jack  Jargon  the  gigantic  guardsman; 
And  General  Firefece,  famous  in  the  field, 
A  great  tactician,  and  no  less  a  swordsman. 
Who  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kill'd. 
There  was  the  waggish  Welch  Judge,  JefferiesHardsman, 
In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill'd. 
That  when  a  culprit  came  for  condemnation. 
He  had  his  judge's  joke  for  consolation. 


8a 

Good  company's  a  chess-board  —  there  arc  kings, 
Queens,  bishops,  knights,  rooks,  pawns;  the  worid'sa 
Save  that  the  puppets  pull  at  tiieir  own  strings ;     [game; 
Mcthinks  gay  Punch  hath  something  of  the  same. 
My  Muse,  the  butterfly,  hath  bat  her  wings. 
Not  stings,  and  flits  through  ether  withoat  aim. 
Alighting  rarely :  were  she  but  a  hornet, 
Perhaps  there  might  be  vices  which  would  moam  it 

90. 

I  had  forgotten  —  but  mast  not  foiget  — 

An  orator,  the  latest  of  the  session. 

Who  had  deliver'd  well  a  very  set 

Smooth  speech,  his  fbcst  and  maidenly  transgression 

Upon  debate :  the  papers  echoed  yet 

With  this  d^but,  which  made  a  strong  impression. 

And  rank'd  with  what  is  every  day  display'd  — 

'<The  best  first  speech  that  ever  yet  was  made." 

91. 

Proud  of  his  '^ear  hims  I"  proud  too  of  his  vote 

And  lost  virginity  of  oratory. 

Proud  of  his  learning  (just  enough  to  quote). 

He  reveird  in  his  Ciceronian  glory: 

With  memory  excellent  to  get  by  rote. 

With  wit  to  hatch  a  pun  or  tell  a  story, 

Graced  with  some  merit  and  with  more  effrontery, 

''His  Country's  pride>''  he  came  down  to  the  couiitry. 

92. 

There  also  were  two  wits  by  acclamation. 

Longbow  from  Ireland,  Strongbow  firom  the  Tweed, 

Both  lawyers  and  both  men  of  education ; 

But  Strongbow's  wit  was  of  more  polisfa'd  breed: 

Longbow  was  rich  in  an  imagination, 

As  beautiful  and  bounding  as  a  steed, 

But  sometimes  stumbling  over  a  potatoe,  —  [Cato 

While  Strongbow's  best  things  might  haTe  come  firom 

93. 

Strongbow  was  like  a  new-toned  harpsichord; 

But  Longbow  wild  as  an  iGolian  harp, 

With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord. 

And  make  a  music,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 

Of  Strongbow's  talk  yoa  would  not  change  a  word ; 

At  Longbow's  phrases  you  might  sometimes  carp: 

Both  wits  —  one  bom  so,  and  the  other  bred, 

This  by  his  heart  —  his  riyal  by  his  head. 

94. 

If  all  these  seem  a  heterogeneous  mass 

To  be  assembled  at  a  country-seat. 

Yet  think,  a  specimen  of  every  class 

Is  better  than  a  hundrum  t6te-&-t£te. 

The  days  of  comedy  are  gone,  alas! 

When  Congrcve's  fool  could  vie  with  Moliere's  M*  : 

Society  is  smoothed  to  that  excess, 

That  manners  hardly  differ  more  than  dress. 


OAHTo  xm. 


DON  JUAN. 


281 


96. 

Oor  ridicales  are  kept  In  the  back-|rraand  — - 

Bidiealoas  enough,  but  also  dull ; 

Pkofeesions  too  are  no  more  to  be  foond 

Ptofesaiona];  and  there  is  nought  to  oall 

Of  follj's  fruit;  for  though  your  fools  abound, 

They're  barren  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 

Sodety  is  now  one  polish'd  horde, 

Form'd  of  two  mighty  tribes,  the  Bores  and  JBoretL 

96. 

But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleaning 
The  scanty  but  right- well  thresh'd  ears  of  truth; 
And,  gentle  reader !  when  you  gather  meaning. 
Ton  may  be  Boaz,  and  I  —  modest  Ruth. 
Further  I'd  quote,  but  Scripture,  intervening, 
Forbids.   A  great  impression  in  my  youth 
Was  made  by  Mrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries,  i/ 

"That  Seriptures  oat  of  church  arc  blasphemies." 

97. 

Bnt  when  we  ean,  we  gTean  in  this  vile  age 

Of  chaff,  although  our  gleanings  be  not  grist 

I  must  not  quite  omit  the  talking  sage, 

Kit-Cat,  the  fiunous  conyersationist. 

Who,  in  his  oommon-plaoe-book,  had  a  page 

Prepared  each  morn  for  evenings.  ''List,  oh  list!"  — * 

**Alas,  poor  Ghost !"  »  What  unexpected  woes 

Await  those  who  have  studied  their  han-moU! 

98. 

Flnfly,  they  must  allure  the  conversation 
By  many  windings  to  their  clever  clinch ; 
And  seeondly,  must  let  slip  no  occasion, 
Nor  hute  (abate)  their  hearers  of  an  inch. 
But  take  an  ell  —  and  make  a  great  sensation, 
If  possible;  and  thirdly  never  flinch 
When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test, 

I  the  last  word,  wliich  no  doubt's  the  best 


Inf. 

Lord  Henry  and  his  lady  were  the  hosts  ^ 
The  party  we  have  touch 'd  on  were  the  fpicslt^i 
Their  table  was  a  board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 
To  pass  the  Styx  for  more  substantial  feasts. 
I  will  not  dwell  upon  ragoiits  or  roasts. 
Albeit  all  human  history  attests, 
That  happiness  for  man  —  the  hungry  sinner!  — 
Suce  Eve  ate  apples,  much  depends  on  dinner. 

100. 

Witness  the  lands  which  "flow'd  with  milk  and  honey,' 

Held  out  unto  the  hungry  Israelites : 

To  this  we  have  added  since,  tlie  love  of  money. 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which  requites. 

Youth  fades,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny; 

Wc  tire  of  mistresses  and  parasites; 

Bat  oh,  ambrosial  cash !  aJi!  who  would  lose  thee  ? 

When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee  I 


y 


101. 

The  gentlemen  got  op  betimes  to  shoot, 
Or  hunt:  the  young,  because  they  liked  the  sport  - 
The£rst  thing  boys  like,  after  play  and  fruit: 
The  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short ; 
For  ennuih  a  growth  of  English  root. 
Though  nameless  in  our  language:  —  we  retort 
The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 
That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  cannot  abate. 

102. 

The  elderly  walk'd  through  the  library, 
And  tumbled  books,  or  criliciscd  the  pictures. 
Or  sanntcr'd  through  the  gardens  piteously, 
And  made  upon  the  hot-house  several  strictures. 
Or  rode  a  nag  which  trotted  not  too  high. 
Or  on  the  morning-papers  read  their  lectures, 
Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix, 
Longing,  at  sixty,  for  the  hour  of  six.  . 

103. 

But  none  were  ''g^nd":  the  great  hour  of  union 
Was  rung  by  dinner's  knell;  till  then  all  were 
Masters  of  their  own  time  •—  or  in  communion, 
Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to  bear 
The  hours,  which  how  to  pass  is  but  to  few  known. 
Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  and  had  to  spare 
What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 
When,  where,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast 

104. 

The  ladies  — -  some  rouged,  some  a  little  pale  — 
Met  the  morn  as  they  might   If  fine,  they  rode, 
Or  walk'd ;  if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a  tale, 
Sung,  or  rehearsed  the  last  dauce  from  abroad; 
Discuss'd  the  fashion  which  might  next  prevail; 
And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code; 
Or  cramm'd  twelve  sheets  into  one  little  letter. 
To  make  each  correspondent  a  new  debtor. 

105. 

For  some  had  absent  lovers,  all  had  friends ;  — 
The  earth  has  nothing  like  a  she-epistle, 
And  hardly  heaven  —  because  it  never  ends. 
I  love  the  mystery  of  a  female  missal. 
Which,  lihe  a  creed,  ne'er  says  all  it  intends, 
But  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses'  whistle. 
When  he  allured  poor  Dolon:  —  you  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  sueh  a  letter. 

106. 

Then  there  were  billiards;  cards  too,  but  no  dice;  - 
Save  in  the  clubs  no  man  of  honour  plays;  — 
Boats  when  'twas  water,  skaiting  when  'twas  ice. 
And  the  hard  frosts  destroy'd  the  scenting  days : 
And  angling  too,  tiiat  solitary  vice, 
Whatever  Isaac  Walton  sings  or  says: 
The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it 
18* 


282 


DON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  XIT. 


107. 

With  eveiUDg  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine; 
The  conversazione;  the  duet, 
Attuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine ; 
(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet) 
The  four  Miss  Rawbolds  in  a  glee  would  shine; 
But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp  —  because  to  music's  charms 
They  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 

108. 

Sometimes  a  dance  (though  rarely  oli  field-days, 
For  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 
Display 'd  some  sylph-like  figures  in  its  maze: 
Then  there  was  small-talk  ready  when  required; 
Flirtation  —  but  decorous ;  the  mere  praise 
Of  charms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired. 
The  hunters  fought  thdr  fox-hunt  o'er  again, 
And  then  sctreated  soberly  —  at  ten. 


100. 

The  politicians,  in  a  nook  apart, 

Discoss'd  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres; 

The  wits  watch'd  every  loop-hole  for  their  art. 

To  introduce  a  bon-mot  head  and  ears ; 

Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smart, 

A  moment's  good  thing  may  have  cost  them  years 

Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it. 

And  then,  even  tA^n,  some  bore  may  make  them  lose  it 

110. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aiistocratio 

In  this  our  party;  polish'd,  smooth,  and  oold. 

As  Phidiatt  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic. 

There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns  as  of  old ; 

And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatio, 

But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold. 

We  have  no  accomplished  blackguards,  like  Tom  Jones, 

But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  stiff  as  stones. 


111. 

They  separated  at  an  early  hour; 

That  is,  ere  midnight  —  which  is  London's  noon: 

But  in  the  country  ladies  seek  their  bower 

A  little  earlier  than  the  waning  moon. 

Peace  to  the  slumbers  of  each  folded  flower  — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  true  colours  soon  I 

Good  hours  of  fair  checks  arc  the  fairest  tinters. 

And  lower  the  price  of  rouge  —  at  least  some  winters. 


CANTO     XIV. 


If  from  great  Nature's  or  out-  own  abyss 
Of  thought,  we  could  but  snatch  a  certainty, 
Perhaps  mankind  might  find  the  path  they  miss  • 
But  then  'twould  spoil  much  good  philosophy. 
One  system  cats  another  up,  and  this 
Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny; 
For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 
In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 


But  System  doth  reverse  the  Titan's  breakflist, 
And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 
Is  difficult.   Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast. 
After  due  search,  your  faith  to  any  question  ? 
Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  ftist, 
You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  one. 
Nothing  more  true  than  not  to  trust  your  senses; 
And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences? 


3. 

For  me,  I  know  nought;  nothing  [  deny. 
Admit,  reject,  contemn;  and  what  know  yov. 
Except  perhaps  that  you  were  born  to  die? 
And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  ootme. 
An  age  may  come,  font  of  eternity, 
When  nothing  shall  be  etther  old  or  new. 
Death,  so  calt'd,  is  a  thing  which  makes  men  weep« 
And  yet  a  third  of  life  is  pass'd  in  sleep. 


y 


A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  roi^  day 

Oftoil,  is  what  we  covet  most;  and  yet 

How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  qnieseent  clay  I 

The  very  suicide  that  pays  his  debt 

At  once  without  instahoents  (an  old  way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 

Lets  out  ippatiently  his  rushing  breath. 

Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 


OAMTO  XIT. 


DON  JUAN. 


283 


Tb  round  hiniy  near  him,  here,  there,  every  where; 
And  there's  a  oonrage  which  grows  out  of  fear. 
Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  which  will  dare 
The  worst  to  know  it:  —  when  the  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  beneath  yoar  human  foot,  and  there 
Ton  look  down  o'er  the  precipice,  and  drear  / 

The  golf  of  rock  jawns,  —  you  can't  gaze  a  minute     ^ 
Without  an  awftd  wish  to  plunge  within  it 


Tis  true,  you  don't  —  but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 

Retire :  but  look  into  your  past  impression ! 

And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the  mirror 

Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confessioni 

The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error. 

To  the  vjiJbtMfffi;  a  secret  prepossession, 

To  plunge  with  all  your  fears— but  where?  You  know  ndt. 

And  that's  the  reason  why  you  do  —  or  do  not 

7. 

But  what's  this  to  the  purpose?  you  will  say. 
Gent  reader,  nothing;  a  mere  speculation, 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  u  -^  'tis  my  way. 
Sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  occasion 
I  write  what's  uppermost,  without  delay; 
This  narrative  is  not  meant  for  narration, 
Bat  a  mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 
To  build  up  common  things  with  common-plaoes. 


Tou  know,  or  don't  know,  that  great  Bacon  saith, 

'^ling  up  a  straw,  'twill  show  the  way  the  wind  blows;" 

And  such  a  straw,  borne  on  by  human  breath. 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows; 

A  paper-kite  which  flies  'twixt  life  and  death, 

A  shadow  which  the  onwajrd  soul  behind  throws: 

And  mine's  a  bubble  not  blown  up  for  praise, 

But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  plays. 

®- 

The  world  is  all  before  me  —  or  behind; 
For  I  hare  seen  a  portion  of  that  same, 
And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind  f — 
Of  passions  too,  I  have  proved  enough  to  blame. 
To  tiie  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind, 
Who  like  to  mix  some  sUght  alloy  with  fame; 
For  I  was  rather  famous  in  my  time, 
Until  I  fiurly  knock'd  it  up  with  rhyme. 

10. 

I  have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 
The  other:  that's  to  say,  the  Clergy  -^  who 
Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 
In  pious  libels  by  no  means  a  few. 
And  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week. 
Tiring  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 
Is  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 
And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 


11. 

But  ''why  then  publish?'^  —  There  are  no  rewards 

Of  fame  or  profit,  when  the  world  grows^weary. 

I  ask  in  turn,  — *  why  do  you  play  at  cards? 

Why  drink  ?  Why  read  ? — To  make  some  hour  less  dreary. 

It  occupies  me  to  turn  back  regards 

On  what  I've  seen  or  ponder'd,  sad  or  cheery ; 

And  what  I  write  I  cast  upon  the  stream. 

To  swim  or  sink  —  I  have  had  at  least  my  dream. 

I  think  that  were  I  eerUtm  of  success, 

I  hardly  could  compose  another  line: 

So  long  I've  battled  either  more  or  less. 

That  no  defeat  can  drive  me  from  the  Nine. 

This  feeling  'tis  not  easy  to  express, 

And  yet  'tis  not  afi'ected,  I  opine. 

In  play,  there  are  two  pleasures  for  your  choosing  — 

The  one  is  winning,  and  the  other  losing. 

13. 

Besides,  my  Muse  by  no  means  deals  in  fiction: 
She  gathers  a  repertory  of  facts, 
Of  course  with  some  reserve  and  slight  restrietion, 
But  mostly  sings  of  human  things  and  acts  — - 
And  that's  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction; 
For  too  much  truth,  at  first  sight,  ne'er  attracts ; 
And  were  her  object  only  what's  oali'd  glory. 
With  more  ease  too  she'd  tell  a  different  story. 

14. 

Love,  war,  a  tempest  —  surely  there's  variety ; 

Also  a  seasoning  slight  of  lucubration ; 

A  bird's-eye  view  too  of  that  wild,  Society; 

A  slight  glance  thrown  on  men  of  every  station. 

If  you  have  nought  else,  here's  at  least  satiety 

Both  in  performance  and  in  preparation ; 

And  though  these  lines  should  only  line  portmanteaus, 

Trade  will  be  all  the  better  for  these  Cantos. 

16. 

The  portion  of  this  world  which  I  at  present 
Have  taken  up  to  fill  the  following  sermon. 
Is  one  of  which  there's  no  description  recent: 
The  reason  why,  is  easy  to  determine : 
Although  it  seems  both  prominent  and  pleasant. 
There  is  a  sameness  in  its  gems  and  ermine, 
A  dull  and  fiunily  likeness  through  all  ages. 
Of  no  great  promise  for  ppetic  pages. 

16. 

With  much  to  excite,  there's  little  to  exalt; 
Nothing  that  speaks  to  all  men  and  all  times ; 
A  sort  of  varnish  over  every  fault ; 
A  kind  of  common-place,  even  in  their  crimes ; 
Factitious  passions,  wit  without  much  salt, 
A  want  of  that  true  nature  which  sublimes 
Whatever  it  shows  with  truth ;  a  smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least  who  have  got  any. 


284 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  xn. 


17. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers  off  parade, 
They  break  their  ranks  and  gladly  leave  the  drill; 
Bat  then  the  roll-call  draws  them  back  afraid, 
And  they  most  be  or  seem  what  they  were:  still 
Doubtless  it  is  a  brilliant  masquerade; 
But  when  of  the  first  sight  you  have  had  your  fill, 
It  palls  —  at  least  it  did  so  upon  me, 
This  paradise  of  pleasure  and  ennui. 

18. 

When  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  our  gaming, 
Drest,  voted,  shone,  and,  may  be,  something  more; 
With  dandies  dined;  heard  senators  declaiming; 
Seen  beanties  brought  to  market  by  the  score; 
Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming; 
There's  little  left  but  to  be  bored  or  bore. 
W^itness  those  '^ei^devantjnmet  hommea"  who  stem 
The  stream,  nor  leave  the  world  which  leaveth  them. 

19. 

'Tis  said  —  indeed  a  general  complaint  — 
That  no  one  has  succeeded  in  describing 
The  monde  exactly  as  they  ought  to  paint. 
Some  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 
The  porter,  some  slight  scandals  strange  and  quaint, 
To   furnish  matter  for  their  moral  gibing;  , 

And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common  — 
My  lady's  prattle,  filter'd  through  her  wooian. 

20. 

But  this  canH  well  be  true,  just  now;  for  writers 
Are  grown  of  the  beau  monde  a  part  potential : 
I've  seen  them  balance  even  the  scale  with  fighters, 
Especially  when  young,  for  that's  essential. 
Why  do  their  sketches  fail  them  as  inditers 
Of  what  they  deem  themselves  most  consequential. 
The  real  portrait  of  the  highest  tribe? 
'Tis  that,  in  fact,  there's  little  to  describe. 

21. 

"Hand  ignara  hquor:"  these  are  Nugae,  "quarum 

Pars  parva/uf,"  but  still  art  and  part 

Now  I  could  much  more  easily  sketch  a  harem, 

A  battle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  heart. 

Than  these  things;  and  besides,  i  wish  to  spare  'em, 

For  reasons  which  I  choose  to  keep  apart 

"  Vetaho  Cereris  sacrum  qui  vulgarif*  ^- 

Which  means,  that  vulgar  people  must  not  share  it 

22. 

And  therefore  what  I  throw  off  is  ideal  — 
'Lower'd,  Icaven'd,  like  a  history  of  Freemasons; 
Which  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  real, 
As  Captain  Parry's  voyage  may  do  to  Jason's. 
The  grand  Arcanum's  not  for  men  to  see  all ; 
My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons; 
And  there  is  much  which  could  not  be  appreciated 
In  any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 


28. 

Alas !  worlds  fall  —  and  woman,  since  she  fell'd 
The  world  (as,  since  that  history,  less  polite 
Than  true,  hath  been  a  creed  so  strictly  held)  ^ 
Has  not  yet  given  up  the  practice  quite.        ^ 
Poor  thing  of  usages !  ooerc'd,  compell'd, 
Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right, 
Condemn'd  to  child-bed,  as  men  for  their  sins 
Have  shaving  too  entail'd  upon  their  chins ;  — - 

24. 

A  daily  plague  which,  in  the  aggregate. 
May  average  on  the  whole  with  parturition. 
But  as  to  women,  who  can  penetrate 
The  real  sufferings  of  their  she-condition? 
Man's  very  sympathy  with  their  estate 
Has  much  of  selfishness  and  more  suspidon. 
Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education. 
But  form  good  housekeepers,  to  breed  a  nation. 

All  this  were  very  well  and  can't  be  better ; 
But  even  this  is  difficult,  Heaven  knows  I 
So  many  troubles  ftom  her  birth  beset  her. 
Such  small  distinction  between  friends  and  foes. 
The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  off  her  fetter. 
That »  but  ask  any  woman  if  she'd  choose 
(Take  her  at  thirty,  that  is)  to  have  been 
Female  or  male  ?  a  school-boy  or  a  queen? 

26. 

^'Petticoat  influence"  is  a  great  reproach, 

Which  even  those  who  obey  would  lain  be  thought 

To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a  roach ; 

But,  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought 

By  various  joltings  of  life's  hackney-coach, 

I  for  one  venerate  a  petticoat  —  U 

A  garment  of  a  mystical  sublimity. 

No  matter  whether  russet,  silk,  or  dimity. 

27. 

Much  I  respect,  and  much  I  have  adored. 
In  my  young  days,  that  chaste  and  goodly  veil. 
Which  holds  a  treasure,  like  a  miser's  hoard. 
And  more  attracts  by  all  it  doth  conceal  — 
A  golden  scabbard  on  a  Damasque  sword, 
A  loving  letter  with  a  mystic  seal, 
A  cure  for  grief —  for  what  can  ever  rankle 
Before  a  petticoat  and  peeping  ancle? 


And  when  upon  a  silent,  sullen  day, 
With  a  Sirocco,  for  example,  blowing,  — 
When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  spray, 
And  sulkily  the  river's  ripple's  flowing. 
And  the  sky  sliows  that  very  ancient  gray. 
The  sober,  sad  antithesis  to  glowing,  — 
'Tis  pleasant,  Uthen  any  thing  is  pleasant. 
To  catch  a  glimpse  even  of  a  pretty  peasant* 


C\1IT0  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


285 


We  left  oar  heroes  and  our  heroines 
In  that  iair  clime  which  don't  depend  on  climate, 
Quite  independent  of  the  Zodiac's  signs, 
Though  certainly  more  difficult  to  rhyme  at. 
Because  the  sun  and  stars,  and  aught  that  shines, 
Mountains,  and  all  we  can  be  most  sublune  at,  — 
Are  there  oft  dull  and  dreary  as  a  dun  — 
Whether  a  sky's  or  tradesman's  is  all  one 

dO. 

An   in-door  life  is  less  poetical; 

And  out-of-door  hath  showers,  and  mists,  and  sleet, 

With  which  I  could  not  brew  a  pastoral . 

Bat  be  it  as  it  may,  a  bard  must  meet 

All  difficulties,  whether  great  or  small, 

To  spoil  his  undertaking  or  complete, 

And  work  away  like  spirit  upon  matter, 

Effibamss'd  somewhat  both  with  fire  and  water. 

31. 

Joan  —  in  this  respect  at  least  like  saints  — 
Was  all  things  unto  people  of  all  sorts. 
And  liyed  contentedly,  without  complaints, 
In  camps,  in  ships,  in  cottages,  or  courts  — - 
Born  with  that  happy  soul  which  seldom  faints, 
And  mingling  modestly  in  toils  or  sports. 
He  likewise  could  be  most  things  to  all  women, 
Without  the  coxcombry  of  certain  Ske-meiu 

32. 

A  fox-hunt  to  a  foreigner  is  strange; 
Tis  also  subject  to  the  double  danger 
Of  tumbling  first,  and  having  in  exchange 
Some  pleasant  jesting  at  the  awkward  stranger: 
Bat  Jaan  had  been  early  taught  to  range 
The  wilds,  as  doth  an  Arab  turn'd  avenger, 
So  that  his  horse,  or  charger,  hunter,  hack. 
Knew  that  he  had  a  rider  on  his  back. 

33. 

And  now  in  this  new  field,  with  some  applause. 
He  clear'd  hedge,  ditch,  and  double  post,  and  rail, 
And  never  craned,  and  made  but  few  "faux  pas/' 
And  only  fretted  when  the  scent  'gan  fail. 
He  broke,  'tis  true,  some  statutes  of  the  laws 
Of  bunting  —  for  the  sagest  youth  is  frail ; 
Rode  o'er  the  hounds,  it  may  be,  now  and  then. 
And  once  o'er  several  country -gentlemen. 

34. 

Bat,  on  the  whole,  to  general  admiration 
He  acquitted' both  himself  and  horse :  the  'squires 
Marvell'd  at  merit  of  another  nation ;  [Sires> 

The  boors  cried  "Dang  it!  who'd  have  thought  it?"  — 
,  The  Ncstors  of  the  sporting  generation, 
Swore  praises,  and  rccalFd  their  former  fires; 
The  huntsman's  self  relented  to  a  grin. 
And  rated  lum  almost  a  whipper-in. 


35. 

Such  were  his  trophies  -  not  ofspear  and  shield, 
But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  foxes'  brushes; 
Yet  I  must  own,  —  although  in  this  I  yield 
To  patriot  sympathy  a  Briton's  blushes,  — 
He  thought  at  heart  like  courtly  Chesterfield, 
Who,  after  a  long  chase  o'er  hills,  dales,  bushes, 
And  what  not,  though  he  rode  beyond  all  price, 
Ask'd,  next  day,  "If  men  ever  hunted  twice  f' 

3a 

He  also  bad  a  quality  uncommon 

To  early  risers  after  a  long  chase, 

Who  wake  in  winter  ere  the  cock  can  summon 

December's  drowsy  day  to  his  dull  race,  — 

A  quality  agreeable  to  woman, 

When  her  soft,  Hquid  words  run  on  apace. 

Who  likes  a  listener,  wliethcr  saint  or  sinner,'^ 

He  did  not  fidl  asleep  just  after  dinner ; 

37. 

But,  light  and  airy,  stood  on  the  alert, 
And  shone  in  the  best  part  of  dialogue, 
By  humouring  always  what  they  might  assert. 
And  listening  to  the  topics  most  in  vogue; 
Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull  or  pert ; 
And  smiling  but  in  secret  — -  cunning  rogue ! 
He  ne'er  presumed  to  make  an  error  clearer ; 
In  short,  there  never  was  a  belter  hearer. 

38. 

And  then  he  danced ;  —  all  foreigners  excel 

The  serious  Angles  in  the  eloquence 

Of  pantomime;  —  he  danced,  I  say,  right  well, 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense  — 

A  thing  in  footing  indispensable: 

He  danced  without  theatrical  pretence, 

Not  like  a  ballet-master  in  the  van 

Of  his  drill'd  nymphs,  but  like  a  gentleman. 

39. 

Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound, 
And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o'er  his  figure; 
Like  swift  Camilla,  he  scarce  skimm'd  the  ground, 
And  rather  held  in  than  put  forth  his  vigour; 
And  than  he  had  an  ear  for  music's  sound, 
Which  might  defy  a  crotchet-critic's  rigour. 
Such  classic jjfli  —  sant  flaws  —  set  off*  our  hero, 
He  glanced  like  a  personified  Bolero ; 

40. 

Or,  like  a  flying  Hour  before  Aurora, 

In  Guido's  famous  fresco,  which  alone 

Is  worth  a  tour  to  Rome,  although  no  more  a 

Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world's  sole  throne. 

The  "taut  ensemble"  of  his  movements  wore  a 

Grace  of  the  soft  ideal,  seldom  shown, 

And  ne'er  to  be  described ;  for,  to  the  dolour 

Of  bards  and  prosers.  words  are  void  of  colour. 


286 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  xn 


41. 

No  marvel  then  he  was  a  favoarite; 

A  full-grown  Cupid,  very  much  admired; 

A  little  spoird,  but  by  no  means  so  quite; 

At  least  he  kept  his  vanity  retired. 

Such  was  bis  tact,  he  could  alike  delight 

The  chaste,  and  those  who  are  not  so  much  inspired. 

The  Puchess  of  Fitz>FuIke,  who  loved  **tracasserie/' 

Began  to  treat  him  with  soilie  small  '*apaeerie,*'  . 

43. 

She  was  a  fine  and  somewhat  full-blown  blonde,- 

Oesirable,  distinguish 'd,  celebrated 

For  several  winters  in  the  grand,  prand  monde, 

I'd  rather  not  say  what  might  be  related 

Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground ; 

Besides  there  might  be  falsehood  in  whafs  stated: 

Her  late  performance  had  been  a  dead  set 

At  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 


This  noble  personage  began  to  look 
A  little  black  upon  this  new  flirtation; 
But  such  small  licences  must  lovers  brook, 
Mere  freedoms  of  the  female  corporation. 
Woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  a  rebuke! 
'Twill  but  precipitate  a  situation 
Extremely  disagreeable,  but  common 
To  calculators  when  they  count  on  woman. 


/^ 


44. 


The  circle  smiFd,  then  whispePd,  and  then  sneer'd; 
The  Misses  bridled,  and  the  matrons  firown'd ; 
Some  hoped  things  might  not  turn  out  as  they  fear'd; 
Some  would  not  deem  such  women  could  be  found; 
Some  ne'er  believed  one  half  of  what  they  heard; 
Some  look'd  perplex'd,  and  others  look'd  profound ; 
And  several  pitied  with  sincere  regret 
Poor  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Piantagenet 

46. 

But  what  is  odd,  none  ever  named  the  Duke, 
Who,  one  might  think,  was  something  in  the  affair. 
True,  he  was  absent,  and  'twas  rumour'd  took 
But  small  concern  about  the  when,  or  where, 
Or  what  his  consort  did:  if  he  could  brook 
Her  gaieties,  none  had  a  right  to  stare : 
Theirs  was  that  best  of  unions,  past  all  doubt. 
Which  never  meets,  and  therefore  can't  fsall  out 

46. 

But,  oh  that  T  should  ever  pen  so  sad  a  line ! 
Fired  with  an  abstract  love  of  virtue,  she. 
My  Dian  of  the  Ephcsians,  Lady  Adeline, 
Began  to  think  the  Duchess'  conduct  free; 
Regretting  much  that  she  had  chosen  so  bad  a  line, 
And  waxing  chiller  in  her  courtesy, 
Look'd  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend's  fragility. 
For  which  most  friends  reserve  their  sensibility. 


47. 

There's  nonglit  in  this  bad  world  like  sympathy: 

'Tis  so  becoming  to  the  soul  and  face; 

Sets  to  soft  music  the  harmonious  sigh, 

And  robes  sweet  friendship  in  a  Bmssels  laoew 

Without  a  friend,  what  were  humanity. 

To  hunt  our  errors  up  with  a  good  graoe? 

Consoling  us  with  —  '^Would  you  had  thought  twieel 

Ah!  ifyoa  had  but  foUow'd  my  advice!" 

48. 

Ob,  Job  1  you  had  two  friends:  one's  quite enoogb. 
Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease; 
They  are  but  bad  pilots  when  the  weather's  rough. 
Doctors  less  famous  for  their  cures  than  fees. 
Let  no  man  grumble  when  his  friends  fall  off, 
As  they  will  do  like  leaves  at  the  first  breese: 
When  your  affairs  come  round,  one  way  or  t'other, 
Go  to  the  coffee-house  and  take  another. 

49. 

But  this  is  not  my  maxim :  had  it  been. 

Some  heart-aches  had  been  spared  me;  yet  I  care  not- 

I  would  not  be  a  tortoise  in  his  screen 

Of  stubborn  shell,  which  waves  and  weather  wear  not 

Tis  better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen 

That  which  humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not : 

'Twill  teach  discernment  to  the  sensitive. 

And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a  sieve. 

60. 

Of  all  the  horrid,  hideous  notes  of  woe^ 
Sadder  than  owl-songs  or  the  midnight-blast. 
Is  that  portentous  phrase,  *'I  told  you  so,"       ^ 
Uttcr'd  by  friends,  those  prophets  of  the  past. 
Who,  'stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do. 
Own  they  foresaw  that  yon  would  bU  at  last. 
And  solace  your  slight  lapse  'gainst  "banoi  mores," 
With  a  long  memorandum  of  old  stories. 

61. 

The  Lady  Adeline's  serene  severity 
Was  not  confined  to  feeling  for  her  friend, 
Whose  fame  she  rather  doubted  with  posterity 
Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  niend ; 
But  Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity, 
But  mix'd  with  pity,  pure  as  e'er  was  penn'd : 
His  inexperience  moved  her  gentle  ruth. 
And  (as  her  junior  by  six  weeks)  his  youth. 

6Z 

These  forty  days'  advantage  of  her  years  — 

And  hers  were  those  which  can  face  calculation, 

Boldly  referring  to  the  list  of  peers 

And  noble  births,  nor  dread  the  enumeration,  — 

Gave  her  a  right  to  have  maternal  fears 

For  a  young  gentleman's  fit  education, 

Though  she  was  far  from  that  leap-year,  whose  leap. 

In  female  dates,  strikes  time  all  of  a  heap. 


Qhyro  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


287 


Thi3  may  be  fixM  at  somewhere  before  thirty  — 
Say  seven-and-twenty;  for  I  neyer  knew 
The  strictest  in  chronology  and  virtve 
Advance  beyond,  while  they  conld  pass  for  new. 
Ob,  Time !  why  dost  not  pause?  Thy  scytlic,  so  dirty 
With  nist^  should  sorely  cease  to  hack  and  hew. 
Reset  it;  shave  more  smoothly,  also  slower, 
If  but  to  keep  thy  otedit  as  a  mower. 

M. 

But  Adetine  was  flir  from  that  ripe  age^ 

Whose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 

Twas  rather  her  experience  made  her  sage, 

for  she  had  seen  the  world,  and  stood  its  test, 

As  I  have  said  in  —  I  forget  what  page; 

My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  gucss'd 

By  this  time;  —  but  strike  six  from  seven-and-twenty. 

And  yon  will  find  her  sum  of  years  in  plenty. 

At  sixteen  she  came  out;  presented,  vannted, 

She  pQt  all  coronets  into    oomoMtion : 

At  seventeen  Coo  the  world  was  still  enchanted 

With  the  new  Yernis  of  their  brilliant  ocean : 

At  eighteen,  though  below  her  feet  stilt  panted 

A  hecatomb  of  suitors  with  devotion. 

She  had  consented  to  create  again 

That  Adam,  calFd  «tbe  happiest  of  men." 

Since  then  she  had  sparkled  throogh  three  glowing  win- 
Admired,  adored ;  but  also  so  correct,  fters, 
That  she  had  pnesled  all  the  acutest  hinters, 
Without  the  apparel  of  being  oiroomspect ; 
They  could  not  even  glean  the  slightest  splinters 
From  off  the  marble,  which  had  no  defect 
She  had  also  saatoh'd  a  moment  since  her  marriage 
To  bear  a  son  and  heir  —  and  one  miscarriage. 

57. 

Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-flies  flew  around  her. 
Those  little  glittcrers  of  the  London  night; 
Bat  none  of  these  possessed  a  sting  to  wound  her  — 
She  was  a  pitcli  beyond  a  coxcomb's  flight 
Perhaps  she  wish*d  an  aspirant  profounder; 
Bat  whatsoe'er  she  wish'd,  she  acted  right ; 
And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue  dignify/ 
A  woman,  so  she's  good,  what  does  it  signify  i    ^ 

58. 

I  hate  a  motive  tike  a  lingering  bottle, 
Whidi  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  stand, 
Leaving  all  clarctless  the  unmoisten'd  throttle. 
Especially  with  politics  on  hand; 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  a  drove  of  cattle, 
'  W*ho  whirl  the  dust  as  Simooms  whirl  the  sand ; 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  an  argument, 
K  Laureate's  odo,  or  servile  Peer's  ''Content." 


GO. 

'Tis  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  things. 
They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  tJic  earth: 
So  that  the  branch  a  goodly  verdure  flings, 
I  reck  not  if  an  acorn  gave  it  birth. 
To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 
Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth ; 
But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern. 
And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiern. 

00. 

With  the  kind  view  of  saving  an  Ma^ 
Both  to  the  duchess  and  diplomatist,     > 
The  Lady  Adeline,  as  soon's  she  saw 
That  Juan  was  unlikely  to  resist  — 
(For  foreigners  don't  know  that  a/uva;  pas 
In  England  ranks  quite  on  a  difierent  list 
From  those  of  other  lands,  unblest  with  juries, 
Whose  verdict  for  such  sin  a  certain  cure  is;)  — 

61. 

The  Lady  Addine  resolved  to  take 
Such  measures  as  she  thought  might  best  impede 
The  further  progress  of  this  sad  mistake. 
She  thought  with  some  simplicity  indeed; 
But  innocence  is  bold  even  at  the  stake. 
And  simple  in  the  world,  and  doth  not  need 
Nor  use  those  palisades  by  dames  erected, 
Whose  virtue  lies  in  never  being  detected. 

It  was  not  that  she  fear'd  the  very  worst: 
His  Grace  was  an  enduring,  married  man. 
And  was  not  likely  all  at  once  to  burst 
Into  a  scene,  and  swell  the  clients'  clan 
Of  Doctors'  Commons;  but  she  dreaded  first 
The  magic  of  her  Grace's  talisman, 
And  next  a  quarrel  (as  he  seem'd  to  fret) 
With  Lord  Augustus  Fits-Plantageaet 

63. 

Her  Grace  too  pass'd  for  being  an  hUrigtmt^, 
And  somewhat  michantt  in  her  amorous  sphere; 
One  of  those  pretty,  precious  plagues,  which  haunt 
A  lover  with  caprices  soft  and  dear. 
That  like  to  tmake  a  quarrel,  when  they  can't 
Find  one,  each  day  of  the  ddightful  year; 
Bewitching,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow, 
And  —  what  is  worst  of  all  —  won't  let  you  go : 

64. 

The  sort  of  thing  to  turn  a  young  man's  head, 
Or  make  a  Werther  of  him  in  the  end. 
No  wonder  then  a  purer  soul  should  dread 
This  sort  of  chaste  liaison  for  a  friend ;  ^ 

It  were  much  i»etter  to  be  wed  or  dead. 
Than  wear  a  heart  a  woman  loves  to  rend. 
'Tis  bcsrto  pause,  and  think,  ere  you  rush  on, 
If  that  a  **bonne/ortune"  be  really  **bonncr 


288 


DON  JUAN. 


OAvro  xi¥. 


e5. 

And  first,  in  the  o'erflowing  of  her  heart. 
Which  really  knew  or  thought  it  knew  do  guile, 
She  call'd  her  husband  now  and  then  apart, 
And  bade  him  counsel  Juan.    With  a  smile 
Lord  Henry  heard  her  plans  of  artless  art 
To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  Siren's  wile; 
And  answer'd,  like  a  statesman  or  a  prophet, 
In  such  guise  tliat  she  could  make  nothing  of  it 

ee. 

Firstly,  he  said,  *1ie  never  interfered 
In  any  body's  business  but  the  king's;" 
Next,  that  "he  never  judged  from  what  appeared. 
Without  strong  reason,  of  those  sorts  of  things;" 
Thirdly,  that  '*Juan  had  more  brain  than  beard, 
And  was  not  to  be  held  in  leading-strings;" 
And  fourthly,  what  need  hardly  be  said  twice, 
^  ''That  good  but  rarely  came  from  good  advice." 

07. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless  to  approve  the  troth 
Of  the  last  axiom,  he  advised  his  spouse 
To  leave  the  parties  to  themselves,  forsooth, 
At  least  as  far  as  hxensiance  allows : 
That  time  would  temper  Juan's  faults  of  youth ; 
That  young  men  rarely  made  monastic  vows; 
That  opposition  only  more  attaches  — 
But  here  a  messenger  brooght  in  despatches: 

68. 

And  being  of  the  council  call'd  **the  pi  ivy," 
Lord  Henry  walk'd  into  his  cabinet. 
To  furnish  matter  for  some  future  Livy 
To  tell  how  he  reduced  the  nation's  debt; 
And  if  their  full  contents  I  do  not  give  ye, 
It  is  because  I  do  not  know  them  yet, 
But  I  shall  add  them  in  a  brief  appendix, 
To  come  between  mine  epic  and  its  index. 


But  ere  he  went,  he  added  a  slight  hint. 
Another  gentle  common-place  or  two, 
Such  as  are  ooin'd  in  conversation's  mint, 
And  pass,  for  want  of  better,  though  not  new: 
Then  broke  his  packet,  to  sec  what  was  in't, 
And  having  casually  glanced  it  through, 
Retired ;  and,  as  he  went  out,  calmly  kiss'd  her. 
Less  like  a  young  wife  than  an  aged  sister. 

70. 

He  was  a  cold,  good  hononrable  man, 

Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  every  thing; 

A  goodly  spirit  for  a  state-divan, 

A  figure  fit  to  walk  before  a  king; 

Tall,  stately,  form'd  to  lead  the  courtly  van 

On  birth'days,  glorious  with  a  star  and  string ; 

The  very  model  of  a  chamberlain  — 

And  such  I  mean  to  make  him  when  I  reign. 


71. 

But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  wbole—       y 
I  don't  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell  «>.    \y/^ 
Which  pretty  women  —  the  sweet  souls!  —  call  SomL 
Certes  it  was  not  body ;  he  was  well 
Proportion'd,  as  a  poplar  or  a  pole, 
A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle; 
And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  war 
Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 

72. 

Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  Fve  said  — 

That  undefinable  "Je  ne  aau  qum," 

Which,  for  what  I  know,  may  of  yore  have  led 

To  Homer's  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy  . 

The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's  bed; 

Though  on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Dardan  boy 

Was  mach  inferior  to  King  Menelaus; — 

But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 

73. 

There  Is  an  awkward  thing  which  mnch  perplexeSy 
Unless  like  wise  Tiresias  we  had  proved 
By  turns  the  difference  of  the  several  nexesi 
Neither  can  show  quite  how  they  would  be  loved. 
The  sensual  for  a  short  time  but  connects  os^ 
The  sentimental  boasts  to  be  unmoved; 
But  both  together  form  a  kind  of  centaur. 
Upon  whose  back  'tis  better  not  to  venture. 

74* 

A  something  all-BQfficient  for  the  heart 

Is  that  for  which  the  sex  are  always  seeking;  ^^ 

But  how  to  fill  up  that  same  vacant  part? 

There  lies  the  rub  —  and  this  they  are  but  weak  in. 

Frail  mariners  afloat  without  a  chart, 

They  run  before  the  wind  through  high  seas  breakim^; 

And  when  they  have  made  the  shore  through  every  ahocky 

'Tis  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a  rock. 

75. 

There  is  a  flower  call'd  "Love  in  idleness," 

For  which  see  Shakspeare's  ever-blooming  garden; — 

1  will  not  make  his  great  description  less. 

And  beg  his  British  Godship's  humble  pardon. 

If,  in  my  extremity  of  rhyme's  distress, 

I  touch  a  single  leaf  where  he  is  warden;  — 

But,  though  the  flower  is  different,  with  the  French 

Or  Swiss  Rousseau,  cry,  *•  Fot/d  la  Pervenche  I'* 

76, 

Eureka!  I  have  found  it  I  What  I  mean 

To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness. 
But  that  in  love  such  idleness  has  been        / 
An  accessory,  as  I  have  cause  to  guess.     ^ 
Hard  labour's  an  indifferent  go-between; 
Your  men  of  business  are  not  apt  to  express 
Much  passion,  since  the  merchant-ship,  the  Arg^o, 
Convey'd  Medea  as^er  supercargo. 


CAMTO  XIT. 


DON  JUAN. 


289 


77. 

"Septus  Uieprocur*  from  "negotHs** 
Salth  Horaoe;  the  great  little  poet's  wrong; 
Bis  other  maxim,  "Noseitur  a  socHs/* 
Is  mach  more  to  the  purpose  of  his  song ; 
Tboagh  even  that  were  sometimes  too  feroeions, 
Unless  good  company  he  kept  too  long ; 
Baty  in  his  teeth,  whatever  their  state  or  station, 
Thrice  happy  they  who  have  an  occupation ! 

78. 

Adam  exchanged  his  paradise  for  ploughing; 

Bre  made  up  millinery  with  fig-loaves  — 

The  earliest  knowledge  from  the  tree  so  knowing, 

As  far  as  I  know,  that  the  church  receives : 

And  since  that  time  it  need  not  cost  much  showing, 

That  many  of  the  ills  o'er  which  man  grieves, 

And  still  more  women,  spring  from  not  employing 

Some  hours  to  make  the  remnant  worth  enjoying. 

79. 

And  hence  high  life  Is  oft  a  dreary  void, 

A  rack  of  pleasures,  where  we  must  invent 

A  something  wherewithal  to  be  annoy'd. 

Bards  may  sing  what  they  please  about  Content;,  y 

ConienUd,  when  translated,  means  but  cloyM;    (y 

And  beooe  arise  the  woes  of  sentiment, 

Bhie  devils,  and  blue-stockings,  and  romances 

Reduced  to  praotioe  and  perform'd  like  dances. 

80. 

I  do  declare,  upon  an  affidavit, 
Romances  I  ne'er  read  like  those  I  have  ^een; 
Nor,  if  unto  the  world  I  ever  gave  it, 
Would  some  believe  that  such  a  tale  had  been : 
But  such  intent  I  never  had,  nor  have  it; 
Some  truths  are  better  kept  behind  a  screen, 
Especially  when  they  would  look  like  lies; 
I  therefore  deal  in  generalities. 


81. 


and  why  ? 


''An  oyster  may  be  cross'd  in  love," 
Because  he  mopeth  idly  in  his  shell, 
And  heaves  a  lonely  subterraqueous  sigh, 
Much  as  a  monk  may  do  within  his  cell : 
And  kpropos  of  monks,  their  piety 
WUh  sloth  hath  found  it  difficult  to  dwell ; 
Those  vegetables  of  the  Catholic  creed 
Are  apt  exceedingly  to  run  to  seed.         [/ 

82. 

01^  Wiiberforce!  thou  man  of  black  renown. 

Whose  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say, 

Thoa  bast  struck  one  immense  colossus  down, 

Thoa  moral  Washington  of  Africa ! 

Soft  there's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 

Whidi  you  should  perpetrate  some  summer's  day, 

Aad  set  the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights : 

Toa  liave  freed  the  &/aeA#— now  pray  shut  up  the  whites. 


Shut  up  the  bald-coot  bully  Alexander! 

Ship  off  the  holy  three  to  Senegal ; 

Teach  them  that  <*sauce  for  gooSe  is  sauce  for  gander.' 

And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be  in  thrall? 

Shut  upKacb  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  (since  the  pay's  but  small) ; 

Shut  up  —  no,  not  the  king,  but  the  pavilion, 

Or  else  'twill  cost  us  all  another  million, 

84. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large;  let  Bedlam  out, 
And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 
All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route. 
As  now  with  those  of  soi-disant  sound  mind. 
This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt. 
Were  there  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind; 
But  till  that  point  d^apput  is  found  alas ! 
Like  Archimedes,  I  leave  earth  aa  'twas. 

86. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect  — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  splendid  mansion  ; 

Her  conduct  had  been  perfectly  correct. 

As  she  had  seen  nought  claiming  its  expansion. 

A  wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck'd, 

Because  'tis  frailer,  doubtless,  tlian  a  stanch  one ; 

But  when  the  latter  works  its  own  undoing, 

Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  ruin,    l^ 

86. 

She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so ;  but  that  love 
Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a  sad  toil, 
The  stone  of  Sisyphus,  if  once  we  move 
Our  feelings  'gainst  the  nature  of  the  soiL 
She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove, 
No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil : 
Their  union  was  a  model  to  behold. 
Serene  and  noble,  —  conjugal,  but  cold. 

87. 

There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years. 
Though  much  in  temper;  but  they  never  clashed  : 
They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres. 
Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  waters  wash'd. 
Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash'd 
Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 
Which  foin  would  lull  its  river-ohild  to  sleep. 

88. 

Now,  when  she  onoe  had  ta'en  an  interest 
In  any  thing,  however  she  might  flatter 
Herself  that  her  intentions  were  the  best. 
Intense  intentions  are  a  dangerous  matter: 
Impressions  were  much  stronger  than  she  guess'd, 
And  gather'd  as  they  run,  like  growing  water. 
Upon  her  mind ;  the  more  so,  as  her  breast 
Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impress'd, 
19 


290 


DON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  XIV. 


Bat  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurking  demon 
Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named  — 
Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  k]ng:s,  and  seamen, 
That  is,  when  they  succeed ;  but  greatly  blamed 
As  obstinacy f  both  in  men  and  women,  • 

Whene'er  their  triumph  pales,  or  star  is  tamed:  — 
And  'twill  perplex  the  casuists  in  morality 
To  fix  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  quality. 

90. 

Had  Bonaparte  won  at  Waterloo, 

It  had  been  firmness;  now  'tis  pertinacity : 

Must  the  event  decide  between  the  two? 

I  leave  it  to  your  people  of  sagacity 

To  draw  the  line  between  the  fttlse  and  true. 

If  such  can  e'er  be  drawn  by  man's  capacity: 

My  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 

Who  in  her  way  too  was  a  heroine. 

91. 

She  knew  not  her  own  heart;  then  how  should  I? 

I  think  not  she  was  then  in  love  with  Juan : 

If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 

The  wild  sensation,  unto  her  a  new  one : 

She  merely  felt  a  common  sympathy 

(I  will  not  say  it  was  a  felse  or  true  one) 

In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  danger  — 

Her  husband's  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a  stranger. 

92. 

She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  fHend  —  and  this 
Without  the  farce  of  friendship,  or  romance 
Of  Platonism,  which  leads  so  oft  amiss 
Ladies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in  France, 
Or  Germany,  where  people  pure/y  kiss. 
To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not  advanoe; 
But  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man  be, 
'  She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 


No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 

Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 

An  innocent  predominance  annex. 

And  tune  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 

If  free  from  passion,  which  all  friendship  checks. 

And  your  true  feelings  fiilly  understood, 

No  friend  like  to  a  woman  earth  discoTera,        \/ 

So  that  you  ha?c  not  been  nor  will  be  lovers. 

94. 

Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  germ 
Of  change;  and  how  should  this  be  otherwise? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 
Is  shown  through  nature's  whole  analogies; 
And  how  should  the  most  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 
Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies? 
Methinks  Love's  very  title  says  enough : 
How  should  *<the  tender  passion"  e'er  be  tav^h  t 


95. 

Alas !  by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 
(I  merely  quote  what  I  have  heard  from  many) 
Had  lovers  not  some  reason  to  regret 
The  passion  which  made  Solomon  a  Zany. 
I've  also  seen  some  wives  (not  to  forget 
The  marriage-state,  the  best  or  worst  of  any) 
Who  were  the  very  paragons  of  wives. 
Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

9e. 

I've  also  seen  some  fema]e/rt«n&  ('tis  odd. 
But  true  —  as,  if  expedient,  I  could  prove) 
That  faithful  were  through  thick  and  thin,  abroad. 
At  home,  far  more  than  ever  yet  was  love  -> 
Who  did  not  quit  me  when  oppression  trod 
Upon  me ;  whom  no  scandal  could  remove; 
Who  fought,  and  fight,  in  absence  too,  my  battles. 
Despite  the  snake  Society's  loud  rattles. 

97, 

Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  aenacj 
Win  be  discuss'd  licreafler,  I  opine: 
At  present  I  am  glad  of  a  pretence 
To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the  effect  is  fine. 
And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  suspense  ; 
The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 
To  bait  then:  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 

96. 

Whether  they  rode,  or  walked,  or  studied  Spanish 
To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original, 
A  pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish ; 
Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  call'd  "small," 
Or  s^ious,  are  the  topics  I  mast  banish 
To  the  next  Canto;  where,  perhaps,  I  shall 
Say  something  to  tlie  purpose,  and  display 
Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

99. 

Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 
Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter: 
They  '11  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair. 
And  Juan  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And  I  shall  take  a  much  more  serious  air 
Than  I  have  yet  done  in  this  epic  satire. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan    ' 
Will  foil;  but  if  they  do,  'twill  be  their  roin. 

100. 

But  great  things  spring  from  little:  —  would  you  think. 

That,  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion     ;  /' 

As  e'er  brought  man  and  woman  to  the  brink  >^' 

Of  ruin,  rose  from  such  a  slight  occasion, 

As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  link 

Of  such  a  sentimental  situation  ? 

You'll  never  guess^  I'll  bet  you  millions,  milliards  — 

It  all  sprung  from  a  harmless  game  at  billiards. 


CUkMTO  Xf. 


DON  JUAN. 


291 


101. 

Tb  strange  —  but  true;  f6ir  trath  is  always  strange; 
Stranger  than  fiction:  If  itcouldbetold^        ^ 
How  moch  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange! 
How  differently  the  world  would  men  behold ! 
How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change ! 
The  new  world  would  be  nothing  to  the  old. 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 


103. 

What  <<antres  vast  and  deserts  idle"  then 
Would  be  discovered  in  the  human  soul ! 
What  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men^ 
With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  pole!    /  >^ 
What  Anthropophagi  are  nine  often 
Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  oontroul! 
Were  things  but  only  call'd  by  their  right  name^ 
Caesar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


CANTO     XV. 


Ah!  —  Wliat  should  follow  slips  from  my  reflection: 

Whatever  follows  ne'crtheless  may  be 

As  iprapos  of  hope  or  retrospection, 

As  though  the  lurking  thought  had  follow'd  free. 

All  present  life  is  but  an  intcijcction, 

An  "Oh!"  or  "Ah!"  of  joy  or  misery, 

Ora'OIa!  ha!"  or«Bah!"  — ayawn,or**Pooh!" 

Of  which  perhaps  the  latter  is  most  true. 


But,  more  or  less,  the  whole's  a  syncop^ 
Or  a  singultus  —  emblems  of  emotion. 
The  grand  antithesis  to  great  ennai. 
Wherewith  we  break  our  bubbles  on  the  ocean, 
That  watery  outline  of  eternity. 
Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion. 
Which  ministers  unto  the  soul's  delight. 
In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

3. 

But  an  are  better  than  the  sigh  supprest. 

Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart. 

Making  the  countenance  a  mask  of  rest. 

And  tummg  human  nature  to  an  art. 

Pew  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst  or  best; 

Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 

A  comer  for  herself;  and  therefore  fiction 

b  that  which  passes  with  least  contradiction. 


1/ 


Ah!  who  can  tell?  Or  rather,  who  can  not 
Remember,  without  telling,  passion's  errors? 
The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot, 
Rath  got  blue  devils  for  his  morning  mirrors : 
What  though  on  Lethe's  stream  he  seem  to  float, 
He  cannot  sink  his  tremors  or  liis  terrors ; 
The  ruby  glass,  that  shakes  within  his  hand, 
Leaves  a  sad  sediment  of  Time's  worst  sand. 


And  as  for  love  —  Oh,  Love! Wc  will  proceed. 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amondeville, 
A  pretty  name  as  one  would  wish  to  read, 
Must  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  quill. 
There's  music  in  the  sighing  of  a  reed ; 
There's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  rill; 
There's  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears:  6.- 
Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 


The  Lady  Adeline,  right  honourable, 

And  honour'd,  ran  a  risk  of  growing  less  so; 

For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves  —  alas  I  that  I  should  say  so ! 

They  difier  as  wine  differs  from  its  label,     u.-"^ 

When  once  decanted ;  —  I  presume  to  guess  so, 

But  will  not  swear:  yet  both  upon  occasion. 

Till  old,  may  undergo  adulteration. 


But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage. 

The  unmingled  essence  of  the  grape ;  and  yet 

Bright  as  a  new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage, 

Or  glorious  as  a  diamond  richly  set; 

A  page  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print  age, 

And  for  which  Nature  might  forego  her  debt  — 

Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in't 

The  luck  of  finding  every  body  solvent 


Oh,  Death !  thou  dunnest  of  all  duns!  thou  daily    i 
Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap. 
Like  a  meek  tradesman  when  approaching  palely, 
Some  splendid  debtor  he  would  take  by  sap : 
But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  fhil,  he 
Advances  with  exasperated  rap, 
And  (if  let  in)  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome, 
On  ready  money  or  ^^a  draft  on  Ransom." 


292 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  XT. 


9. 

Whatever  thou  takest,  spare  awhile  poor  Beauty ! 
She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 
"What  thoagh  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from  duty, 
The  more's  the  reason  why  yon  ong^ht  to  stay. 
Gaunt  Gonrmandl  with  whole  nations  for  your  booty, 
Tou  should  be  cItU  in  a  modest  way : 
Suppress  then  some  sUg-ht  feminine  diseases, 
And  take  as  many  heroes  as  HeaTcn  pleases. 

10. 

Fair  Adeline,  the  more  ingenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said). 

Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us, 

To  like  too  readily,  or  too  high  bred 

To  show  it  —  points  we  need  not  now  discuss  — 

Would  give  up  artlessly  both  heart  and  head 

Unto  such  feelings  as  seem'd  innocent, 

For  objects  worthy  of  the  sentiment 

11. 

Some  parts  of  Juan's  history,  which  rumour, 

That  liye-gazette,  had  scatter'd  to  disfigure, 

She  had  heard;  but  women  hear  with  more  good  humour 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigour. 

Besides,  his  conduct,  since  in  England,  grew  more 

Strict,  and  his  mind  assumed  a  manlier  vigour; 

Because  he  had,  like  Aldbiades, 

The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease. 

12. 

His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  sednctiye. 

Because  he  ne'er  seem'd  anxious  to  seduce ; 

Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 

Ofcoxcombry  or  conquest:  no  abuse 

Of  his  attractions  marr'd  the  fair  perspective, 

To  indicate  a  Cupidon  broke  loose, 

And  seem  to  say,  "resist  us  if  you  can"  •—  \X 

Which  makes  a  dandy  while  it  spoils  a  man. 

13. 

They  are  wrong  —  thaf  s  not  the  way  to  set  about  it; 
As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 
But  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it; 
In  fact,  his  manner  was  his  own  alone : 
Sincere  he  was  —  at  least  you  could  not  doubt  it, 
In  listening  merely  to  bis  voiqe's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

14. 

By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 

Suspicion :  though  not  timid,  Jiis  regard 

Was  such  as  rather  seem'd  to  keep  aloof. 

To  shield  himself,  than  put  you  on  your  guard : 

Perhaps  'twas  hardly  quite  assured  enough,        / 

But  modesty's  at  times  its  own  reward,  ^ 

Like  virtue;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 

Will  go  much  further  than  there's  need  to  mention. 


16. 

Serene,  accomplish 'd,  cheerful,  but  not  loud; 
Insinuating  without  insinuation; 
Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd, 
Yet  ne'er  betraying  this  in  conversation ; 
Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteously  proud. 
So  as  to  make  them  feel  he  knew  his  station 
And  theirs;  —  without  a  struggle  for  priority. 
He  neither  brook'd  nor  daim'd  superiority. 

16. 

Thai  is,  with  men :  with  women  he  was  what 
They  pleased  to  make  or  take  him  for ;  and  their 
Imagination 's  quite  enough  for  that: 
So  that  the  outline 's  tolerably  fair, 
They  fill  the  canvass  up  —  and  'Werbum  sat" 
If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 
Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful. 
They  can  transfigure  brighter  than  a  Raphael. 

17. 

Adeline,  no  deep  judge  of  character. 

Was  apt  to  add  a  colouring  from  her  own. 

'Tis  thus  the  good  will  amiably  err, 

And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  been  often  shown. 

Experience  Is  the  chief  philosopher. 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known : 

And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 

Their  folly  in  forgetting  there  arc  fools. 

18. 

Was  it  not  so,  great  Locke?  and  greater  Bacon  ? 
Great  Socrates  ?  And  thou.  Diviner  still. 
Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  be  mistaken, 
And  thy  pure  creed  made  sanction  of  all  iU  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 
How  was  thy  toil  rewarded?  Wc  might  fill 
Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations, 
But  leave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the  nations. 

19. 

I  perch  upon  an  humbler  promontory. 

Amidst  life's  infinite  variety : 

With  no  great  care  for  what  is  nicknamed  glorj. 

But  speculating  as  I  cast  mine  eye 

On  what  may  suit  or  may  not  suit  my  story. 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify, 

I  rattle  on  exactly  as  I'd  talk 

With  any  body  in  a  ride  or  walk. 

20. 

I  don't  know  that  there  may  be  much  ability 
Shown  in  thb  sort  of  desultory  rhyme ; 
But  there  'a  a  conversational  facility, 
Which  may  round  off  an  hour  upon  a  time. 
Of  this  I'm  sure  at  least,  there 's  no  servility 
In  mine  irregularity  of  chime. 
Which  rings  wliat  's  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary, 
Just  as  I  feel  the  "Improvisatore." 


CANTO  XT. 


DON  JUAN. 


293 


21. 

*<Oiiiiiia  Tolt  helU  Matho  dicere  —  die  aliqnando 
Et  bene,  dio  neutrum,  die  aliqaando  male.** 
The  first  \a  rather  more  than  mortal  can  do; 
The  second  may  be  sadly  done  or  gaily  ; 
The  third  is  still  more  difficult  to  stand  to ; 
The  fourth  we  hear,  and  see,  and  say  too,  daily : 
The  whole  together  is  what  I  could  wish 
To  scrre  in  this  conundrum  of  a  dish. 

22. 

A  modest  hope  —  but  modesty 's  my  forte, 
And  pride  my  feeble:  —  let  us  ramble  on. 
I  meant  to  make  this  poem  very  short, 
Bat  now  I  can't  tell  where  it  may  not  run. 
No  doubt,  if  I  had  wished  to  pay  my  court 
To  critics,  or  to  hail  the  tetting  sun 
Of  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  my  concision 
Were  more;  --  but  I  was  bom  for  opposition. 

23. 

Bat  then  'tis  mostly  on  the  weaker  side : 

So  that  I  verily  believe  if  they 

Who  now  are  basking  tn  their  full-blown  pride. 

Were  shaken  down,  and  ''dogs  had  had  their  day,'^ 

Though  at  the  first  I  might  perchance  deride 

Their  tumble,  I  should  turn  the  other  way, 

And  wax  an  ultra-royalist  in  loyalty, 

Becanse  I  hate  even  democratic  royalty. 


I  think  I  should  have  made  a  decent  spouse, 

If  I  had  never  proved  the  soft  condition ; 

I  think  I  should  have  made  monastic  vows, 

Bot  for  my  own  peculiar  superstition: 

'Gainst  rhyme  I  never  should  have  knock'd  my  brows, 

Nor  broken  my  own  hesid,  nor  that  of  Priscian, 

Nor  worn  the  motiey  mantle  of  a  poet. 

If  some  one  had  not  told  me  to  forego  it. 

25. 

Bat  'laissez  aller''  •—  knights  and  dames  I  sing, 
Soch  as  the  times  may  furnish.   'Tis  a  fliglit 
Which  seems  at  first  to  need  no  lofty  wing, 
Phuned  by  Longinns  or  the  Stagyrite : 
The  difficulty  lies  in  colouring 
(Keeping  the  due  proportions  still  in  siglit) 
With  nature  manners  which  are  artificial. 
And  rend'rini^  general  that  which  is  especiaL 

26. 

The  difference  is,  that  in  the  days  of  old 

Men  made  the  manners;  manners  now  make  men  — 

Pinned  like  a  flock,  and  fleeced  too  in  their  fold, 

At  least  nine,  and  a  ninth  beside  often. 

Now  this  at  all  events  must  render  cold 

Tour  writers,  who  must  either  draw  again 

Days  better  drawn  before,  or  else  assume 

The  preaeaty  with  thdr  common-place  costume. 


27. 

We'll  do  our  best  to  make  the  best  on't :  —  March  ! 
March,  my  Musel  If  you  cannot  fly,  yet  flutter; 
And  when  you  may  not  be  sublime,  be  arch. 
Or  starch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 
We  surely  shall  find  something  worth  research: 
Columbus  found  a  new  world  in  a  cutter. 
Or  brigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tonnage. 
While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age. 


When  Adeline,  in  all  her^g^owing  sense 

Of  Juan's  merits  and  his  situation, 

Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense  — 

Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  sensation. 

Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocence. 

Which  is  for  innocence  a  sad  temptation,  — 

As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole. 

She  'gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul.       l'"'-^ 

29. 

She  had  a  good  opinion  of  advice, 

Like  all  who  give  and  eke  receive  it  gratis, 

For  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market-price. 

Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is. 

She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice, 

And  morally  decided,  the  best  state  is  i,^ 

For  morals,  marriage^  and  this  question  carried, 

She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married. 

do. 

Juan  replied,  with  all  becoming  deference. 
He  had  a  predilection  for  that  tic ; 
But  that  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 
To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 
Some  difficulties,  as  in  his  own  preference. 
Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply ; 
That  still  he'd  wed  with  such  or  such  a  lady. 
If  that  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

31. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself. 
And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin. 
Arranging  them  like  books  on  the  same  shelf, 
There's  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 
More  (like  a  stock-holder  in  growing  pelQ      ,  ^ 
Than  match-making  in  general :  'tis  no  sin      ^'^ 
Certes,  but  a  preventative,  and  therefore 
That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 

92. 

But  never  yet  (except  of  course  a  Miss 
Unwed,  or  Mistress  never  to  be  wed, 
Or  wed  already,  who  object  to  tiiis) 
Was  there  chaste  dame  who  had  not  in  her  head 
Some  drama  of  the  marriage-unities. 
Observed  as  strictiy  both  at  board  and  bed. 
As  those  of  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 
They  turn  out  melodrames  or  pantomimes. 


294 


DON  JUAN- 


CAKTO  XT. 


33. 


They  generally  have  some  only  son. 

Some  heir  to  a  large  property,  some  friend 

Of  an  old  family,  some  gay  Sir  John, 

Or  grave  Lord  George,  with  whom  perhaps  might  end 

A  line,  and  leave  posterity  undone. 

Unless  a  marriage  was  applied  to  mend 

The  prospect  and  their  morals:  and  besides. 

They  have  at  hand  a  blooming  glut  of  brides. 

34. 

From  these  they  will  be  carefhl  to  select, 

For  this  an  heiress,  and  for  that  a  beanty ; 

For  one  a  songstress  who  hath  no  defect, 

For  t'other  one  who  promises  much  duty; 

For  this  a  lady  no  one  can  reject. 

Whose  sole  accomplishments  were  quite  a  booty; 

A  second  for  her  excellent  connections; 

A  thirds  because  there  can  be  no  objections. 

30. 

When  Rapp,  the  Harmonist,  embargoed  marriage 
In  his  harmonious  settlement  —  (which  flourishes 
Strangely  enough  as  yet  without  miscarriage, 
Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes. 
Without  those  sad  expenses  which  disparage 
What  Nature  natur^Iy  most  encourages)  » 
Why  caird  he  **Harmony"  a  state  sans  wedlock? 
Now  here  I  have  got  the  preacher  at  a  dead  lock. 

36. 

Because  be  either  meant  to  sneer  at  harmony 
Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them  thus  oddly. 
But  whether  reverend  Rapp  learn'd  this  in  Germany 
Or  no,  'tis  said  his  sect  is  rich  and  godly. 
Pious  and  pure,  beyond  what  I  can  term  any 
Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 
My  objection 's  to  his  title,  not  his  ritual, 
Although  I  wonder  how  it  grew  habitual. 

87. 

But  Rapp  is  the  reverse  of  zealous  matrons, 
Who  favour,  malgr^  Malthus,  generation  — 
Professors  of  that  genial  art,  and  patrons 
Of  all  the  modest  part  of  propagation. 
Which  after  all  at  such  a  desperate  rate  runs. 
That  half  its  produce  tends  to  emigration, 
That  sad  result  of  passions  and  potatoes  •— 
Two  weeds  which  pose  our  economic  Catos. 


Had  Adeline  read  Malthus  ?   I  can't  tell ; 

I  wish  she  had :  his  book's  the  eleventh  commandment, 

Which  says,  "thou  shalt  not  marry"  —  unless  well:    \J 

This  he  (as  far  as  I  can  understand)  meant; 

'Tis  not  my  purpose  on  his  views  to  dwell, 

Nor  canvass  what  "so  eminent  a  hand"  meant ; 

But  certes  it  conducts  to  lives  ascetic, 

Or  turning  marriage  into  arithmetic. 


39b 


But  Adeline,  who  probably  presumed 

That  Juan  had  enough  of  maintenance, 

Or  teparate  maintenance,  in  case  'twas  doom'd  — 

As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 

That  bridegrooms  after  they  are  fairly  groom' d^ 

May  retrograde  a  little  in  the  dance 

Of  marriage  (which  might  form  a  painter's  fame. 

Like  Holbein's  "Dance  ofDeath"~bat  'tis  the  same);- 

40. 

But  Adeline  determined  Joan's  wedding 

In  her  own  mind,  and  that's  enough  for  woman. 

But  then,  with  whom?  There  was  the  sage  Miss  Reading, 

Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  and  Miss  Know- 

And  the  two  fair  co-heiresses  Giltbeddlng.  [man, 

She  deemed  his  merits  something  more  than  common: 

All  these  were  unobjectionable  matches, 

And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  like  watches. 

41. 

There  was  Miss  MiUpond,  smooth  as  summer's  sea, 
That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter, 
Who  secm'd  the  cream  of  equanimity. 
Till  skimm'd— and  then  there  was  some  milk  and  water, 
With  a  slight  shade  of  Blue  too  It  might  be. 
Beneath  the  surface;  but  what  did  it  matter  ? 
Love 's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet,    . 
And,  being  consumptive,  live  on  a  milk-diet,     n^' 

43. 

And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 
A  dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate. 
Whose  heart  was  fix'd  upon  a  star  or  bluestring; 
But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late. 
Or  that  she  had  not  barp'd  upon  the  true  string. 
By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great. 
She  took  up  with  some  foreign  younger  brother, 
A  Russ  or  Turk  —  the  one's  as  good  as  t'other. 

43. 

And  then  there  was  —  but  why  should  I  go  on. 
Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off  ?  —  there  was 
Indeed  a  certain  foir  and  fiiiry  one. 
Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class,  — 
Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 
O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 
A  lovely  being,  scarcely  form'd  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded; 

44k 

Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan ;  left  an  only 
Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind ; 
But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely ! 
Blood  is  not  water;  and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youth  Ukc  those  which  overthrown  lie 
By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas !  behind. 
To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb? 


CANTO  XT. 


DON  JUAN. 


295 


46. 

Barly  in  yean,  and  yet  more  infentine 

In  figure,  she  had  sometLing  of  sablime 

In  eyes  which  sadJy  shooc,  as  Seraphs'  shine. 

All  jouth  —  but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time; 

Radiant  and  graye  *-  as  pitying  man's  decline; 

Monrnfol  —  but  mournful  of  another's  crime, 

She  look'd  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden's  door, 

And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no  more. 

46. 

She  was  a  Catholic  too,  sincere,  austere. 

As  for  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow 'd, 

Aod  deem'd  that  follen  worship  far  more  dear 

Perhaps  because  'twas  fallen ;  her  sires  were  proud 

Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fill'd  the  ear 

Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 

To  novel  power;  and  as  she  was  the  last. 

She  held  their  old  foitb  and  old  feelings  fast. 

47. 

She  gazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew, 

As  seeking  not  to  know  it;  silent,  lone. 

As  grows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew. 

And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 

There  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew; 

Her  spirit  seem'd  as  seated  on  a  throne 

Apart  from  tlie  surrounding  world,  and  strong 

In  its  own  strength  —  most  strange  in  one  so  young! 

48. 

Now  it  so  happened,  in  the  catalogue 

Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  omitted. 

Although  her  birth  and  wealth  had  given  her  vogue 

Beyond  the  charmers  we  have  already  cited; 

Her  beauty  also  seem'd  to  form  no  clog 

Against  her  being  mcntion'd  as  well  Aited, 

Hj  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 

Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

^. 

And  this  omission,  like  that  of  the  bust 
Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  Tiberius, 
Biade  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 
This  he  cxpress'd  half  smiling  and  half  serious; 
When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust, 
Aod  with  an  air,  to  say  the  least,  imperious. 
She  marvcird  ''what  he  saw  in  such  a  baby 
As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  ?'' 

60. 

Joan  rejoined  —  ^She  was  a  Catholic, 
And  therefore  Attest,  as  of  his  persuasion; 
Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick. 
And  the  Pope  thunder  excommunication. 
If—"  But  here  Adeline,  who  seem'd  to  pique 
Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 
Of  others  with  her  own  opinions,  stated  — 
As  nsnal —  the  same  reason  which  she  late  dad 


51. 

And  wherefore  not  ?   A  reasonable  reason, 
If  good,  is  none  the  worse  for  repetiticm ; 
If  bad,  the  best  way's  certainly  to  tease  on 
And  amplify:  you  lose  much  by  concision. 
Whereas  insisting  in  or  out  of  season 
Convinces  all  men,  even  a  politician; 
Or  —  what  is  just  the  same  —  it  wearies  out. 
So  the  end's  gain'd,  what  signifies  the  route  ? 

62. 

Why  Adeline  had  this  slight  prejudice  — 

For  prejudice  it  was  —  against  a  creature 

As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice. 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feature, 

For  me  appears  a  question  far  too  nice. 

Since  Adeline  was  liberal  by  nature; 

But  nature 's  nature,  and  has  more  caprices 

Than  I  have  time^  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces.' 

63. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 
With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  looked, 
Which  charm  most  people  in  their  earlier  day : 
For  there  arc  few  things  by  mankind  less  brook'd, 
And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say. 
Than  finding  thus  their  genius  stand  rebuked, 
Like  ''Anthony's  by  Caesar,"  by  the  few 
Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 

64. 

It  was  not  envy  —  Adeline  bad  none ; 
Her  place  was  fhr  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 
It  was  not  scorn  — which  could  not  light  on  one 
Whose  greatest/me/^  was  leaving  few  to  find. 
It  was  not  jealousy,  I  think:  but  shun 
Following  the  "Ignes  fotui"  of  mankind. 

It  was  not but  'tis  easier  far,  alas  I 

To  say  what  it  was  not,  than  what  it  was. 

66. 

Little  Aurora  deem'd  she  was  the  theme 
Of  such  discussion.   She  was  there  a  guest 
A  beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream; 
Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the  rest. 
Which  flow'd  on  for  a  moment  in  the  beam 
Time  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling  crest. 
Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly  smiled  •■ 
She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  ehild. 

6a 

The  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 
Imposed  not  upon  her:  she  saw  her  blase 
Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a  glow-worm  shine, 
Then  tum'd  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  rays. 
Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine, 
Being  no  Sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways ; 
Tet  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor. 
Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 


296 


DON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  XT. 


57. 

His  fome  too^  —  for  he  bad  that  kind  of  fome 
Which  sometimea  plays  the  deuce  with  womankind, 
A  heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame, 
Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  combined; 
Faults  which  attract  because  they  are  not  tame; 
Follies  trick'd  out  so  brightly  that  they  blind :  — 
These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impression. 
Such  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

5a 

Juan  knew  nought  of  such  a  character  ^ 
High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  Haidee; 
Yet  each  was  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere: 
The  Island-girl,  bred  up  by  the  lone  sea, 
More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere, 
Was  Nature's  all :  Aurora  could  not  be 
Nor  would  be  thus;  —  the  difference  in  them 
Was  such  as  lies  bet w  een  a  flo  w  er  and  gem. 

69. 

Having  wound  up  with  this  subUme  comparison, 

Methinks  we  may  proceed  upon  our  narrative. 

And,  as  my  friend  Scott  says,  "I  sound  my  Warison;" 

Scott,  tlie  superlative  of  my  comparative  — 

Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Saracen, 

Serf,  Lord,  Man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would  share  It,  if 

There  had  not  been  one  Shakspeare  and  Voltaire, 

Of  one  or  both  of  whom  be  seems  the  heir. 

I  say,  in  my  slight  way  I  may  proceed 

To  play  upon  the  surface  of  humanity. 

I  write  the  world,  nor  care  if  the  world  read. 

At  least  for  this  I  cannot  spare  its  vanity. 

My  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhaps  may  breed 

More  foes  by  this  same  scroll:  when  I  began  it,  I 

Thought  that  it  might  turn  out  so  —  now  I  know  it. 

But  still  I  am,  or  was,  a  pretty  poet 

61. 

The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 
As  congresses  of  late  do)  of  the  Lady 
Adeline  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 
Some  acids  with  the  sweets  —  for  she  was  heady ; 
But,  ere  the  matter  could  be  marr'd  or  mended. 
The  silvery  bell  rung,  not  for  "dinner  ready," 
But  for  that  hour,  call'd  half-hour,  given  to  dress. 
Though  ladies'  robes  soem  scant  enough  for  less. 


Great  things  were  now  to  be  achieved  at  table. 
With  flvissy  plate  for  armour,  knives  and  forks 
For  weapons ;  but  what  Muse  since  Homer's  able 
(His  feasts  are  not  the  worst  part  of  his  works) 
To  draw  up  in  array  a  single  day-bill 
Of  modem  dinners?  where  more  mystery  lurks 
In  soups  or  sauces,  or  a  sole  ragout, 
Than  witches,  bitches,  or  physicians  brew. 


as. 

There  was  a  goodly  ^'soupe  k  la  hannefimme,*' 
Though  God  knows  whence  it  came  from;  there  was  too 
A  turbot  for  relief  of  those  who  cram. 
Relieved  with  dindon  k  la  Perigueux; 

There  also  was the  sinner  that  I  am ! 

How  shall  I  get  this  gourmand-stanza  through?  — 
Soupe  k  la  Beauveau,  whose  relief  was  Dory, 
Relieved  itself  by  pork,  for  greater  glory. 

6i. 

But  I  niusi  crowd  all  into  one  grand  mess 
Or  mass;  for  should  I  stretch  into  detail, 
My  Muse  would  run  much  more  into  exceaSy 
Than  when  some  squeamish  people  deem  her  frail 
But  though  a  '*bonne  vivante,"  I  must  confess 
Her  stomach's  not  her  peccant  part:  this  tale, 
However,  doth  require  some  slight  refection, 
Just  to  relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 

65. 

Fowls  k  la  Conde,  slices  eke  of  salmon, 

With  sauces  Genevoises,  and  haunch  of  venbon; 

Wines  too  which  might  again  have  slain  young  AmmoB 

A  man  like  whom  I  hope  we  shan't  see  many  soon; 

They  also  act  a  glazed  Westphalian  ham  on. 

Whereon  Apiclus  would  bestow  his  benison; 

And  then  there  was  Champaign  with  foaming  whirls, 

As  white  as  Cleopatra's  melted  pearls. 

6& 

Then  there  was  God  knows  what  **k  rAUemandc," 
"A  I'Espagnole,"  "timbaUe,"  and  "Salpicon"  — 
With  things  I  can't  withstand  or  understand. 
Though  swallow'd  with  much  zest  upon  the  whole; 
And  *'entremets"  to  piddle  with  at  hand, 
Gently  to  lull  down  the  subsiding  soul; 
While  great  LucuUus'  robe  iriomphale  muffles  —  [truffles. 
(^Tkere'i  Fame)  — young  partridge -fillets,  dcck'd  with 

67. 

What  are  ihefillete  on  the  victor's  brow 

To  these?  They  are  rags  or  dust.   Where  is  the  arch 

Which  nodded  to  the  nation's  spoils  below? 

Where  the  triumphal  chariot's  haughty  march? 

Gone  to  where  victories  must  like  dinners  go. 

Further  I  shall  not  follow  the  research: 

But  oh  I  ye  modern  heroes  with  your  cartridges. 

When  will  your  names  lend  lostre  even  to  partridges  ? 

68. 

Those  truffles  too  are  no  bad  aooessaries, 
Follow'd  by  "Petits  puits  d'Amour"  —  a  dish 
Of  which  perhaps  the  cookery  rather  varies, 
So  every  one  may  dress  it  to  his  wish. 
According  to  the  best  of  dictionaries, 
Which  encyclopedizeboth  flesh  and  fish; 
But  even  sans  '^confitures,"  it  no  less  true  is. 
There's  pretty  picking  in  those  "petits  puits." 


CANID  XT. 


DON  JUAN. 


297 


6j». 

The  mind  is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 

Of  intellect  expended  on  two  courses; 

And  indigestion's  grand  maltipiication 

Requires  arithmetic  beyond  my  forces. 

Who  would  suppose,  from  Adam's  simple  ration, 

That  cookery  could  have  call'd  forth  such  resources. 

As  form  a  science  and  a  nomenclature 

fnm  out  the  commonest  demands  of  nature? 

70. 

The  glasses  jingled,  and  the  palates  tingled ; 
The  diners  of  celebrity  dined  well; 
The  ladies  with  more  moderation  mingled 
In  the  feast,  pecking  less  than  I  can  tell; 
Also  the  younger  men  too;  for  a  springald 
Can't  like  ripe  age  in  gourmandise  excel, 
Bat  thinks  less  of  good  eating  than  the  whisper 
(When  seated  next  him)  of  some  pretty  lisper. 

71. 

.Uas!  I  must  leare  undescribed  the  gibicr, 
The  salmi,  the  consomm^,  the  pur^, 
All  which  I  use  to  make  my  rhymes  run  glibber 
Than  could  roast-beef  in  our  rough  John  Bull  way: 
I  most  not  introduce  eyen  a  spare  rib  here, 
''Bubble  and  squeak''  would  spoil  my  liquid  lay ; 
But  I  hare  dined,  and  must  forego,  alas ! 
The  chaste  description  CTcn  of  a  ''b^casse," 

72. 

And  fruits,  and  ice,  and  all  that  art  refines 
FhMn  nature  for  the  service  of  the  godt,  — 
TuU  or  the^4m^,  —  pronounce  it  as  inclines 
Your  stomacli!  Ere  you  dine,  the  French  will  do; 
But  4^ler,  there  are  sometimes  certain  signs 
Which  proTe  plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 
Hast  ever  kmd  the  gont?  I  have  not  had  it  — 
But  I  may  bare,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread  it. 

73. 

The  simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine. 
Must  I  pass  over  in  my  bill  of  fere? 
i  must,  although  a  favourite  "plat"  of  mine 
In  Spain,  and  Lucca,  Athens,  every  where: 
On  them  and  bread  'twas  oft  my  luck  to  dine, 
The  grass  my  table-cloth,  in  open  air. 
On  Suoium  or  Hymettus,  like  Diogenes, 
Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the  progeny  is. 

74. 

Amidst  this  tumult  offish,  flesh  and  fowl, 
And  vegetables,  all  in  masquerade, 
The  guests  were  placed  according  to  their  roll, 
Bui  various  as  the  various  meats  display'd: 
Don  Juan  sat  next  an  *'k  TEspagnole"  — 
No  damsel,  but  a  dish,  as  hath  been  said ; 
Rot  so  fiir  like  a  lady,  that  'twas  drest 
8«perbly,  and  contained  a  world  of  seat 


75. 

By  some  odd  chance  too  he  was  placed  between 

Aurora  and  the  Lady  Adeline  — 

A  situation  difficult,  I  ween. 

For  man  therein,  with  eyes  and  heart,  to  dine. 

Also  the  conference  which  we  have  seen 

Was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  shine; 

For  Adeline,  addressing  few  words  to  him. 

With  two  transcendent  eyes  seem'd  to  look  through  him. 

70. 

I  sometimes  almost  think  that  eyes  have  ears : 
This  much  is  sure,  that,  out  of  earshot,  things 
Are  somehow  echoed  to  the  pretty  dears. 
Of  which  I  can't  tell  whence  their  knowledge  springs; 
Like  that  same  mystic  music  of  the  spheres. 
Which  no  one  hears  so  loudly  though  it  rings. 
'Tis  wonderful  how  oft  the  sex  have  heard 
Long  dialogues  which  pass'd  without  a  word! 

77. 

Aurora  sat  with  that  Indifference 

Which  piques  a  preux  Chevalier — as  it  ought: 

Of  all  offences  that's  the  worst  offence. 

Which  seems  to  hint  you  are  not  worth  a  thought 

Now  Juan,  though  no  coxcomb  in  pretence. 

Was  flot  exactly  pleased  to  be  so  caught, 

Like  a  good  ship  entangled  among  ice. 

And  after  so  much  excellent  advice. 

78. 

To  his  gay  nothings  nothing  was  replied, 
Or  something  which  was  nothing,  as  urbanity 
Required.   Aurora  scarcely  look'd  aside, 
Nor  even  smiled  enough  for  any  vanity. 
The  devil  was  in  the  girl !  Could  It  be  pride? 
Or  modesty,  or  absence,  or  Inanity? 
Heaven  knows!  But  Adeline's  malicious  eyes 
Sparkled  with  her  successful  prophedes, 

79. 

And  look'd  as  much  as  If  to  say,  "I  said  it;"  — 
A  kind  of  triumph  I'll  not  recommend, 
Because  it  sometimes,  as  I've  seen  or  read  it, 
Both  in  the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend, 
Will  pique  a  gentieman,  for  his  own  credit, 
To  bring  what  was  a  jest  to  a  serious  end ; 
For  all  men  prophesy  what  w  or  was, 
And  hate  those  who  won't  let  them  come  to  pass. 

80. 

Juan  was  drawn  thus  into  some  attentions. 
Slight  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express, 
To  females  of  perspicuous  comprehensions. 
That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 
Aurora  at  the  last  (so  history  mentions. 
Though  prohably  much  less  a  fact  than  guess) 
So  far  relax'd  her  thoughts  Arom  their  sweet  prison* 
As  once  or  twice  to  smile,  if  not  to  listen 


29» 


POK  JVMX. 


ojkirro  &T. 


From  anftvediifr  ib»  begMi  ta  qoesdon ;  this 
With  her  was  rare;  and  Adeliae,  who  as  yet 
Thought  her  predictions  went  not  much  amisBy 
Began  to  dread  she'd  thaw  to  a  ooqaette  — 
80  Tery  diflicoit,  ihey  say,  it  is 
To  keep  extremes  from  meetingt  when  oaee  set 
In  motion ;  but  she  here  to«  much  refined — 
Anrofft's  spkit ««»  not  of  (iiei  kkd. 

But  Juan  had  a  sort  of  winning  mtiy, 
A  proud  humility,  if  such  there  be. 
Which  show'd  sueh  defevenee  to  wUai  females  say. 
As  if  eadkcfaaimini^  word  were  a  dcoreo* 
His  tact  too  temper'd  him  from  grave  to  gajTr 
And  taught  him  what  to  be  resesved  or  feee: 
He  liad  the  art  of  dra wiaip  people  out, 
Without  tboif  seeing  what  bar  wafr  about, 

8a 

Aurora,  who  in  her  indiffereBeer 
Confounded  him  in  oommon  witfethe  orowd 
Of  ilutterers,  though  she  doem'd  he  had  more  sense 
Than  whispermg  foplings,  or  than  witlings  loud,  — 
Commenced  —  (from  such  slight  things  will  great  cobh 
To  feel  that  flattery  which  attracts  tiie  proud      £mi^BGe> 
Rather  by  deference  tbaarOomplBBenty 
And  wins  eren  by  a  deUeate  dissent* 

84# 

And  then  he  had  good  looks;  — tiiat  poioA  was  oarricd 
Nem,  eon,  amongst  the  women,  which  I  grieye 
To  say  leads  oft  to  erim,  ton*  with  the  marsiad  -*- 
A  case  which  to  the  juries  we  may  leave. 
Since  with  digressions  we  too  long  have  tarried^ 
Now  though  we  know  of  old  that  looks  deceive, 
And  always  have  done,  somehow  these  good  looks 
Make  more  impression  than  the  best  of  hooks* 

8ft» 

Aurora,  who  Inok'd  more  on  books  than  fiieos^ 

Was  very  young,  although  so  very  sage. 

Admiring  more  Minerva  than  the  Graces, 

Especially  upon  a  printed  p^e. 

But  Virtne's  self,  with  all  her  tightest  laoes, 

Has  not  the  natural  stays  of  strict  old  age; 

And  Socrates,  that  model  of  all  duty, 

Own'd  too  a  penchant,  though  discreet,  for  beauty. 

88. 

And  girls  of  sixteen  are  thus  (ki  Sooratio, 

But  iooDcently  so,  as  Socrates  : 

And  really,  if  the  Sage  sublime  and  Attic 

At  seventy  years  had  phantasies  like  these^ 

Which  Plato  in  his  dialogues  dramatie 

Has  shown,  I  know  not  why  they  should  displease 

In  Virgins  —  always  in  a  modest  way» 

Observe;  for  that  with  me 's  a  "sine  qua." 


Also  observe,  thai  tfkn  the  great  Lord  Coke, 
(See  Littleton)  whene'er  I  liave  exprest 
Opinions  two,  which  at  first  sight  may  look 
Twin  opposites,  tlie  second  i»  the  best. 
Perhaps  I  have  a  third  toOyioa.nook, 
Or  none  at  all  —  whieh  seems  a  sorry  jest ; 
But  if  a  writer  should  be  quite  consistent,, 
How  could  he  possibly  show  things  existent? 

88r 

If  people  contradict  themsetvesr  aan  I 

Help  contradicting  them,  and  every  body, 

Even  my  veracious  self  I  ~  but  that's  a  lie; 

I  never  did  so,  nev«r  will  ^  how  should  V. 

He  who  doubts  all  things,  nothing  can  deny ; 

Truth's  fountains  may  be  clear — her  streams  are  muddjr, 

And  cut  througksudi  canals  of  oontradictiont 

That  she  mast  often  navigate  o'ec  fiction. 

80. 

Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  piarablc» 
Are  false,  but  may  be  rendered  also  true 
By  those  who  sow  tliem  in  a  land  that's  arable; 
'Tis  wonderful  what  fable  will  not  do ! 
'Tis  said  it  makes  reality  more  bearable : 
Hut  what's  reality  ?    Who  has  Its  clue? 
Philosophy  I  No;  she  too  much  rejects. 
Religion?  Km;  but  which  of  all  her  seda? 

90b 

Some  millions  muM  be  wrong,  thaf  s  pretty  dc-ar ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  that  all  were  right. 
God  help  us  I   Since  we  have  need  on  our  career 
To  keep  our  lioly  beacons  always  briglit, 
'Tis  time  that  some  new  prophet  should  appear, 
Or  old  indulge  man  with  a  second  sight. 
Opinions  wear  out  in  some  thousand  years» 
Without  a  small  refreshment  from  the  spheres. 

01. 

But  here  again,  why  wHl  I  thus  entangle 
Myself  with  metaphysics?  None  can  hate 
So  much  as  I  do  any  kind  of  wrangle; 
And  yet,  such  is  my  folly,  or  my  fate, 
I  always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 
About  the  present,  past,  or  jfuture  state : 
Yet  I  wish  well  to  Trojan  and  to  Tyriau, 
For  I  was  bred  a  moderate  Presbyterian. 


93. 


/ 


But  though  I  am  a  temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as  a  metaphysician. 

Impartial  between  Tyrian  and  Trojan, 

As  Eldon  on  a  lunatic  commission,  — 

In  politics,  my  duty  is  to  show  John 

Bull  something  of  the  lower  world's  condition. 

It  makes  my  blood  boil  like  the  springs  of  Hccia, 

To  sec  men  let  these  scroundrel  sovereigns  break  law. 


(UKTO  xn. 


DON  JUAK. 


599 


9ft 

Bat  polities,  siid  potiey ,  and  piety, 

Are  topics  which  I  somrtimes  iotroAnoe, 

Not  only  for  the  sake  of  tlim  Tsriety, 

But  ss  subserrient  to  a  moral  use; 

ISccause  my  bosiocss  is  to  dress  sodety, 

Aod  staff  with  sa^w  that  Tcry  Tcrdant  goose. 

Aod  now,  that  we  may  ftimish  with  some  maitter  all 

Tastes,  we  are  going'  to  try  the  sapeniatwrai 


Aad  now  I  win  give  up  all  ttrgmaent ; 

And  positively  henceforth  do  temptation 

Sbal]  'Tool  me  to  the  top  up  of  my  bent;'' 

Yes,  I'll  begin  a  thorough  reformation. 

Indeed  1  noirer  knew  wliat  people  meant 

By  deeming  that  my  Muse's  eonversation 

Was  dangerous ;  —  I  think  she  is  as  harmless  . 

As  some  who  labofur  more  and  yet  may  efaarm  less. 

Grim  reader!  didyoaeter«eeaghoat?    ^ 

No;  but  you  have  heard  —  I  understand  —  be  dumb! 

Aod  don't  regret  the  time  you  nay  have  lost, 

For  you  have  got  that  pleasure  still  to  eome : 

And  do  not  think  I  mean  to  sneer  at  most 

Of  these  things,  or  by  ridioaffe  benumb 

That  source  of  the  subfime  and  the  mysterious :  — 

For  certain  reasons,  my  Mief  is  serious. 


99 

Serious?  Toulaugh:  — you  may;  that  witff  not; 

My  smiles  must  be  sinoere  or  not  at  alt. 

I  say  I  do  believe  a  haunted  spot 

Exists  —  and  where?  That  shall  I  not  recall, 

Because  I'd  rather  it  should  be  forgot. 

''Shadows  the  soul  of  Richard"  may  appal; 

In  short,  upon  that  subject  I've  some  qualms  very 

lake  those  of  the  philosopher  of  Mjahasbury, 


The  night  (I  sing  by  night  —  sonethnes  an  owl, 
And  now  and  then  a  nrgMingi^)  —  is  dim, 
And  the  loud  shriek  of  sage  Minerva's  fowl 
Rattles  around  me  her  discordant  hymn : 
Old  portraits  from  old  walls  upon  me  aeo\s'\  — 
I  wish  to  Heaven  they  would  not  look  so  grim ; 
The  dying  emiiers  dwindle  in  the  grate  — 
I  think  too  that  I  have  sate  up  too  late: 

9t. 

A  nd  therelbre,  though  'tis  by  no  means  my  way 
To  rhyme  at  noon  -^  when  I  have  other  things 
To  think  of,  if  I  ever  think,  —  I  lay 
I  feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings, 
And  prudently  postpone,  untSl  mid*day, 
Treating  a  topic  which  alas!  but  brings 
Shadows;  —  but  you  must  be  in  my  condition 
Before  yon  learn  to  eall  this  supcrslltioa. 


89. 


Between  two  worids  lifb  hovers  like  a  star, 
Twixt  night  and  mom,  upon  the  horison's  verge; 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are! 
How  less  what  we  may  be !  The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tMe  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our  bubbles ;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages;  while  the  graves 
Of  empires  heaw  but  like  some  passing  waves. 


t^ 


CANTO     XVI. 


The  antique  Persians  taught  three  useful  things,  — 
To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the  truth. 
Thu  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus,  best  of  kings  — 
AlBK>de  adopted  since  by  modem  youth. 
Bows  have  they,  generally  with  two  strings; 
Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  rath ; 
At  apeaking  truth  perhaps  they  are  less  clever, 
But  draw  the  long  bow  better  now  than  ever. 


The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect,  — 
"For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause,**  — 
Is  what  I  have  not  leisure  to  inspect; 
But  this  I  must  say  in  my  own  applause. 
Of  all  the  Muses  that  I  recollect, 
Whate'er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 
In  some  things,  mine's  beyond  all  oontiadletion 
The  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 


300 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTU  ITL 


And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 
From  any  thing,  this  Epic  will  contain 
A  wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conceits. 
Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain. 
Tis  true  there  be  some  bitters  with  the  sweets, 
Yet  mix'd  so  slightly  that  you  can't  complain, 
But  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 
"De  rebus  canctis  et  quibusdam  aliis." 


But  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 
True  is  that  which  she  is  about  to  tell.  .  / 
I  said  it  was  a  story  of  a  ghost  —  J 

What  then?  I  only  know  it  so  befell. 
Have  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast. 
Where  all  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  must  dwell? 
'Tis  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  as 
The  sceptics  who  would  not  believe  Colombiuk 


Some  people  would  impose  now  with  authority, 
Turpin's  or  Monmouth  GeoflFry's  Chronicle; 
Men  whose  historical  superiority 
Is  always  greatest  at  a  miracle. 
But  Saint  Augustine  has  the  great  priority, 
Who  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible. 
Because  'tis  so.  Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 
Quiets  at  once  with  '*qma  impossibil." 

6. 

And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all; 

Believe :  —  if 'tis  improbable,  you  must  ; 

And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shali: 

'Tis  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 

I  do  not  speak  profanely,  to  recall 

Those  holier  mysteries,  which  the  wise  and  just 

Receive  as  gospel,  and  which  grow  more  rooted, 

As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed. 


y 


I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 

That  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand  years, 

All  nations  have  believed  that  irom  the  dead 

A  visitant  at  intervals  appears :  y 

And  what  is  strangest  upon  this  strange  head,      y/ 

Is,  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 

'Gainst  such  belief,  there 's  something  stronger  still 

In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 


The  dinner  and  the  soiree  too  were  done, 
The  supper  too  discuss'd,  the  dames  admired, 
The  banquctcers  had  dropp'd  off  one  by  one  — 
The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired: 
The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanish'd,  gone 
Like  fleecy  clouds  into  tlie  sky  retired, 
And  nothing  brighter  gleam'd  through  the  saloon 
Than  dying  tapers  —  and  the  peeping  moon. 


The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  Champagne,  without 

The  foam  which  made  its  virgin-bumper  gay ; 

Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt; 

Or  like  a  soda-bottle  when  its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out;      / 

Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind,     v 

Without  the  animation  of  the  wind, 

10. 

Or  like  an  opiate  which  brings  troubled  rest, 
Or  none;  or  like  —  like  nothing  that  I  know 
Bxcept  itself;  —  such  is  the  human  breast ; 
A  thing,  of  which  similitudes  can  show 
No  real  likeness,  —  like  the  old  Tyrian  vest  ^ 
Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how. 
If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cochineal. 
So  perish  every  tyrant's  robe  piece-meal! 

II. 

But  next  to  dressing  for  a  rout  or  ball. 
Undressing  is  a  woe;  our  robe-de-cbambre 
May  sit  like  that  of  Nessos^d  recall 
Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear,  than  amber. 
Titus  exdaim'd:  <Tvelostadayl"  Of  all 
The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  remember 
(I  have  bad  of  both,  some  not  to  be  disdain 'd) 
I  wish  they'd  state  bow  many  they  have  gain'd. 

12. 

And  Juan,  on  retiring  for  the  night, 
Felt  restless, and  perplexed,  and  compromised; 
He  thought  Aurora  Raby*s  eyes  more  bright 
Than  Adeline  (such  is  advice)  advised; 
If  he  had  known  exactly  his  own  plight, 
He  probably  would  have  philosophised; 
A  great  resource  to  ail,  and  ne'er  denied 
Till  wanted ;  therefore  Juan  only  sigh'd. 

13. 

He  sigh'd;  —  the  next  resource  is  the  full  moon^ 

Where  all  sighs  are  deposited;  and  now 

It  happen'd  luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 

As  clear  as  such  a  climate  will  allow ; 

And  Juan's  mind  was  in  the  proper  tone 

To  hail  her  with  the  apostrophe  —  "Oh,  thou!" 

Of  amatory  egotism  the  tuism. 

Which  further  to  explain  would  be  a  truism. 

14. 

But  lover,  poet,  or  astronomer. 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever  may  behold. 

Feel  some  abstraction  when  they  gaze  on  her  : 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  from  thence  (besides  a  cold 

Sometimes,  unless  my  feelings  rather  err); 

Deep  secrets  to  her  rolling  light  are  told ; 

The  ocean's  tides  and  mortals'  brains  she  sways. 

And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  trutk  in  lays. 


Ckxro  xn. 


DON'JUAN. 


301 


lota  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and  dupoaed 
For  oonteiiiplation  rather  than  his  pillow: 
The  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  enclosed. 
Let  in  the  rippled  sound  of  the  lake's  billow 
With  all  the  mystery  by  midnight  caused; 
Below  his  window  waved  (of  course)  a  willow; 
And  he  stood  gazing:  oat  on  the  cascade 
That  iash'd  and  after  darken*d  in  the  shade. 

16. 

Upon  his  table  or  his  toilet,  —  whtck 

Of  these  is  not  exactly  ascertained  — 

(i  stale  this,  for  I  am  cautious  to  a  pitch 

Of  nicety,  where  a  fact  is  to  be  gain'd,) 

A  lamp  burnM  high,  wiiile  he  leant  from  a  niahe. 

Where  many  a  Gothic  ornament  remained, 

In  chisell'd  stone  and  painted  glass,  and  all 

That  time  has  left  our  fiithers  of  their  hall. 

17. 

Then,  as  the  night  was  clear,  though  cold,  he  threw 
His  chamber-door  wide  open  —  and  went  forth 
Into  a  gallery,  of  a  sombre  hue, 
Long,  ftimish'd  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 
Of  knights  and  dames  heroic  and  chaste  too, 
Ai  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 
But  by  dim  lights  Uic  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate^  and  dread. 

18. 

The  forms  of  the  grim  knights  and  pietured  saints 
Look  liTing  in  the  moon;  and  as  you  turn 
Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  fhint 
Of  yoor  own  footsteps  —  voices  from  the  urn 
.%ppear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 
Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects  stern, 
As  if  to  ask  how  you  can  dare  to  keep 
A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

10. 

And  the  pale  smile  of  beauties  in  the  grave. 
The  charms  of  other  days,  in  starlight  gleams 
Glimmer  on  higli ;  their  buried  locks  still  wave 
Ak>ng  the  canvass;  their  eyes  glance  like  dreams 
On  ours,  or  spars  within  some  dusky  cave, 
But  death  is  imaged  in  their  shadowy  beams. 
A  picture  is  the  past;  even  ere  its  frame 
Be  pit,  who  sate  hath  ceased  to  be  the  same. 

20. 

As  Joan  mused  on  mutability. 

Or  on  his  mistress  —  terms'synonymous  — 

Mo  sound,  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh,  "X 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house. 

When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 

A  supernatural  agent  —  or  a  mouse, 

Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 

Moft  people,  as  it  pl^ys  along  the  arras. 


31. 

Itwasnonioasoj  bntio!  a  monk,  array 'd 
In  cowl  and  beads>and  dusky  garb,  appear'd, 
Mow  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade, 
With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard; 
His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made; 
He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 
But  slowly;  and  as  he  passed  J  nan  by, 
Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

23. 

Juan  was  petrified;  he  had  heard  a  hint 
Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  balls  of  old. 
But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  in't 
Beyond  the  rumour  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint. 
Which  passes  ghosts  in  currency  like  gold. 
But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapour  t 

38. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repassed  —  the  thing  of  air. 

Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'other  place ; 

And  Juan  gaz'd  npon  it  with  a  stare, 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move;  but,  on  its  base 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood :  he  felt  his  hair 

Twine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  ftice; 

He  tax'd  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  granted,  - 

To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 

34. 

The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause. 

The  shadow  pass'd  away  —  but  where?  the  hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 

To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 

Boors  there  were  many,  through  which,  by  the  laws 

Of  physics,  bodies,  whether  short  or  tall. 

Might  come  or  go ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 

Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 


35. 

He  stood  —  how  long  be  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  age  — '  expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 
Strain'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd ; 
Then  by  degrees  recalled  his  energies, 
And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  off  as  a  dream, 
But  could  not  wake;  he  was,  he  did  surmise. 
Waking  already,  and  return'd  at  length 
Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 

36. 

All  there  was  as  he  left  it  ^  still  his  taper 
Burnt,  and  not  blue,  as  modest  tapers  use, 
Receiving  sprites  with  sympathetic  vapour; 
He  rubb'd  his  eyes,  and  they  did  not  refuse 
Their  office;  he  took  up  an  old  newspaper; 
The  paper  was  right  easy  to  peruse; 
He  read  an  article  the  King  attacking. 
And  a  long  eulogy  of  <<Patent  Blacking." 


302 


]K)N  JUAN. 


€ANTO  ZT1, 


Tills  flavour'd  of  llris  ^•rid ;  but  Ids  li«nd.flbMk  ^ 
He  shut  hia  door,  afld  idier  bsving  xead 
A  paragnpb,  I  think  about  Horne  Tookc^ 
Undreat,  and  jstlier  alowly  went  to  bed. 
Tbere,couoh'd  all  anugly  on  hA%  pillow's  niMk, 
With  what  he  bad  seen  bis  phantasy  be  fed, 
And  though  it  was  no  opiate,  slumber  crepi 
Upon  bimdby  dc^ees,  and  so  be  jl^t 


He  woke  betimes;  and,  as  may  be  snppoaed, 
PkMMkrM  upon  Ills  visitant  or  vision, 
And  udiether  it  oogbt  not  to  be  disdosed. 
At  risk  ojf  being  quinsM  for  snperalittoii. 
The  more  he  thought,  the  more  his  mind  was  posed; 
In  the  mean  tune,bis  valet,  wbotae  procisMMi 
Was  great,  beoanse  bis  master  brook'd  no  less, 
Knock'd  to  inform  hkm  it  was  iioac  to  dress. 

Hedms'd;  and,  like  young  people,  be  vas  woat 
To  take  some  trouble  with  bis  toilet,  but 
This  morning  rather  spent  less  time  iipoo't ; 
Aside  bis  very  mirror  soon  was  put ; 
His  curls  fell  ncgligeiitly  o'er  bis  front, 
His  clothes  were  not  enrb'd  to  tbeir  osual  out. 
His  very  neckolotii's  Gordian  knot  was  tied 
Almost  a  hair's  lireadUi  too  much  o«  o«e  side. 


And  when  he  walk'ddowa  into  tkeMlomij 
He  sate  him  pensive  o'er  a  dish  of  tea. 
Which  he  perhaps  had  notdiseoTer'd  aooa. 
Had  it  not  happen'd  scalding  hot  to  be, 
Whieh  made  him  have  reeoorse  onto  his  t^^oaui 
So  much  distrait  he  was,  that  all  oo«ld  see 
That  something  wtu  the  matter  —  Adeline 
The  first  —  hat  wkal  she  co«ld  oot  w«U  4ivioe. 

3L 

She  look'd,  and  saw  hni  palo^  and  tnrn'd  as  pale 
Herself;  then  hastily  look'd  down,  and  mutier'd 
Something,  hut  what's  not  stated  in  my  taie. 
Lord  Henry  said,  bis  muffin  was  ill  butter'd ; 
The  Duoheis  of  Fitz-Fuike  play'd  with  her  Teil, 
And  look'd  at  Joan  hard,  but  nothing  utter'd. 
Aurora  Raby,  with  her  large  dark  eyes, 
Sorvey'd  him  with  a  kind  of  calm  sorpiise. 

But  seeing  him  all  ookl  and  silent  still, 

And  eyerv  body  wondering  more  or  less. 

Fair  Ad4lne  inquired,  ''if  he  were  iil  ?" 

He  started,  and  said,  "Yes  —  no  —  rather  —  yes.' 

The  iamily-physksian  had  great  skill, 

And  being  present,  now  began  to  express 

His  readiness  to  feel  his  pulse  and  tell 

The  cause,  but  Juan  saicC  ''He  was  quite  wcU." 


"Quite  well;  yea;  iio."~These  answers  weseiystcrioi^ 
And  yet  his  looks  spjiraf 'd  to  saacti«»n<be<hy 
However  they  might  javour  of  deUrioMS; 
Something  like  illness  of  a  sudden  growth 
Weigh'd  on  bis  spirit,  though  by  no  meai 
But  for  the  jiest,  as  he  himself  seem'd  loth 
To  state  the  case,  it  might  be  ta'ea  for  granted 
It  was  not  the  phyaioKaa  that  he  waatod. 


Lord  Henry,  who  had  now  disoiis«''d  bis  dieeriale^ 
Also  the  muffin  whereof  be  oomplain'd, 
Said,  Juan  bad  not  got  his  usual  look  elate. 
At  which  he  marvdl'd,  since  it  had  not  rain 'd; 
Then  ask'd  her  Grace  what  news  were  of  theDukeof  iatei 
Her  Grace  replied,  hit  Grace  was  rather  pain*d 
With  some  slight,  light,  hereditary  twi^gea 
Of  gout,  which  nuts  ariatocratic  binges. 

Then  Henry  tnni'd  to  Jnan  and  address'd 

A  few  words  of  ooadoience  on  his  state: 

''You  look,"  quoth  he,  *'as  if  you  bad  had  your  rest 

Broke  in  iqMm  by  the  Black  Friar  of  kite." 

"What  Friarf  said  Joan;  and  he  did  his  best 

To  put  the  question  with  an  air  sedate, 

Or  careless;  but  the  cfiert  was  not  valid 

To  hinder  him  from  growing  still  more  jwUid* 


''Oh!  have  yoQ  never  heard afthe  Black  Friar? 

The  Spirit  of  these  wallsr  —  "In  truth  net  L" 

"Why  Fame  —  but  Fame  yoo  know's  soactincp  aiiar- 

Tells  an  odd  story,  of  which  hy  the  by : 

Whether  with  time  the  flfpectre  has  grown  ahyvr,  - 

Or  that  our  sires  had  a  more  gifted  eye 

For  such  sights,  though  the  tale  is  half  believed. 

The  Friar  of  late  has  not  been  oft  perottved. 

The  last  time  was.—"  <q  pray/'  aaid  AMine  ~ 
(Who  watch'd  the  changes  of  Don  Juan's  brow, 
And  from  its  context  thought  she  eonld  divine 
Connections  stronger  than  he  chose  to  avow 
With  this  same  legend),  —  "if  you  hut  design 
To  jest,  yon'll  choose  some  other  theme  just  aon; 
Because  the  present  tale  has  oft  been  told, 
And  is  not  much  improved  by  growing  old." 

38. 

"Jest !"  quoth  Milor;  "Why,  Adeline,  yon  know 
That  we  ourselves  —  'twas  in  the  honey-moon  — 
Saw  — "  "Well,  no  matter,  'twas  so  long  ago ; 
But,  come,  I'll  set  your  story  to  a  tune." 
Graceful  as  Dian,  when  she  draws  her  bow, 
She  sdzed  her  harp,  whose  strings  were  kindled  soon 
As  touch 'd,  and  plaintively  began  to  play 
The  air  of  "'Twas  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray." 


CANTO  xn. 


DON  JUAN. 


303 


90. 

**But  add  the  w^rds,'*  cried  Henry,  "wliicft  yo«  made; 

For  Adeline  b  ba]f  a  poeteM/' 

TnnuDfl:  round  to  tiie  rest,  he  nnOiBg  ssrid. 

Of  conrae  the  others  ooaM  not  bat  express 

Jo  ooortesy  their  wish  to  see  disphijr^d 

Bj  ooe  tkree  talents,  for  there  were  no  less — 

The  Toioe,  the  words,  the  harper's  sIeiII,  at  onoe 

Could  hardly  he  united  by  adnnee. 

After  some  fiuKdnating  hesRatioD,  — 

Tbe  diarming  of  these  channers>  who  seem  boandv 

I  oan't  tell  why,  to  this  dissinnihition  •— 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fix'd  on  the  ground 

At  first,  then  kindling  intoanimaitiony 

Added  her  sweet  voiec  to  the  lyrio  sound. 

And  sang  with  mueh  sittiplieity,  — -  a  merit 

Not  the  leas  predcN}^  that  we  seldom  hear  il. 


Beware!  bewaref  oftfieBiacIc  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  hia  prayer  in  the  midnight  air. 

And  bin  mass  of  the  days  thot  are  gone. 
When  tbe  Lord  of  the  Hill,  AmunderiMe, 

Made  Nonnan  Cbureh  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  ooe  frtar  still 

Would  not  he  driven  away. 


Though  he  came  in  Bis  might,  with  KingHenry^s  right. 

To  turn  churel^lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  In  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay, 
A  monlc  remaitt'd,  onchased,  uncbainM, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he's  seen  in  the  por^ h,  and  he's  seen  in  the  church 

Though  he  IS  not  seen  by  day. 


And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say: 
But  still  with  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  Bbideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  'tis  said. 

He  flits  on  the  bridat  eve ; 
And  'tis  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  deatli 

He  comes  ^  but  not  to  grieve. 


When  an  befr  is  bom,  he  is  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befell 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  half. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  fiace, 

Tim  shadow'd  hy  his  cowl; 
But  his  eyes  may  he  seen  from  the  folds  between. 

And  they  seem  ofa  parted  soul.    V^  * 


But  beware!  beware!  oftbc  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay: 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day. 

But  tbe  monk  is  lord  by  night; 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right 


Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall. 

And  he'll  say  nought  to  yon; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Thengrammercy!  for  the  Black  Friar; 

Heaven  sain  him!  fair  or  foul. 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer. 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul. 


4U 

The  lady's  voice  ceased,  and  tbe  thriUmg  wires  . 
Died  from  the  touch  tiiat  kindled  them  to  sound ; 
And  the  pause  follow'd,  which,  when  aong  expires, 
Pervades  a  moment  those  who  listen  rouad; 
And  then  of  course  the  drcle  much  admireSt 
Nor  less  applaud^  as  in  politeness  bonndt 
The  tones,  tbo  feelings  and  the  execution^ 
To  the  perfocner's  dididbesit  G«nteion« 


Fair  Adeline,  though  in  a  careless  wny, 
As  if  she  rated  such  aocompH/shmcnt 
As  the  mere  pastime  of  an  idle  di^« 
Pursued  an  instant  for  her  own  content. 
Would  now  and  then  as  'twere  wUhimt  display, 
Yet  toith  display  in  fact,  at  Un\ea  relei\t 
To  such  performanoes  wUh  haughty  smile. 
To  show  s^  cenlii  if  it  wom  woflih  kw  whijk. 


Now  this  (but  we  will  whisper  it  aside) 
Was  —  pardon  the  pedantic  illustration  — 
Trampling  on  Plato's  pride  with  greater  pride, 
As  did  the  Cynic  on  some  like  occasion ; 
Deeming  the  sage  would  be  much  niortifiedy 
Or  thrown  into  a  philosophic  passion. 
For  a  spoird  carpet  —  but  the  "Attic  Bee" 
Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee. 

44, 

Thus  Adeline  would  throw  into  the  shade 

(By  doing  easily  whene'er  she  chose  • 

What  dilettanti  do  with  vast  parade) 

Their  sort  of  Asy-z^ro/'Mwn;  for  it  grows 

To  something  like  this  when  too  oft  difplay'd, 

And  that  it  is  so,  every  body  knows, 

Who  have  heard  Miss  That  or  This,  or  Lady  T'othr r. 

Show  off  —  to  pleaae  their  ooi^pany  or  mother. 


304 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  in 


46. 

Oh  I  the  lODfeTeningfl  of  duets  and  trios! 
The  admirations  and  the  speculations; 
The  '«Mamma  MiasT'  and  the  ''Amor  Mios!" 
The  "Tanti  palpitis"  on  such  occasions  : 
Tfe  '^Lasciamis,"  and  quavering  "Addios!" 
Amongst  our  own  most  musical  of  nations; 
With  "Ta  mi.chamascs"  from  Portingalc, 
To  soothe  our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  fail. 

46. 

In^ Babylon's  braTUras  —  as  the  home 

Heart-ballads  of  Green  Erin  or  Grey  Higrblands, 

That  bring  Locbaber  back  to  eyes  that  roam 

O'er  far  Atlantic  continents  or  islands, 

The  calentures  of  music  which  overcome 

^11  mountaineers  with  dreams  that  they  are  nigh  lands. 

No  more  to  be  beheld  but  in  such  visions,  — 

Was  Adeline  well  versed^  as  compositions. 

47. 

She  also<had  &  twilight  tinge  ot'^Bltu/' 

Coufd  write  rhymes,  and  compose  more  than  she  wrote ; 

Made  epigrams  occasionally  too 

Upon  her  friends,  as  every  body  ought 

But  still  from  that  sublimer  azure  hoe, 

So  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote; 

Was  weak  enough  to  deem  Pope  a  great  poet, 

And,  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 

46. 

Aurora  —  since  we  are  touching  upon  taste, 

Which  now-a-days  is  the  thermometer 

By  whose  degrees  all  characters  are  class'd  — 

Was  more  Shakspearian,  if  I  do  not  err. 

The  worlds  beyond  this  world's  perplexing  waste 

Had  more  of  her  existence,  for  in  her 

There  was  a  depth  of  feeling  to  embrace 

Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent  too  as  space. 

Not  so  her  gracious,  graceful,  graceless  Grace, 
The  ftdl-grown  Qebe  of  Fitz-Fuike,  whose  mind, 
If  she  had  any,  was  upon  her  (hce, 
And  tliat  was  of  a  fascinating  kind. 
A  little  turn  for  mischief  you  might  trace 
Also  thereon,  —  but  that's  not  much ;  we  find 
Few  females  without  some  such  gentle  leaven, 
For  fear  we  should  suppose  us  quite  in  heaven. 

60. 

I  have  not  heard  she  was  at  all  poetic. 

Though  once  she  was  seen  reading  the  *^ath  Guide," 

And  *'Hayley's  Triumphs,"  which  she  deem'd  pathetic, 

Because,  she  said,  k^r  temper  had  been  tried 

So  much,  the  bard  had  really  been  prophetic 

Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with,  —  since  a  bride. 

But  of  all  verse,  what  most  insured  her  praise 

Were  sonnets  to  herself  or  ''bouts  rimte." 


51. 

'Twere  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  olgeot 
Of  Adeline,  in  bringing  this  same  lay 
To  bear  on  what  appeared  to  her  the  subject 
Of  Juan's  nerrous  feelings  on  that  day. 
Perhaps  she  merely  had  the  simple  project 
To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay ; 
Perhaps  she  might  wish  to  confirm  him  in  it. 
Though  why  I  cannot  say  —  at  least  this  minate. 

62. 

But  so  far  the  immediate  effect 
Was  to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 
A  thing  quite  necessary  to  the  elect. 
Who  wish  to  take  the  tone  of  their  society ; 
In  which  you  cannot  be  too  cironmspeet, 
Whether  the  mode  be  persiflage  or  piety. 
But  wear  the  newest  mantle  of  hypocrisy. 
On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocracy. 

63. 

And  therefore  Juan  now  began  to  rally 
His  spirits,  and  without  more  explanation, 
To  jest  upon  such  themes  in  many  a  sally. 
Her  Grace  too  also  seised  the  same  occasion, 
W^ith  various  similar  remarks  to  tally, 
But  wish'd  for  a  still  more  detail'd  narratioii 
Of  this  same  mystic  Friar's  curious  doings, 
About  the  present  family's  deaths  and  wooings. 

64. 

Of  these  few  could  say  more  than  has  been  said; 
They  pass'd,  as  such  things  do,  for  superstition 
With  some,  while  others,  who  had  more  in  dread 
The  theme,  half  credited  the  strange  tradition ; 
And  much  was  talk'd  on  all  sides  on  that  bead; 
But  Juan,  when  cross-question'd  on  the  vision. 
Which  some  supposed  (though  he  bad  notaTOvr'd  it) 
Had  stirr'd  him,  answer'd  in  a  way  to  cloud  it 

66. 

And  then,  the  mid-day  haying  worn  to  one. 
The  company  prepared  to  separate: 
Some  to  their  several  pastimes,  or  to  none; 
Some  wondering  'twas  so  early,  some  so  late. 
There  was  a  goodly  match  too,  to  be  run 
Between  some  greyhounds  on  my  Lord's  estate. 
And  a  young  race-horse  of  old  pedigree, 
Match'd  for  the  spring,  whom  several  went  to  see. 

66. 

There  was  a  picture-dealer  who  had  brought 
A  special  Titian,  warranted  original. 
So  precious  that  it  was  not  to  be  bought, 
Thodgh  princes  the  possessor  were  besie^ng  alt 
The  king  himself  had  cheapen'd  it,  but  thought 
The  civil  list  (he  deigns  to  accept,  obliging  aH  ■ 
His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation) 
Too  s^hnty,  in  these  times  of  low  taxation. 


CAITTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


305 


67. 

But  as  Lord  Henry  was  a  connoissenr,  — 
The  frkod  of  artists,  if  oot  arts,  ~  the  owner. 
With  motives  the  most  classical  and  pare, 
fioikat  he  would  have  been  the  very  donor, 
Baker  thaa  seller,  had  his  wants  been  fewer, 
S»  modi  he  deem'd  his  patronage  an  honour, 
Btd  brought  the  Capo-d'opcra,  not  for  sale. 
Bat  for  his  judgment,  — •  never  known  to  fail. 

58. 

There  was  a  modem  Goth,  I  mean  a  Gothic 
BrieUayer  of  Babel,  call'd  an  architect,  [thick, 

Brought  to  survey  these  grey  walls,  which,  though  so 
Ifight  hare  from  time  acquired  some  slight  defect; 
Who,  after  rummaging  the  abbey  through  thick 
And  thin,  produced  a  plan,  whereby  to  erect 
New  buildings  of  correctest  conformation. 
And  throw  down  old,  which  he  call'd  restQratwn, 

60. 

The  cost  would  be  a  trifle — an  ''old  song" 

Set  to  some  thousands  ('ti^the  usual  burthen 

Of  that  same  tune,  wnen  people  hum  it  long)  — 

The  price  would  speedily  repay  its  worth  in 

An  edifice  no  less  sublime  than  strong. 

By  which  Lord  Henry*s  good  taste  would  go  forth  in 

Its  glory,  through  all  ages  shining  sonny. 

For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money. 

aa 

There  were  two  lawyers  busy  on  a  mortgage 
Lord  Henry  wish'd  to  raise  for  a  new  purchase; 
Abo  a  lawsuit  upon  tenures  burgage. 
And  one  on  tithes,  which  sure  are  Discord's  torches, 
Kiodling  Religion  till  she  throws  down  her  gage, 
"Untying''  squires  'to  Sif^t  against  the  churches ;" 
•There  was  a  prise-ox,  a  prize-pig,  and  ploughman, 
For  Henry  was  a  sort  of  Sabine  showman. 

61. 

TWie  were  two  poachers  caoght  in  a  steel-trap 
Beady  for  jail,  their  place  of  oonyalescenoe; 
There  was  a  country-girl  in  a  close  cap 
And  scarlet  doak  (I  hate  the  sight  to  see,  since  — 
tSmot  —  since  —  in  youth,  I  had  the  sad  mishap  — 
But  luckily  I  have  paid  few  parish-fees  since) 
That  scarlet  cloak,  alas!  undos'd  with  rigour. 
Presents  the  problem  of  a  double  figure. 

A  reel  wkkin  a  bottle  is  a  my  stery, 
Ooe  am't  tell  how  it  e'er  got  in  or  out. 
Therefore  the  present  piece  <^  natural  history, 
I  leave  to  thoje  who  are  fond  of  solving  doubt, 
And  merely  state,  though  not  for  the  Consistory, 
Lord  Henry  was  a  Justice,  and  that  Scout, 
The  Constable,  beneath  a  warrant's  banner, 
BmI  begv'd  this  poacher  upon  Nature's  manor. 


6S. 

Now  Justices  of  peace  must  judge  all  pieces 
Of  mischief  of  all  kinds,  and  keep  the  game 
And  morals  of  the  country  from  caprices 
Of  those  who  have  not  a  licence  for  the  same; 
And  of  all  things,  excepting  tithes  and  leases, 
Perhaps  these  are  most  difficult  to  tame:  * 

Preserving  partridges  and  pretty  wenches 
Are  puxsles  to  the  most  precautious  benche8.e 

64. 

The  present  culprit  was  extremely  pale, 

Pale  as  if  painted  so;  her  cheek  being  red 

By  nature,  as  in  higher  dames  less  hale 

'Tis  white,  at  least  when  they  just  rise  from  bed. 

Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  seeming  frail. 

Poor  soul !  for  she  was  country-born  and  bred. 

And  knew  no  better  in  her  immorality 

Than  to  wax  white  —  for  blushes  are  for  quality^ 

66. 

Her  black,  bright,  downcast,  yet  espidglc  eye 
Had  gathered  a  large  tear  into  its  comer. 
Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay'd  to  dry. 
For  she  was  not  a  sentimental  mourner, 
Parading  all  her  sensibility, 
Nor  insolent  enough  to  scorn  the  scorner, 
But  stood  in  trembling,  patient  tribulation 
To  be  call'd  op  for  her  examination. 

6& 

Of  course  these  groups  were  soatter'd  here  and  there. 

Not  nigh  the  gay  saloon  of  ladies  gent 

The  lawyers  in  the  study;  and  in  air 

Hie  prise-pig,  ploughman,  poachers;  the  men  sent 

From  town,  viz.  architect  and  dealer,  were 

Both  busy  (as  a  general  in  his  tent 

Writing  despatches)  In  their  several  stations. 

Exulting  in  their  brilliant  lucubrations. 

67. 

But  this  poor  girl  was  left  in  the  great  hall. 
While  Scout,  the  parish  guardian  of  the  frail, 
Discuss'd  (he  hated  beer  yclept  the  ''small'*) 
A  mighty  mug  of  mora/  double  ale : 
She  waited  until  Justice  could  recall 
Its  kind  attentions  to  their  proper  palo, 
To  name  a  thing  in  nomenclature  rather 
Perplexing  for  most  virgins  ~~  a  child's  father. 


Ton  see  here  was  enough  of  ooeupation 
For  the  Lord  Henry,  link'd  with  dogs  and  horses. 
There  was  much  bustle  too  and  preparation 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  second  courses, 
Because,  as  suits  their  rank  and  situation. 
Those  who  in  counties  have  great  land-resources. 
Have  <'publio-days,"  when  all  men  may  carouse. 
Though  not  exactly  what's  caM'd  "open  house." 
80 


306 


BON  JUAN. 


CAKTO  XTl 


Bat  ODoe  a  week  or  fortaigfat,  tmia? ited 
(Thus  wetraoslate  htjieneralmvitaticn) 
All  coantry-geDtlemea,  esquired  or  knighted, 
Hay  drop  in  without  cardB,  and  take  their  station 
At  the  full  board,  and  sit  alike  defaghted 
With  fashionable  wines  and  oonyersation ; 
And,  as  the  isthmiis  of  the  grand  connection. 
Talk  o'er  themselYes,  the  past  and  next  election. 

7a 

Lord  Henry  was  a  great  ckctioBcerer, 
Burrowing  for  borooghs  like  a  rat  or  rabbit 
But  connty-contests  cost  him  rather  dearer. 
Because  the  neighbooring  Scotch  Earl  of  Giftgabbit 
Had  English  influence,  in  the  self-same  sphere  hero; 
His  son,  the  Honourable  Dick  Dicedrabbtt, 
Was  member  for  the  ''other  Interest"  (meaning 
The  same  self-interest,  with  a  different  leaning). 

7L 

Courteous  and  cautions  therefore  in  his  county, 
He  was  all  things  to  all  men,  and  dispensed 
To  some  ciyility,  to  others  bounty, 
And  promises  to  all  ~  which  last  commenced 
To  gather  to  a  somewhat  large  amount,  he 
Not  calculating  how  much  they  condensed; 
But  what  with  keeping  some,  and  breaking  others, 
His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another's. 

7a. 

A  friend  to  freedom  and  freeholders  —  yet 
No  less  a  friend  to  go? emment  —  he  held* 
That  he  exactly  the  just  medium  bit 
'Twixt  place  and  patriotism  —  albeit  eompcird. 
Such  was  his  Soyereign's  pleasure  (though  unfit, 
He  added  modestly,  when  rebels  raird). 
To  hold  some  sinecures  he  wlsh'd  abolish'd. 
But  that  with  them  all  law  would  be  demoUsh*d. 

7a. 

He  was  "free  to  oonfeas''  —  (whence  comes  this  phrase? 
Is't  English?  No  ^  ^tis  only  parliamentary) 
That  innovation's  spirit  now-a*digrs 
Had  made  more  progress  than  for  the  last  century. 
He  would  not  tread  a  factious  path  lo  praise. 
Though  for  the  public  weal  disposed  to  venture  high; 
As  for  his  place,  he  could  but  say  this  of  it. 
That  the  fiitigae  was  greater  than  the  profit 

74. 

Heaven,  and  his  friends,  knew  that  private  life 
Had  ever  been  his  sole  and  whole  ambition; 
But  could  he  quit  his  king  in  times  of  strife. 
Which  tbreaten'd  the  whole  country  with  perdition? 
When  demagogues  would  with  a  butcher's  knife 
Cut  through  and  through  (oh  1  damnable  incision !) 
The  Gordlan  or  the  G«ordi-an  knot,  whose  strings 
Have  tied  together  Commons,  Lords,  and  Kings. 


76. 

Sooner  ''come  jrfaoe  into  the  dvil  list 

And  champion  him  to  the  utmost"  —  he  would  keep  it, 

Tin  duly  disappointed  or  dismiss'd : 

Profit  he  cared  not  for,  let  others  reap  it; 

But  should  the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist. 

The  country  would  have  fiir  more  cause  to  weep  it ; 

For  how  could  it  go  on?  Explain  who  can ! 

He  gloried  in  the  name  of  Englishman. 

70. 

He  was  as  independent  —  ay,  much  more  — 
Than  those  who  were  not  paid  for  independence, 
As  common  soldiers,  or  a  common  -»  shore. 
Have  in  their  several  arts  or  parts  ascendance 
O'er  the  irregulars  in  lust  or  gore, 
Who  do  not  give  professional  attendance. 
Thus  on  the  mob  all  statesmen  are  as  eager 
To  prove  their  prid^  as  footmen  to  a  beggar. 

77. 

All  this  (save  the  last  stanm)  Henry  said, 

And  thought  I  say  no  more  —  Tve  said  too  much ; 

For  all  of  us  have  either  heard  or  read 

Of —  or  upon  the  hustings  —  some  slight  snob 

Hints  from  the  independent  heart  or  head 

OftheolBcial  candidate.  Fll  touch 

No  more  on  this  —  the  dinner-bell  hath  rung. 

And  grace  is  said ;  the  grace  I  should  have  stmg  — 

78. 

But  Fm  too  late,  and  therefore  must  make  play. 
'Twas  a  great  banquet,  such  as  Albion  old 
Was  wont  to  boast  —  as  if  a  glutton's  tray 
Were  something  very  glorious  to  behold. 
But  'twas  a  public  feast  and  public  day,  — 
Quite  ftiU,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold. 
Great  plenty,  much  formality,  small  cheer. 
And  every  body  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

70. 

The  squires  frimiliarly  formal,  and 

My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending; 

The  very  servants  puzzling  how  to  hand 

Their  plates  —  without  it  might  be  too  much  bending 

From  their  high  places,  by  the  sideboard's  stand  — 

Tet  like  their  masters  fearful  of  offending; 

For  any  deviation  from  the  graces 

Might  cost  both  men  and  master  too  —  thdrpUee*, 

80. 

There  were  some  hunters  bold,  and  oonrsera  keen, 
Whose  hounds  ne'er  err'd ,  nor  greyhounds  dcign'd  to 
Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembrizers,  seen         [lurcb ; 
Earliest  to  rise,  and  last  to  quit  the  search 
Of  the  poor  partridge  through  his  stubble  screen. 
There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  church. 
Takers  of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good  matches. 
And  several  who  sung  fewer  psalms  than  catdies. 


Cktno  XTL 


DON  JUAN; 


307 


81. 

There  were  some  oonntry-wagf  too,  —  and  aiai ! 
Some  ezilei  from  the  towa,  who  had  been  driTen 
To  gase,  instead  of  pavemcDt,  upon  grass, 
And  rise  at  nine  in  lieu  of  long  deven. 
And  lo !  npon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 
I  sate  next  that  o'erwbelming  son  of  Heaven, 
The  very  powerful  parson,  Peter  Pith, 
The  loudest  wit  I  e'er  was  deafen'd  with. 


I  knew  him  in  his  IlTelier  London  days, 
A  brilliant  diner-oot,  thongh  but  a  curate; 
And  not  a  joke  he  cut  but  eam'd  its  praise. 
Until  preferment,  coming  at  a  sure  rate, 
(Oh,  ProTidenoe!  how  wondrous  are  thy  ways. 
Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdurate?) 
Gare  him,  to  lay  the  devil  who  looks  o'er  Lincoln, 
A  &t  fen  vicarage,  and  nought  to  think  on* 

8a 

Ifis  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sermonf  jokes; 
But  both  were  thrown  away  amongst  the  fens; 
For  wit  hath  no  great  friend  in  aguish  folks. 
No  longer  ready  ears  and  short-hand  pens 
Imbibed  the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happy  hoax : 
Tlie  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  common-sense, 
Or  to  coarse  efforts  very  loud  and  long, 
To  hanuner  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  thick  throng. 

84. 

There  is  a  diifereBee,  says  the  song,  "between 
A  h^;gar  and  a  queen,"  or  was  (of  late 
The  latter  worse  used  of  the  two  we\e  seen  — 
But  we'll  say  nothing  of  afl^s  of  state) 
A  diHerenoe  '^twixt  a  bishop  and  a  dean," 
A  (fifference  between  crookery-ware  and  plate. 
As  between  Bnglish  beef  and  Spartan  broth  — 
And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

8ft. 

But  of  all  uatare^s  discrepancies,  none 
Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  difference 
Beheld  between  the  country  and  the  town, 
Of  which  flie  latter  merits  every  preference 
Vnm  those  who  have  few  resources  of  their  own. 
And  only  think,  or  act,  or  feel  with  reference 
To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambition  — 
Both  whidi  are  limited  to  no  ponditioa. 

86. 

But  ''en  avantr  The  light  loves  languish  o'er 

Long  banquets  and  too  many  guests,  altliough 

A  siight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 

Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know, 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yore 

With  vivifying  Venus,  who  doth  owe 

To  these  the  invention  of  champagne  and  truffles: 

Temperance  delights  her,  but  long  festing  ruiBes 


87. 
Dully  past  o'er  the  dinner  of  the  day ; 
And  Juan  took  his  place,  he  knew  not  where, 
Conftised,  in  the  confusion,  and  distrait, 
And  sitting  as  if  naii'd  npon  his  ehair; 
Though  knives  and  forks  changed  round  as  in  a  fray. 
He  seem'd  unconscious  of  all  passing  there, 
Till  some  one,  with  a  groan,  express'd  a  wish 
(Unheeded  twice)  to  have  a  fin  offish. 


On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  banns, 

He  started;  and  perceiving  smiles  around 

Broadening  to  grins,  he  oolour'd  more  than  once, 

And  hastily —  as  nothing  can  confound 

A  wise  man  more  than  laughter  from  a  dunoe  *- 

Inflicted  on  the  dish  a  deadly  wound. 

And  with  such  hurry,  that  ere  he  could  curb  it, 

He  had  paid  his  neighbour's  prayer  with  half  a  turbot 

80. 

This  was  no  bad  mistake,  as  It  ooourr^d. 
The  snpplicator  being  an  amateur ; 
But  others,  who  were  left  with  scarce  a  third. 
Were  angry  —  as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure. 
They  wonder'd  how  a  young  man  so  absurd 
Lord  Henry  at  his  table  should  endure; 
And  this,  and  his  not  knowing  how  much  oats 
Had  feUen  last  market,  cost  his  host  three  votes. 

oa 

They  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathised. 
That  he  the  night  hefore  had  seen  a  ghost ; 
A  prologue  which  but  slightly  harmonised 
With  the  substantial  company  engross'd 
By  matter,  and  so  much  materialised. 
That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 
Of  two  things  —  how  (the  question  rather  odd  is) 
Such  bodies  could  have  souJs,  or  souls  such  bodies. 

8L 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare 

From  all  the  'squires  and  'squiresses  aronnd, 

Who  wonder'd  at  the  abstraction  of  his  air, 

Especially  as  he  had  been  renown'd 

For  some  vivacity  among  the  fair. 

Even  in  the  country-circle's  narrow  bound  — 

(For  little  things  upon  my  Lord's  estate 

Were  good  small-talk  for  others  still  less  great)  — 

83. 

Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora's  eye  on  his 
And  something  like  a  smile  upon  her  cheek- 
Now  this  he  really  rather  took  amiss : 
In  those  who  rarely  smile,  their  smiles  bespeak 
A  strong  external  motive;  and  in  this 
Smile  of  Aurora's  there  was  nought  to  pique 
Or  hope,  or  love,  with  any  of  the  wiles 
Which  some  pretend  to  trace  in  ladies'  smiles. 


308 


DON  JUAN. 


CINTO  XTl 


93. 

'Twas  a  mere  quiet  smile  ofcontemplatioo. 

Indicative  of  some  surprise  and  pity; 

And  Juan  grew  carnation  with  vexation, 

W  hich  was  not  very  wise  and  still  less  witty. 

Since  he  had  goin*d  at  least  her  observation, 

A  most  important  outwork  of  the  city  — 

As  Juan  should  have  known,  had  not  his  senses 

By  last  night's  ghost  been  driven  from  their  defences. 

fi ut  what  waA  hud,  she  did  not  blush  in  turn, 
Nor  seem  erabarrass'd  —  quite  the  contrary; 
Her  aspect  was  as  usual,  still  —  not  stem  — 
And  she  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 
Yet  grew  a  little  pale  —  with  what?  concern  ? 
I  know  not :  but  her  colour  ne'er  was  high  — 
Though  sometimes  faintly  flush'd  -—  and  always  ckar 
As  deep  seas  in  a  sunny  atmosphere. 

95. 

But  Adeline  was  occupied  by  fame 

This  day;  and  watching,  witching,  condescending 

To  the  consumers  offish,  fowl,  and  game, 

And  dignity  with  courtesy  so  blending, 

As  all  must  blend  whose  part  it  is  to  aim 

(Especially  as  the  sixth  year  is  ending) 

At  their  lord's,  son's,  or  similar  connection's 

Safe  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 

dd. 

Though  this  was  most  expedient  on  the  whole, 

And  usual  —  Juan,  when  he  cast  a  glance 

On  Adeline  while  playing  her  grand  role, 

Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a  dance 

(Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 

By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askance 

Of  weariness  or  scorn),  began  to  feel 

Some  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  real; 

97. 

So  well  she  acted,  all  and  every  part 

By  turns  —  with  that  vivacious  versatility, 

Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 

They  err  —  'tis  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility, 

A  thing  of  temperament  and  not  of  art. 

Though  seeming  so,  from  its  supposed  ftcility ; 

And  false  —  though  true ;  for  surely  they're  sincerest, 

Who  are  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

98. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers. 
Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom  —  sages  never; 
But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancer^ 
Little  that's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever; 
Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers. 
Though  all  Exchcqucr-ChanecJlors  endeavour. 
Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker's  rigoura^ 
And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures. 


99. 

The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they 
Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  two  to  be 
Five,  as  they  would  do  in  a  modest  way. 
Have  plainly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three. 
Judging  by  what  tliey  take,  and  what  they  pay. 
The  Sinking-Fund's  unfathomable  sea. 
That  most  unliquidating  liquid,  leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 

100. 

While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and  graces. 
The  fkir  Fit2-Fulke  seem'd  very  much  at  ease; 
Though  too  well  bred  to  quis  men  to  their  fiEioes, 
Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a  glance  could  seise 
The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  places  — 
That  honey  of  your  fashionable  bees  — 
And  store  it  up  for  mischievous  enjoyment ; 
And  this  at  present  was  her  kind  employment 

101. 

However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  dose; 
The  evening  also  waned  —  and  oofiee  came. 
Bach  carriage  was  announced,  and  Ladies  rose. 
And  curtsying  off,  as  curtsies  country-dame. 
Retired :  with  most  uniashionable  bows 
Their  docile  esquires  also  did  the  same. 
Delighted  with  the  dinner  and  their  host. 
But  with  the  Lady  Adeline  the  most 

102.     ' 

Some  praised  her  beauty ;  others  her  great  grace; 
The  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 
Was  obvious  in  each  fe^iture  of  her  face, 
Whose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  verity. 
Yes :  She  was  truly  worthy  her  high  place! 
No  one  could  envy  her  deserved  prosperity; 
And  then  her  dress  ~  what  beautifbl  simplicity ! 
Draperied  her  form  with  carious  felicity! 

103. 

Meanwhile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  their  praises, 

By  an  impartial  indemnification 

For  all  her  past  exertion  and  soft  phrases, 

In  a  most  edifying  conversation. 

Which  turn'd  upon  their  late  guests'  miens  and  faces. 

And  fomilies,  even  to  the  last  relation; 

Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dresses. 

And  truculent  distortion  of  their  tresses. 

104. 

True,  she  said  little  —  'twas  the  rest  that  broke 

Forth  into  univerival  epigram : 

But  then  'twas  to  the  purpose  whsit  she  spoke: 

Like  Addison's  '*faint  praise,"  so  wont  to  damn. 

Her  own  but  served  to  set  off  every  joke. 

As  music  chimes  in  with  a  melodrame. 

How  sweet  the  task  to  shield  an  absent  friend! 

I  ask  but  this  of  mine,  to  —  n^t  defend. 


€AN1t>  XVL 


DON  JUAN. 


309 


There  were  b«t  two  exoeptioos  to  this  keen 
Skirmish  ofwits  o'er  the  departed;  one, 
Aaron,  with  her  pare  and  pJacid  mien; 
And  Juan  too>  in  general  behind  none 
In  gaj  remark  on  what  he  had  heard  or  seen, 
Sate  silent  now,  his  usnal  spirits  gone; 
In  Tain  be  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally. 
He  would  not  join  tbem  in  a  single  sally. 

'Tis  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  though 

She  approYed  his  silence;  she  perhaps  mistook 

Its  motiTe  for  that  charity  we  owe 

But  seldom  pay  the  absent,  nor  would  look 

Further;  it  might  or  it  might  not  be  so. 

Bat  Juan,  sitting  silent  in  his  nook, 

Observing  little  in  his  reverie, 

Yet  saw  this  much,  which  be  was  glad  to  see. 

107. 

The  ghost  at  least  bad  done  htm  this  much  good 

In  making  him  as  silent  as  a  ghost, 

If  in  the  drcumstanoes  which  ensued 

He  gained  esteem  where  it  was  worth  the  most 

And  certainly  Aurora  had  renew'd 

In  him  some  feelings  he  had  lately  lost 

Or  harden'd;  feelings  which,  perhaps  ideal. 

Are  so  divine,  that  I  must  deem  them  real :  ^ 

108. 

The  knre  of  higher  things  and  better  days; 
The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  call'd  the  world  and  the  world's  ways ; 
The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 
Which  kindle  manhood),  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own,  (/^ 

Of  which  another^s  bosom  is  the  sone. 

100. 

Who  would  not  sigh  //<  ai  ray  Kv^^uav! 

That  hoik  a  memory,  or  that  had%.  heart? 

Alas!  htr  star  must  wane  h'ke  that  of  Dian ; 

Ray  fiuies  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 

Anacreon  only  bad  the  soul  to  tie  an 

Unwithering  myrtle  round  tlie  unblunted  dart 

Of  Bros;  but,  though  thou  hast  play 'd  us  many  tricks. 

Still  we  respect  thee,  *'Abaaa  Venus  Genetrix!" 

110. 

And  fell  of  sentiments,  sublime  as  billows 
Heaving  between  this  world  and  worlds  boyond, 
Doe  Juan,  when  the  midnight-hour  of  pillows 
Anivedi  retired  to  his :  but  to  despond 
Bather  than  rest  Instead  of  poppies,  willows 
Waved  o*er  his  couch ;  he  meditated,  fond 
Of  those  sweet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 
I     And  make  the  worldling  sneer,  the  youngling  weep. 


111. 

The  nlgiit  was  as  before;  be  was  undrcst, 
Saving  bis  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress; 
Completely  "sans  culotte,"  and  without  vest ; 
In  short,  he  hardly  could  be  clothed  with  hs!^ ; 
But,  apprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest, 
He  sate,  with  feelings  awkward  to  express 
(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations). 
Expectant  of  the  ghost's  fresh  operations. 

\\% 
And  not  in  vain  be  listened  —  Hush !  what 's  that  ? 
1  see  —  I  see  —  Ah,  no !  — 'tis  not  — -  y<>t 'tia^ 
Ye  powers !  it  is  the  —  the  —  the  —  Pooh  I  the  call 
The  devil  may  take  that  stealthy  pace  of  his! 
So  like  a  spiritual  pit-a-pat. 
Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 
Gliding  the  first  time  to  a  rendezvous. 
And  dreading  the  chaste  echoes  of  her  shoe. 

113. 

Again  —  what  is 't?  The  wind  ?  No,  no,  ^  this  time 

It  is  the  sable  Friar  as  before. 

With  awful  footsteps  regular  as  rhyme. 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  in  these  days)  much  more. 

Again,  through  shadows  of  the  night  sublime, 

When  deep  sleep  fell  on  men,  and  the  world  wore 

The  starry  darkness  round  her  like  a  girdle 

Spangled  with  gems  —  the  monk  made  his  blood  curdle. 

114. 

A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass, 

Which  sets  the  teeth  on  edge;  and  a  slight  clatter 

Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight-gusts  will  pass, 

Sounding  like  very  supernatural  water,  L*"^'^ 

Came  over  Juan's  ear,  which  tlirobb'd,  alas  I 

For  immateriallsm  's  a  serious  matter; 

So  that  even  those  whose  faith  is  the  most  great 

In  souls  immortal,  shun  them  t£te-A«t^te. 

115. 

Were  his  eyes  open?  —  Yes!  and  his  mouth  too. 
Surprise  has  this  effect,  —  to  make  one  dumb, 
Yet  leave  the  gate  which  Bloquenoe  slips  through 
As  wide  as  if  a  long  speech  were  to  come. 
Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  awful  echoes  drew. 
Tremendous  to  a  mortal  tympanum : 
His  eyes  were  open,  and  (as  was  before 
Stated)  his  month.  What  opened  next?  ~  The  door. 

116. 

It  open'd  with  a  most  infernal  creak, 

Like  that  of  hell.  **Lasciate  ogni  speransa, 

Yoi  cbe  entrate !"  The  hinge  seem'd  to  speak, 

Dreadful  as  Dante's  rima,  or  this  stanza ; 

Or  _  but  all  words  upon  such  themes  arc  weak :   ^ 

A  single  shade 's  snflicient  to  entrance  a  y^ 

Hero  —  for  what  is  substance  to  a  spirit  ? 

Or  how  is't  mailer  trembles  to  come  near  It? 


310 


BON  JUAN. 


Ck»TO  XTl 


nr. 

The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly  —  bnt,  as  fly 
The  sea-^Il8,  with  a  steady,  sober  flight  — 
And  then  swungr  back;  nor  close  —  but  stood  awry, 
Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light, 
Which  still  in  Juan's  candlesticks  born'd  high, 
For  he  had  two,  both  tolerably  bright,  — 
And  in  the  door-way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 
The  sable  Friar  In  his  solemn  hood. 

118. 

Don  Jnan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 
The  night  bcA>re;  bat,  being  siok  of  shaking, 
He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken, 
And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  snch  mistaking ; 
His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 
Within  him,  and  to  qnell  his  corporal  quaking  — 
Hinting,  that  soul  and  body  on  the  whole 
Were  odds  against  a  disembodied  soul. 

110. 

And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  fierce  ; 
And  he  arose,  advanced,  —  the  shade  retreated ; 
But  Jnan,  eager  now  the  tmtii  to  pierce, 
Followed ;  his  Tcins  no  longer  cold,  but  heated, 
ResolTcd  to  thnist  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce, 
At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated : 
The  ghost  stopp'd,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 
Hereach'd  the  ancient  waU,  tiien  stood  stone-still. 


lao. 

Juan  put  fi>rth  one  arm  —  Eternal  Powers  1 

It  touch'd  no  soul,  nor  body,  but  the  wall, 

On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers 

Chequer'd  with  all  the  tracery  of  the  hall: 

He  shudder'd,  as  no  doubt  the  bravest  cowers 

When  he  can*t  tell  what  'tis  that  doth  appal. 

How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  non-entity 

Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host* s  identit  j . 

121. 

Bat  still  the  shade  remained ;  the  blue  eyes  glared. 

And  rather  variably  for  stony  death ; 

Tet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  had  spared  — 

The  ghost  had  a  remarkably  sweet  breath. 

A  straggling  curlshow'd  he  had  been  fah>hair'd ; 

A  red  lip,  with  two  rows  of  pearl  beneath, 

Gleam'd  forth,  as  through  the  casement's  ivy  shroud 

The  moon  peep'd,  just  escaped  from  a  gtay  cloud. 

123. 

And  Juan,  puziled,  but  still  carious,  thrust 
His  other  arm  forth  —  Wonder  upon  wonder  I 
It  press'd  upon  a  hard  but  glowing  bust. 
Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a  warm  heart  under. 
He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must. 
That  he  had  made  at  first  a  silly  blunder. 
And  that  in  his  confusion  h^  had  caught 
Only  the  wall  instead  of  what  lie  songht 


123. 


The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem'd  a  sweet  soul. 
As  ever  lurk'd  beneath  a  holy  hood : 
A  dimpled  ehin,  a  neck  if  ivory,  stole 
Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blood ; 
Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl, 
And  they  reveal'd  (alas!  that  e'er  they  should  !) 
In  ftill,  voluptuous,  but  not  o'ergrown  bulk, 
The  phantom  of  her  frolic  Qracc  —  Fitz-Fulke! 


311 


THE  ISLAND. 


CANTO     I. 


lerprow 


Tmmoniiiig-watdi  was  come;  the^ 
Her  ooiine»  and  gently  made  ber  liquid 
The  doren  billow  flash*d  from  off  her  pr 
h  farrows  fonoi'd  by  that  migestic  plough ; 
The  waters  with  tbeir  world  were  all  before ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea's  many  an  islet-sh<Mre. 
The  qoiet  night,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane, 
Diriding  darkness  from  the  dawning  main ; 
The  dolphins,  not  nneonsdons  of  the  day, 
Swam,  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  b^^n  to  creep. 
And  lift  thdr  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep; 
The  mil  resomed  its  lately-sbadow'd  white. 
And  the  wind  fluttered  with  a  freshening  flight; 
The  porpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  Sun  >- 
BqI,  erehe  break,  a  deed  is  to  be  done. 

The  gallant  diicf  within  his  cabin  slept, 
Seeore  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept: 
His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome  sliore, 
Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o'er; 
His  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  roll 
Of  those  who  search  the  storm-snrrounded  pole. 
The  worst  was  orer,  and  the  rest  seem'd  sure. 
And  why  should  not  his  slomber  be  secure? 
Ahi^!  his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet, 
And  wilder  bands  would  hold  the  yesseFs  sheet; 
TooQg  hearts,  which  knguish'd  for  some  sunny  isle, 
'  Where  summer-years  and  summer- women  smile; 
Men  without  country,  who,  loo  long  estranged. 
Had  found  no  natiTC  home,  or  found  it  changed. 
And,  half-undviliBed,  preferr'd  the  cave 
i  Of  some  soft  saTage  to  the  uncertain  wave ; 
ifhe  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gaye  untill'd; 
ithe  wood  without  a  path  but  where  they  will'd; 
The  field  o'er  which  promiscuous  Plenty  pour'd 
^er  horn ;  the  equal  land  without  a  lord ; 
lYhc  wish  —  which  ages  have  not  yet  subdued 
In  man  —  to  have  no  master  save  his  mood; 
[Tke  earth,  whose  aodne  was  on  its  face,  unsold. 


The  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold; 

The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home ;    , 

The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam, 

Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  child, 

Bxulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild; 

Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know; 

Their  unexploringiiavy,  the  canoe; 

Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 

Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face:  — 

Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  yearn'd 

To  see  again  —  a  sight  they  dearly  earn'd. 

Awake,  bold  Bligh  I  the  foe  is  at  the  gate ! 

Awake!  awake! Alas!  it  is  too  late ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 
Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 
Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast, 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest; 
Dragg'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path, 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce-believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice; 
For  ne'er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage. 
Unless  be  drain  the  wine  of  passion  —  rage. 

In  vain,  not  silenoed  by  the  eye  of  death, 
Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath : 
They  come  not;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 
Must  acquiesce,  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 
In  vain  tbou  dost  demand  the  cause;  a  curse 
Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 
Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blade, 
Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 
The  levell'd  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 
In  hands  as  steci'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest 
Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming,  '<Pire !" 
But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire; 
Some  lurking  remnant  of  thehr  former  awe 


312 


THE  ISLAND. 


CANTO  L 


Restrain'd  them  longer  than  their  broken  law ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood. 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 

"Hoist  out  the  boat !"  was  now  the  leader's  cry ; 
And  who  dare  answer  "No"  to  mutiny,  ' 

In  the  first  dawning  of  the  dranken  hour, 
The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power? 
, -.The  boat  is  lower 'd  with  all  the  haste  of  hate. 
With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate; 
Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 
As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny; 
And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 
To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead: 
Some  cordage,  canvass,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine. 
But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine. 
Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 
Of  those  who  saw  no  hope  save  sea  and  air; 
And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  pole, 
The  feeling  compass,  navigation's  soul. 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 

To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime. 

And  raise  it  in  his  followers  —  ''Ho !  the  bowl !" 

Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoaL 

"Brandy  for  heroes!"  Burke  could  once  exclaim  — 

No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fkme; 

And  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here, 

And  drain'd  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 

<*Hu22a!  forOtaheite!"  was  the  cry; 

How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  mutiny ! 

The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil. 

The  friendly  hearts,  the  feasts  without  a  toil, 

The  courteous  manners  biit  from  nature  caught. 

The  wealth  unhoarded,  and  the  love  unbought ; 

Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 

Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 

And  now,  even  now  prepared  with  others'  woes 

To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire  —  repose  ? 

Alas!  such  is  our  nature!  all  but  aim 

At  the  same  end,  by  pathways  not  the  same; 

Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name, 

Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  firame^ 

Are  &r  more  potent  o'er  our  yielding  clay 

Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 

Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within. 

Heard  through  gain's  silence,  and  o'er  glory's  din : 

Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  tr6d, 

Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God! 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  fidthftil  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew: 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel  —  noxf  a  moral  wreck  — 
And  view'd  their  Captain's  ftte  with  piteous  eyes; 
While  others  scofiTd  his  augur'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 
And  the  slight  bark,  so  laden  and  so  frail 
The  tender  nautilus  who  stoers  his  prow, 
The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell-oanoc, 
The  ocoan-mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 


Seem?  far  less  fragile,  aad,  alas!  more  free ! 
He,  when  tlic  lightning-wing'd  tornados  sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe  —  his  port  is  in  the  deep  — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind. 
Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the  wind. 

When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear, 
Which  hail'd  her  master  in  the  mutineer  — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Show'd  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates; 
Watch'd  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye, 
And  told,  in  sig^is,  repentant  sympathy; 
Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  mouth. 
Which  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitter  drouth. 
But,  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn. 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
Then  forward  stcpp'd  the  bold  and  froward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish'd  only  to  destroy. 
And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim'd,  "Depart  at  once !  dehiy  is  death !" 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all: 
In  that  last  n^^pt  could  a  word  recall 
Remorse  fo^^^Hack  deed  as  yet  half-done. 
And,  what  h^Rd  from  many,  shew'd  to  one : 
When  Bligh,  in  stem  reproach,  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care? 
Where  aU  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher? 
His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
"'Tisthat!  'tis  that!  I  am  in  hell!  in  hell!" 
No  more  he  said ;  but,  urging  to  the  baric 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fngile  ark : 
These  the  sole  accents  fh>m  his  tongue  that  fell, 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewdi. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave; 
The  breeze  now  sank,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave; 
As  on  the  ifiolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 
Now  sweli'd,  now  flutter'd  o'er  his  ocean-strings. 
With  slow,  despairing  oar,  theabandon'd  skiff 
Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cltlf. 
Which  lifts  its  peak  a  doud  above  the  main : 
7%iit  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again ! 
But  'tis  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief. 
Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 
Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain; 
Their  manly  courage,  even  when  deem'd  in  vain; 
The  sapping  fhmine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 
Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton ; 
The  Uls  that  lessen'd  still  their  little  store. 
And  starved  even  hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more; 
The  varying  fh>wtt8  and  fiivours  of  the  deep. 
That  now  almost  engulphs,  then  leaves  to  creep 
With  crazy  oar  and  shatter'd  strength  along 
The  tide,  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong; 
The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 
Which  welcomes,  as  a  weO,  the  clouds  that  burst 
Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  deliglit 
In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night. 
And  from  the  outspread  canvass  gladly  wrings 
A  drop  to  moisten  \ifo*a  all-gasping  springs; 


CANTO  XL 


THE  ISLAND. 


313 


The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 
More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main ; 
The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom'd  at  last 
To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  dangers  past, 
As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 
Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  weep. 

We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 
Nor  nnredrest!  Reveage  may  have  her  own : 
Roused  discipline  aloud  proclaims  their  cause. 
And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 
Porsue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer, 
Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to  fear. 
Wide  o'er  the  wave  —  away!  away!  away! 
Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay;^ 
Onoe  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law 
Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw; 
Nature,  and  nature's  goddess  —  Woman  —  woos 
To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none  accuse; 
Where  all  partake  tlie  earth  without  dispute, 
And  bread  itself  is  gathered  as  a  fruit ; 


Where  none  contest  the  fields,  the  woods, the  streams: 

The  goldless  age,  where  gold  disturbs  no  dreams, 

Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore, 

Till  Europe  tauglit  them  better  than  before, 

Bestow 'd  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs. 

But  isft  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 

Away  with  this!  behold  them  as  they  were. 

Do  g^d  with  nature,  or  with  nature  err. 

"Huzza!  for  Otafaeite!"  was  the  cry. 

As  stately  swept  the  gaUant  vessel  by. 

The  breeze  springs  up;  the  lately  flapping  sail 

Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale; 

In  swifter  ripples  stream  aside  the  seas, 

Which  her  bold  bow  flings  off"  with  dashing  ease. 

Thus  Argo  ploughed  the  Euxine's  virgin  foam ; 

But  those  she  wafted  still  look'd  back  to  home  — 

These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 

And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark ; 

And  yet  they  seek  to  nestle  with  the  dore, 

And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 


CANTO     II. 


How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai, 

When  summer's  son  went  down  the  coral  bay ! 

CkMne,  let  us  to  the  islct*s  softest  shade, 

And  hear  the  warbling  birds!  the  damsels  said; 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest-depth  shall  eoo, 

Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotoo : 

We'll  coll  the  flowers  that  grow  above  the  dead> 

For  these  most  bloom  where  rests  the  warrior's  head; 

And  wc  will  sit  In  twilight's  face,  and  see 

The  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  tooa-tree. 

The  k>fty  accents  of  whose  Mghing  bough 

Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  below; 

Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vain 

Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main. 

Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the  baffled  spray. 

How  beautiful  arc  these  I  how  happy  they, 

Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives. 

Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  Ocean  strives ! 

Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 

And  smoothes  liis  ruffled  mane  beneath  the  moon. 

Yes  —  from  the  sepulchre  we'll  gather  flowers. 
Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowers. 
Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf, 
Then  kiy  our  limbs  along  the  tender  turf, 
And*  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toil, 
Anoint  our  bodies  with  tlie  fragrant  oil, 
And  plait  our  garlands  gathered  from  the  grave. 
And  wear  tlie  wreaths  tlwt  sprung  from  out  the  brave. 
Bat  lo!  Aight  oomei,  the  Mooa  woos  as  hack, 


The  sound  of  mats  is  heard  along  our  track ; 

Anon  the  torchlight-dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 

In  flasliing  ukazes  o*er  the  Marly 's  green; 

And  we  too  will  be  there ;  we  too  recall 

The  memory  bright  with  many  a  festival 

Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when  foes 

For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 

Alas !  for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds ; 

Alas!  for  them  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds : 

Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown. 

Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 

But  be  it  so :  —  titey  taught  us  how  to  wield 

The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o'er  the  field; 

Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art! 

But  feast  to-night  I  to-morrow  we  depart 

Strike  up  the  dance,  the  cava-bowl  fill  high, 

Drain  every  drop !  —  to-morrow  we  may  die. 

In  summer-garments  be  our  limbs  array'd; 

Around  our  waists  the  Tappa's  white  display'd; 

Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring's, 

And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  Hooni-strings; 

So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 

Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below . 

But  now  the  dance  is  o'er  —  yet  stay  auhilc ; 
Ah,  pause!  nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for  the  Mooa  we  depart, 
But  not  to-night  —  to-night  is  for  the  heart. 
Again  bestow  the  wreaths  \yc  gently  woo, 
Ye  yoaog  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoot 
20* 


314 


THE  ISLAND. 


Canto  n 


How  lovely  arc  your  forms !  how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  softcn'd,  but  inteose. 
Like  to  the  flowers  on  Matalooo's  steep, 
Which  fling  their  fragrance  feur  athwart  the  deep : 
We  too  will  see  Licoo;  but  —  oh !  my  lieart  — 
What  do  I  say?  to-morrow  we  depart! 

Thus  rose  a  song  —  the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  these  climes. 
True,  they  had  vices  —  such  are  nature's  growth  - 
But  only  the  barbarian's  —  we  have  both : 
The  sordor  of  cj  y  i  lization,  mix'd 
With  all  the  savage ^hich  man's  fall  hath  iix'd. 
Who  hath  not  seen  dissimulation's  reign, 
The  prayers  of  Abel  link'd  to  deeds  of  Cain? 
Who  such  would  see,  may  from  his  lattice  view 
The  old  world  more  degraded  than  the  new,  *- 
Now  new  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  bom  by  freedom  to  her  spheres, 
Where  Chimboraso,  over  air,  earth,  wave. 
Glares  with  his  Titan-eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 

Such  was  this  ditty  of  tradition's  days, 
Which  to  the  dead  a  lingering  fame  conveys 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound,  whose  charm  is  half  divine; 
Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye, 
But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony ; 
A  boy  Achilles,  with  the  CeQtaur*s  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 
For  one  long-cherish 'd  ballad's  simple  stave, 
Rung  from  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave, 
Or  from  the  bubbjing  streamlet's  grassy  side, 
Or  gathering  mountain-echoes  as  they  glide, 
Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and  ear, 
Than  all  the  columns  conquest's  minions  rear; 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 
For  sages'  labours  or  the  student's  dream; 
Attracts,  when  history's  volumes  are  a  toil,  — 
The  first,  tlie  freshest  bud  of  feeling's  soil. 
Such  was  this  rude  rhyme  -^  rhyme  is  of  the  rude  - 
But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  solitude, 
Who  came  and  conquer'd;  such,  wherever  rise 
Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilize, 
Bxist:  and  what  can  our  accomplish 'd  art 
Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  tlie  awaken'd  lieart? 

And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 
Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies, 
The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer-day, 
The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 
When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balm. 
And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  pakn, 
The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 
All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave. 
Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 
Who  taught  her  passion's  desolating  joy, 
Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 
O'er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  lost; 
O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 
Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre, 


With  such  devotion  to  their  ecstasy. 
That  life  knows  no  such  rapture  as  to  die: 
And  die  they  do;  for  earthly  life  has  nought 
Match 'd  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in  thought; 
And  all  our  dreams  of  better  life  above 
But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

There  sate  the  gentle  savage  of  the  wild, 
In  growth  a  woman,  though  in  years  a  child, 
As  childhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime. 
Where  nouglit  is  ripen'd  rapidly  save  crime ; 
The  infant  of  an  infant-world,  as  pure 
From  nature  —  lovely,  warm,  and  premature; 
Dusky  like  iiight,  but  night  with  all  her  stars ; 
Or  cavern  sparkling  with  its  native  spars; 
With  eyes  that  were  a  language  and  a  spell, 
A  form  like  Aphrodite's  in  her  shell, 
With  ait  her  Loves  around  her  on  the  deep. 
Voluptuous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep; 
Yet  full  of  life  —  for  through  her  tropic  cheek 
The  blu.4h  would  make  its  way,  and  all  bat  speak; 
The  sun-born  blood  suflnsed  her  neck,  and  threw 
O'er  her  clear  ntit-brown  skin  a  lucid  hue, 
Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darken'd  wave, 
Which  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 
Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  Southern  Seas, 
Herself  a  billow  in  her  energies. 
To  bear  the  bark  of  others'  happiness. 
Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less: 
Her  wild  and  warm  yet  taithful  bosom  knew 
No  joy  like  what  it  gave;  her  hopes  ne'er  drew 
Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  tonchstone,  whose 
Sad  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hoes: 
She  fear'd  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not. 
Or  what  she  knew  was  soon  ~  too  soon  —  forgot; 
Her  smiles  and  tears  had  pass'd,  as  light  winds  |Mas 
O'er  lakes,  to  rufile,  not  destroy,  their  glass, 
Whose  depths  unsearch'd,  and  fountains  from  the  biii, 
Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still. 
Until  the  earthquake  tear  the  Naiad's  cave. 
Root  up  the  spring  and  trample  on  the  wave. 
And  crush  the  living  waters  to  a  mass, 
The  amphibious  desart  of  4l<e  dank  morass! 
And  must  their  fate  be  hers?  The  eternal  change 
But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  range; 
And  they  who  fall,  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall. 
To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  alL 

And  who  is  he?  the  Mae-eyed  northern  cliild 
Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  searoc  leas  wild  ; 
The  fair*hair'd  ofl'spring  of  the  Hebrides, 
Where  roars  the  Pcntland  with  its  whirling  seas  ; 
Rock'd  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind, 
The  tempest- born  in  body  an4  in  mind. 
His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam. 
Had  from  that  moment  deem'd  the  deep  his  hooKiy 
The  giant  comrade  of  Ids  pensive  moods, 
The  sharer  of  his  eraggy  solitudes, 
The  only  Mentor  of  his  youth,  where'er 
His  bark  was  borne;  the  sport  of  wave  and  air; 
A  careless  thing,  who  placed  his  elioioe  in  chanee. 


CANTO  n. 


THE  ISLAND. 


315 


Kuracd  by  the  legends  of  bis  land's  romance; 
Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear. 
Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 
Placed  in  the  Arab's  clinic,  he  would  have  been 
As  bold  a  rover  as  the  sands  have  seen, 
And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  endaring  lip, 
As Ishmael,  wafted  on  his  desart-ship; 
Fix*d  npoD  Chili's  shore,  a  proad  Caciqne; 
On  Hellas'  mountains,  a  rebellious  Greek; 
Bom  In  a  tent,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane; 
Bred  to  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 
For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway, 
If  rear'd  to  such,  can  find  no  further  prey 
Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way. 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain ;  the  same 
Spirit  which  made  a  Nero,  Rome's  worst  shame, 
A  humbler  state  and  discipline  of  heart, 
Had  form'd  his  glorious  namesake's  counterpart: 
But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own. 
How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne! 

Tboa  smilest ;  —  these  comparisons  seem  htgli 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  daszlcd  eye; 
Link'd  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 
Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chill,  Hellas,  or  with  Araby,  — 
Thou  smilest?  —  Smile;  'tis  better  thus  than  sigh: 
Vet  such  he  might  have  been;  he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  spirit  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 
To  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief, 
Bom  under  auspices  which  make  us  more 
Or  less  than  wc  delight  to  ponder  o'er. 
But  these  are  visions ;  say,  what  was  he  here  ? 
A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer. 
The  thir-hair'd  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray, 
Tlie  husband  of  the  bride  of  ToobonaL 

By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watch'd  the  waters,  ~ 
Seuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  Island-daugliters, 
Highborn  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles, 
Without  a  scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 
Of  a  long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free, 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore, 
And  thine,  —  I've  seen,  —  Achilles !  do  no  more. 
She,  when  the  thunder- bearing  strangers  came 
In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 
Topp'd  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 
Secm'd  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm; 
But,  when  the  winds  awaken'd  shot  forth  wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings. 
And  sway'd  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea. 
Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free;  — 
She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 
Shot  through  the  snrf,  like  rein-deer  through  the  snow, 
Swift-gliding  o'er  the  breakers'  whitening  edge. 
Light  as  a  Nereid  in  her  occan-sledgc. 
And  gazed  and  wonder'd  at  the  giant  hulk 
Wbieb  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  bulk; ' 
The  anchor  dropp'd,  it  lay  along  the  deep, 


Like  a  huge  lion  in  the  sun  asleep, 

While  round  it  swarm'd  the  proas'  flitting  chain, 

Like  summer-bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

The  white  man  landed;  ~  need  the  rest  be  told? 
The  New  World  stretcb'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  Ofd; 
Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tie 
Of  wonder  warm*d  to  better  sympathy. 
Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun-bom  sires. 
And  kinder  still  tlieir  daughters'  gentler  fires. 
Their  union  grew:  the  children  of  the  storm 
Found  beauty  link'd  with  many  a  dusky  form ; 
While  these  in  turn  admired  the  paler  glow, 
Which  seem'd  so  white  in  climes  that  knew  no  snow. 
The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam, 
The  soil  where  every  cottage  show'd  a  home; 
The  sea-spread  net,  the  lightly-launch'd  canoe, 
Which  stemm'd  the  studded  Archipelago, 
0*cr  whose  blue  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles ; 
The  healthy  slumber,  earn'd  by  sportive  toils ; 
The  palm,  the  loftiest  Dryad  of  the  woods. 
Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods. 
While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 
Which  shadows  o'er  the  vineyard  in  her  breast; 
The  cava^feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root. 
Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  fruit; 
The  bread-tree,  which,  without  the  plough-share,  yields 
The  unreaped  liarvcst  of  nnfurrowed  fields, 
And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 
Without  a  fbrnace  in  unpurchased  groves. 
And  flings  oft' famine  from  Hs  fertile  breast, 
A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest;  — 
These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods. 
The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes. 
Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  who  were  moreliappy,  if  less  wise. 
Did  more  than  Europe's  discipline  had  done, 
And  civilized  Civilization's  son ! 

Of  these,  and  there  was  many  a  willing  pair, 
Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair; 
Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far; 
Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star ; 
Both  nourish'd  amidst  nature's  native  scenes. 
Loved  to  the  last  whatever  intervenes 
Between  us  and  our  childhood's  sympathy, 
Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 
He  who  first  met  the  Highland's  swelling  blue, 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue, 
Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face. 
And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 
Long  have  I  roam'd  through  lands  which  are  not  mine. 
Adored  the  Alp^and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep: 
But  'twas  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
neir  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall; 
The  infant-rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 
And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Troy, 
Mix'd  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phry^an  mount, 
And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie's  clear  fount 


316  THE  ISLAND. 


V_ 


"5 


..\' 


CAKTO  n 


f  oripvc  me,  Homer's  universal  shade! 
Forgave  me»  Pbocbas !  that  my  iaDcy  stray 'd ; 
Tlie  North  and  Nature  taught  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before. 

The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and  feir, 
The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air. 
The  dangers  past,  that  make  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy. 
The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts,  like  lightning  to  the  steel. 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  light 
Wrapp'dhis  wean'd  bosom  in  its  dark  delight; 
No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Dnturb'd  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest. 
Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
l)arts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky; 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state. 
At  ODce  elysian  and  effeminate, 
Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  hero's  am ;  — 
These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  burn; 
Yet,  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 
Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade ! 
Had  Caesar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 
Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  bis. 
And  what  have  Csesar's  deeds  and  Caesar's  fame 
Pone  for  the  earth  ?  We  feel  ttiem  in  our  shame : 
The  gory  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 
The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 
Though  glory,  nature,  reason,  freedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did,  — 
Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  song 
From  the  tall  boiigb  where  they  have  perch 'd  so  long,  • 
Still  are  we  hawk'd  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 
And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls. 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  well. 

Rapt  in  the  fond  forgctfulness  of  life, 
Nenha,  the  south-sea-girl,  was  all  a  wife, 
With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame ;  no  babbling  erowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud. 
Or  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy ; 
With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 
She  stood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm. 
Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howc'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move. 
The  cloud-compelling  harbinger  of  Love. 

Here,  in  this  grotto  of  tlie  wave- worn  siiore. 
They  pass'd  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er; 
Nor  long  the  hours  —  they  never  paused  o'er  time. 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime. 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span. 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron-laugh  at  man. 


What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past? 
The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  hefd  them  fast : 
Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide. 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide; 
Their  clock  the  sun,  tn  his  unbounded  tower; 
They  reckoned  not,  whose  day  was  but  an  hoar; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-bell. 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell ; 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep. 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep; 
But  fiery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  bereft. 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave. 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies. 
And  then  for  light  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Wondering  that  summer  show'd  so  brief  a  son, 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done? 

And  let  not  this  seem  strange;  the  devotee 
Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy ; 
Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven. 
His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 
Is  love  less  potent?  No  —  bis  path  is  trod. 
Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  Goo; 
Or  link'd  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 
The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  woe 
Is  more  than  ours ;  the  all-absorbing  flame 
Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same. 
Wrapt  in  one  blaze;  the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile. 
Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit  and  snule. 
How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone^ 
Admiring  Nature's  universal  throne. 
Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 
Reply  others  to  our  intelligence ! 
Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains?  Are  the  waves 
Without  a  spirit?  Arc  the  dropping  caves 
Withouf  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 
No,  no;  —they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  splicres. 
Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  day  before 
Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 
Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity  I  — 
Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky? 
And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought, 
In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 
Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own? 
All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

Nenha  arose,  and  Torquil:  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower. 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 
Echoed  their  dim  light  to  the  mastering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm. 
Sought  out  their  cottage,  built  beneath  the  palm ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene; 
Lovely  as  Love  —  the  spirit!  when  serene. 
Tlic  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  swell 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmarer  in  the  shell  *), 

*)  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  faU  ear  theice-aliell  on  kischtency-picc^ 
he  will  be  aware  of  what  if  allnded  to.  If  the  text  ahoold  appcM-  obtcare, 


CAKTO  II. 


THE  ISLAND. 


317 


As.  fiir  divided  from  fai$  pareDt  deep, 
The  sea-born  in&nt  cries  and  wlli  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  Jhtle  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  brood  bosom  of  hi&  nursing  wave : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  Inclined  to  rest, 
The  tropic-bird  wheel'd  rockward  to  his  nest. 
And  the  bine  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
Of  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice! 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  chcHce, 
In  such  an  hour,  to  break  the  air  so  still ! 
No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill. 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree, 
Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony. 
With  echo  for  their  chorus;  nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  load  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm; 
Nor  the  solUoquy  of  the  hermit  owl, 
Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul, 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite. 
Who  peals  his  dreary  paean  o'er  the  night;  — 
But  a  load,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  started  through  a  sea-bird's  bill ; 
And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  ''Hillo! 
Torquil!  my  boy!  what  cheer?  Ho,  brother,  ho '." 
"Who  hails  V  cried  Torquil,  following  with  his  eye 
The  sound.  ''Here's  one,"  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

Bat  there  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 
Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south, 
Not  like  a  bed  of  violets  on  the  gale, 
Bat  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale. 
Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  wliicli  yet  had  blown 
Its  gentle  odours  over  either  sone, 

he  Witt  Sad  m  "Gebir"  thf  nin«  idea  beUer  expretacd  in  two  liiMS.  The 
porm  I  never  read,  bot  have  beard  tbc  line*  quoted  by  a  more  recondite 
reader  —  who  seems  to  be  of  a  different  opinion  from  the  editor  of  the 
Qurteriy  RcvicWp  who  qnalified  it,  in  hi*  answer  to  the  Critical  Reviewer 
of  hi*  Javeaal,  b«  tra«h  of  the  worat  and  most  innne  description.  It  is  to 
Mr.  Ludor,  the  aothor  of  "Oebir,"  ao  qnalified.  and  of  aone  Latin 
f^ona,  which  vie  with  Martial  or  Catollns  in  obscenity,  that  the  ini- 
nncnlatc  Mr.  Sontbey  addresses  his  declamation  against  imparity  I 
£Mr.  Landor's  lines  above  alinded  to  are  — 

"For  I  have  often  seen  her  with  both  hands 

Shake  a  dry  crocodile  of  eqoal  heightp 

And  listen  to  the  shells  within  the  scales. 

And  ihney  there  wat  life,  and  yet  apply 

The  jafged  Jaws  wide  open  to  the  ear." 
In  the  "Excnraiov"  of  Wonkworth  occurs  the  following  exqnisite 
pwace:  — 

"l  have  seen 

A  earions  child,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  eonvolntions  of  a  smooth-lippM  shell, 

To  wbiefa,  in  sUence  bnah'd,  fala  very  son! 

LisCenM  intmsely,  and  his  conaienance  soon 

Brighten'd  with  Joy ;  for  marmuring  fk-om  within 

Were  heard  sonorous  cadences!  whereby, 

To  his  belief,  the  monitor  expressed 

MysCnriooanBion  with  Its  native  tea. 

Even  ioeh  n  shell  the  ttniverse  itself 

ts  to  the  ear  of  faith ;  and  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  Invisible  things: 

or  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-daring  power; 

And  central  peace  snbaisting  at  the  heart 

OfendlMaacHHioa.'*! 


A.nd,  puffed  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll, 
Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmoath  to  the  Pole, 
Opposed  its  vapour  as  the  lightning  flash'd, 
And  reek'd,  'midst  mountain-billows  unabashed, 
To  i£olus  a  constant  sacrifice, 
Through  every  change  of  all  the  varying  skies. 
And  what  was  he  who  bore  it?  —  I  may  err, 
But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosopher. 
Sublime  tobacco  I  whicli  from  east  to  west 
Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest; 
Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 
His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides; 
Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand, 
Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand; 
Divine  in  hooka.s,  glorious  in  a  pipe. 
When  tipp'd  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and  ripe; 
Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 
More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress; 
Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 
Thy  naked  beauties  —  Give  me  a  cigar  I 
»" 
Through  the  approaching  darkness  of  the  wood 
A  human  figure  broke  the  solitude. 
Fantastically^  it  may  be,  array 'd, 
A  seaman  in  a  savage  masquerade ; 
Such  as  appears  to  rise  out  from  the  deep. 
When  o'er  the  line  the  merry  vessels  sweep. 
And  the  rough  Saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrowed  car; 
And,  pleased^  the  God  of  Occian  sees  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cyolades. 
Still  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main, 
To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  sailor's  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim. 
His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  bum'd  dim. 
His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait, 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  state; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head. 
Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread; 
And,  'stead  of  trowsers  (ah !  too  early  torn ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn), 
A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat; 
His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face. 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 
His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 
Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both; 
The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders  broad. 
And  somewhat  stoop'd  by  his  marine  abode, 
But  bjawny  as  the  boar's;  and,  hung  beneath. 
His  cutlass  droop'd,  unconscious  of  a  sheath, 
Or  lost  or  worn  away ;  his  pistols  were 
Link'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair  — 
(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff. 
Though  one  miss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  off) ; 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  arm-oliest  held  its  brighter  trust. 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 
Survey'd  him  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 


318 


THE  ISLAND. 


CA19TO  Hi 


**What  cbeer,  BeD  Boating ?"  cried  (when  in  faU  Tkw 
Oar  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.  "Auglit  of  new  V* 
'*£y,  ey/'  qaatli  Ben,  ''not  new,  but  news  enow ; 
A  strange  sail  in  the  offing."  —  "Sail !  and  how? 
What!  could  you  make  her  out?  It  cannot  be; 
I've  seen  no  rag  of  canvass  on  the  sea." 
"Belike/'  said  Ben,  "you  might  not  from  the  bay, 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  i  watchM  to-day, 
I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums ;  for  the  wind 
Was  light  and  baffling."  —  "When  the  sun  declined 
Where  lay  she?  had  she  anchored  ?"  —  '<No,  but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still." 
"Her  flag  ?"  —  "I  had  no  glass ;  but  fore  and  aft. 
Egad,  she  seem'd  a  wicked-looking  craft." 
"Arm'd?"  —  "I  expect  so;  —  sent  on  the  look-out;  —  ■ 
'Tis  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about" 


"About  ?  —  Whatever  may  hare  us  now  in  < 

We'll  make  no  ranniBg  fight,  for  that  were  1 

We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men.*' 

"By,  ey !  for  that,  'tis  all  the  same  to  Ben."  [iMiidi 

"Does  Christian  know  this?"  ^  "^kj;  he  has  piped  afl 

To  quarters.  They  are  forbishing  the  stands 

Of  arms ;  and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear. 

And  scaled  them.  Yon  are  wanted."  —  ''That's  bwt  ftir ; 

And  if  it  were  not,  mioe  is  not  the  soal 

To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  sboaL 

MyNeuha!  ah!  and  must  my  fiite punrae 

Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true? 

But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah,  Neuha!  now 

Unmao  me  not;  the  hoar  will  not  allow 

A  tear;  I  am  thine,  whatever  intervenes!" 

"Right,"  quoth  Ben,  '^Uiat  will  do  for  the  i 


CANTO    in. 


The  fight  was  o'er;  the  flashing  through  the  gloom, 
Which  robc^  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb, 
Had  ceased;  and  sulphury  vapours  upward  driven 
Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven; 
The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 
Had  left  the  echoes  to  their  melancholy; 
No  more  they  shriek'd  their  horror,  boom  for  boom : 
The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish'd  had  their  doom ; 
The  mutineers  were  crush'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en. 
Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 
Few,  few  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 
The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 
No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seem'd,  on  earth. 
Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth;  x 

Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought  the  wild, 
As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child ; 
But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den. 
And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 
When,  scaling  his  enormous  crag,  the  wave 
Is  hurl'd  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost  brave. 
And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind, 
Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 
But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 
Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  fhint,  and  few; 
But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 
With  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 
As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate, 
And  strive  mueh  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate. 
Theur  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen, 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been; 
Yet  still  the  lingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  lot 
Not  pardon'd,  but  unsought  for  or  forgot. 


Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  eaves 

Might  still  be  raiss'd  amidst  the  world  of  waves. 

Had  wean*d  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they  sliw 

And  felt  —  the  vengeance  of  theur  country's  law. 

Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise. 

No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vioe : 

Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 

Back  on  themselves,  •—  their  sins  remain'd  alone. 

Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 

Were  lost;  in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay; 

All  outlets  seem'd  secured.   Their  new  allies 

Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice; 

But  what  avaird  the  clubaad  spear  and  arm 

Of  Hercules,  aginst  the  sulphury  charm. 

The  magic  of  the  tliunder,  which  destroy'd 

The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ'd  ? 

Bug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 

No  less  of  human  bravery  than  the  brave! 

Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 

Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do; 

But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  firee, 

Bven  Greece  can  boast  but  oneThermopyha, 

Till  nowy  when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 

Back  to  a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 

Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear'd, 
Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd; 
Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 
But  still  the  hunter's  blood  was  on  their  horn. 
A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height. 
And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 
Its  bounding  crystal  froliek'd  in  the  ray, 
And  gush'd  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltless  spray; 
Close  on  the  wild,  wide  oeean,  yet  as  pure 
And  fresh  as  innooenee,  and  more  8ecur<^ 


CUkNTO-in. 


THE  ISLAND. 


319 


Its  ailYer  torrent  fthter'd  o'er  the  deep. 

As  tbe  sfcy  dMunois'  eye  overlooks  Che  steep, 

While  for  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  aipioc-asore  rose  and  fell. 

To  this  jonng  spring  they  rosh'd,  -*  all  feelings  iirst 

Absorfo'd  in  passion's  and  in  natnre's  tliirst,  — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 

Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew; 

Cool'd  their  sooreh'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory  stainii 

Froa  woonds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  chains ; 

Then,  when  their  drought  was  qneoch'd,  look'd  sadly 

As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found         [roond, 

Alive  and  fetterless;  —  but  silent  all, 

Eadi  soaght  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 

Ob  him  for  langnage,  which  his  lips  denied, 

As  diongli  their  voices  with  their  cause  had  died. 

Stem,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  rest. 
Stood  Chiistiaa,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest 
The  mddy,  reckless,  dauntless  hue,  once  spread 
Along'  his  cheek,  was  livid  now  as  lead; 
His  lig^ht-brown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o'er  his  brow. 
Still  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  coropreirt 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast. 
Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute. 
Be  stood ;  and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  loot. 
Which  deepened  now  and  tiicn  tbe  sandy  dint 
Beneath  bis  heel,  liis  form  scem'd  turn'd  to  flint 
Some  paces  further  Torqnil  lean'd  his  head 
Against  a  bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled,  -— 
Not  mortally  —  his  worst  wound  was  within: 
His  brow  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in. 
And  Mood«drops,  sprinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair, 
Shew'd  that  his  fointness  came  not  from  despair, 
But  natnre's  ebb.  Beside  him  was  another. 
Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother,  — 
Ben  BontlDg,  who  essay'd  to  wash,  and  wipe. 
And  bind  his  wound  —  then  calmly  lit  hi^  pipe  -^ 
A  tro|rfiy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
A  beaoon  which  had  cbeer'd  ten  thousand  nights. 
The  fonrth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walk'd  up  and  down — at  times  would  stand,  then  stoop 
To  pick  a  pebble  up  —  then  let  it  drop  — 
Then  hurry  as  in  haste  —  then  quickly  sti^  — 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions  —  then 
Half  w  histle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again  — 
And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 
With  something  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 
This  is  a  long  desaription,  bnt  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  past  before  the  eyes ; 
Bnt  yet  wk^  minutes  I  Moments  like  to  tliesc 
Read  men's  lives  into  immortalities. 


At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  roan. 
Who  Ihittcred  over  all  things  like  a  fon. 
More  brave  than  firm,  and  more  di^osed  to  dare 
And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 
B«<^im'd:  •'Goddamn!"  Those  syllables  ioteuie, - 
Nndeoa  of  Bnglaad's  natisffi  siogncner^ 
Ikrthe  Turk's  <^AIlah  r^or  the  Roman's  more 


Pagan  **Proh  Jupiter  I"  was  wont  of  yore 

To  give  their  first  Impressions  such  a  vent, 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  embarrass'd  —  never  hero  more. 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore: 

Nor  swore  in  iraio ;  the  long  congenial  sound 

Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look'd  full  wise, 

But  merely  added  to  tbe  oath  his  eyes; 

Thus  rendering  tlie  imperfect  phrase  complete  ~ 

A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat 

But  Christiaii,  of  a  higlier  order,  stood 
Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood; 
Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage,  —  with  tbe  trace 
Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face; 
Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye. 
It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  lean'd  feintly  by. 
''And  is  it  thus?"  he  cried,  ''unhappy  boy ! 
And  thee  too,  thet  ^  my  madness  must  destroy." 
He  said,  and  strode  to  where  yoang  Torquil  stood. 
Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately  flowing  blood; 
Seized  his  hand  wistftilly,  but  did  not  press. 
And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress ; 
Enquired  into  his  state;  and  when  he  heard 
The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fear'd, 
A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow, 
As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 
"Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "we  are  taken  in  the  toil, 
But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spoil; 
Dearly  they  have  bought  us  —  dearly  still  may  buy,  — 
And  I  must  fall ;  bnt  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 
'Twould  be  some  comfort  still,  could  you  s^urvive; 
Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 
Oh!  forasoleranoe!  though  but  a  shell. 
To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope  may  dwell! 
For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I  souglit;  to  be, 
In  life  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  aronnd  the  promontory 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billows  high  and  hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean :  on  it  flew 
Iiike  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea*mew ; 
Onward  it  came  —  and,  lo !  a  second  follow'd  — 
Now  seen— now  hid — wliere  ocean's  vale  was  hollow'd; 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view, 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play, 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and  flitting  through  the  spray ;  — 
Now  perching  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and  now 
Dash'd  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling,  sheet  on  sheet 
And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shivcr'd  into  sleet : 
But,  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  tbrougli  a  lowering  sky. 
Their  art  seem'd  natnre  —  such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave  of  these  bom  playmates  of  the  deep. 

And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leap'd  like  a  Nereid  from  her  shell  to  land. 
With  dark  bnt  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 


320 


tHB  ISLAND. 


CANTO  IT. 


Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy  ? 

Ncuha,  —  the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored. 

Her  heart  on  Torquirs  like  a  torrent  poar'd ; 

And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  nearer  dasp'd, 

As  if  to  be  assured  'twas  him  she  grasp'd ; 

Sbudder'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then, 

To  find  it  trivia],  smiled  and  wept  again. 

She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 

Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 

Her  lover  lived  —  nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 

That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight: 

Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 

That  rock'd  her  heart  till  almost  hcard  to  throb; 

And  paradise  was  breathing  in  th6  sigh 

Of  nature's  child  in  nature's  ecstasy. 

^  The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 
Were  not  unmoved;  who  are,  when  hearts  are  groetiug? 
Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy 
With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 
Mix'd  with  those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul  arrays 
In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days, 
When  all's  gone  —  to  the  rainbow's  latest  ray. 
*'And  bat  for  me!"  he  said,  and  turn'd  away ; 
Then  gazed  apon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 
A  lion  looks  upon  his  oabs  again; 
And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  gaise. 
As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 


But  brief  their  dme  for  good  or  ctit  IhtMight ; 
The  billows  roand  the  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars.  —  Afas !  who  made 
That  sound  a  dread?  All  around  them  seem'd  array'd 
Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai: 
She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay 
Of  the  arm'd  boats,  which  hurried  to  complete 
The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  Oying  feet, 
Beckon'd  the  natives  round  her  to  their  prows, 
Embark'd  their  guests,  and  launch'd  their  light  canoes; 
In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain; 
But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  fix'd  him  in  her  own.  —  Away !  away  I 
They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay. 
And  towards  a  group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollowM  lair. 
They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows;  last 
They  flew,  and  last  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 
They  gain  upon  them  —  now  they  lose  again,  -^ 
Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main; 
And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide. 
And  follow  different  courses  o'er  the  tide. 
To  baffle  the  pursuit.  —  Away !  away ! 
As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  flight  to-day, 
And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha :  Love 
Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove  — 
And  now  the  reAige  and  the  foe  are  nigh  — 
Yet,  yet  a  moment !  ^  Fly,  thou  liglit  ark,  fly  1 


CANTO      IV. 


Write  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea. 
When  half  the  horizon's  clouded  and  half  free, 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity. 
Her  anchor  parts;  but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale: 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more. 
The  heart  still  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  the  spray, 
The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desart  to  mankind. 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind, 
And  sleeps  unwieldy  in  his  cavern-dun, 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun: 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean-bird. 
Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishers  of  the  solitude. 
A  narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand ; 
Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell, 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell; 


Chipp'd  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day. 
But  liatch'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair; 
A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreck. 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 
The  men  that  mann'd  what  held  her  Torqnil's  lot. 
By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 
The  skiff  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore. 
This  he  would  have  opposed:  but  with  a  smite 
She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle, 
And  bade  him  '*speed  and  prosper."  She  woaid  take 
The  rest  upon  herself  for  TorqniPs  sake. 
They  parted  with  this  added  aid ;  a£Enr 
The  proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star. 
And  gain'd  on  the  pursoen,  who  now  steer'd 
Right  on  the  rook  which  she  and  Torquil  ncar'd. 


CAlfTO  IT. 


THE  ISLAND. 


321 


They  pali'di  her  aim,  ihoogh  detioate,  waa  free 

And  firm  as  ever  i^rappled  with  the  sea. 

And  yielded  scarce  to  Torqnil's  manlier  strength. 

The  prow  now  almost  hiy  within  its  length 

or  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  fhoe. 

With  noofht  bat  soondless  waters  for  its  base; 

Within  a  hundred  boats'  length  was  the  foe^ 

And  now  what  refoge  bnt  their  frail  oanoe? 

This  Torqnil  ask'd  with  half  upbraiding  eye, 

Which  said  *-  ''Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die? 

Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  graye. 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  ware?" 

They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  oprose 
Neaha,  and,  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 
Cried :  «*Torqoil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  follow  V 
Then  phinged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 
There  was  no  time  to  pause  —  the  foes  were  near  — 
Chains  in  his  eye  and  menace  in  his  ear; 
With  vigour  they  puH'd  on,  and  as  they  oame^ 
Haird  him  to  jield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 
Headlong  he  leap'd  —  to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill ; 
Bnt  how,  or  where?  He  dived,  and  rose  no  more; 
The  boaf  s  crew  look'd  amased  o'er  sea  and  shore. 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice. 
Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 
They  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 
But  not  a  trace  rebnbbled  from  the  main: 
The  wave  roH'd  on,  no  ripple  on  its  &ce, 
Since  their  first  plunge,  recall'd  a  single  trace; 
The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam, 
That  whitened  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home. 
White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair. 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 
The  quiet  proa,  wavering  o'er  the  tide. 
Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride; 
And  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 
The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 
They  paused  and  search'd  in  vain,  then  poll'd  away, 
Bfen  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 
Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave, 
Bat  vanish'd  like  a  corpse-light  from  a  grave ; 
Others,  that  something  supernatural 
Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall; 
While  all  agreed,  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 
There  was  a  dead  hue  of  eternity. 
Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag, 
Roond  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag, 
Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey; 
But  no— he  had  melted  firom  them  like  the  spray. 

And  where  was  he,  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep. 
Following  the  Nereid  ?  Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
Forever?  or,  received  in  coral  caves, 
Wrong  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves? 
-  Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  frmtastie  shell? 
Did  Neuha  witli  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair 
Flowing  o'er  ooaan  as  it  stream'd  in  air? 


Or  had  they  perish'd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gnlph  wherein  they  boldly  leap'd  ? 

Tonng  N^uha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
Follow'd :  her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 
Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  licel, 
Which  struck  and  flash'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas. 
Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  ease. 
Deep  —  deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 
The  way  —  then  upward  soar'd  —  and,  as  she  spread  i 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  ofl'her  locks, 
Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  was  answer'd  by  th^  rocks. 
They  had  gain'd  a  central  realm  of  earth  again, 
But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 
Around  she  panted  to  a  spacious  cAve, 
Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave; 
(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen. 
Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 
In  some  transparent  ocean-holiday. 
When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play;) 
Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyes, 
And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise ; 
Led  him  to  where  the  rock  appear'd  to  jut 
And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut; 
For  all  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day 
Through  dcfis  abofc  let  in  a  sober'd  ray ; 
As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aisle 
The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil, 
Thus  sadly  in  their  refrige  submarine 
The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A  pine-torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo; 
A  plantain-leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 
This  mantle  kept  it  dry;  then  from  a  nook 
Of  the  same  plantain-leaf  a  flint  she  took, 
A  few  shrunk  witlier'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 
Of  Torqnil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 
The  grot  with  torchlight  Wide  it  was  and  high, 
And  sbow'd  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy; 
The  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect. 
The  architrafe  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hnrl'd, 
When  the  poles  crash'd  and  water  was  the  world; 
Or  harden'd  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 
While  yet  the  globe  reek'd  from  its  frineral  pyre; 
The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave. 
Were  there,  all  sooop'd  by  Darkness  from  her  cave. 
There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy. 
Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mow'd  on  high, 
And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 
The  eye  upon  Its  seeming  crucifix. 
Thus  Nature  phiy'd  with  the  stalactites. 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  sea8« 
21 


322 


THE  TSL4ND. 


civro  IT. 


And  Nculia  toolc  her  Torquil  by  the  hand. 
And  waved  along:  the  vaalt  her  kindled  brand. 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared; 
The  mat  for  rest;  for  dress  the  fresh  g^natoo, 
And  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the  dew; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Born  of  the  fmit;  for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  tartlc-shdl  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  it  covered  o'er; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch-piic  to  keep  undying  light, 
And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night. 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene. 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  tercne. 
She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Brew  to  their  isle,  that  foree  or  flight  might  foil. 
And  form'd  a  rcf3|pe  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countryman. 
Each  dawn  had  waited  there  her  Hght  canoe, 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hottr 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  tJieir  sparry  bower; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles. 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press'd 
Her  sheltered  love  to  lier  irapaMion'd  broaat; 
And,  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  olden  tale  of  love,  ^  for  love  is  old. 
Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn, 
With  each  new  being  born  or  to  he  hdtnz 
How  a  young  chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago, 
Diving  for  turtle  in  ttie  depths  below. 
Had  risen,  in  tracking  fhst  bis  ocean-prey^ 
Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay  i 
How,  in  some  desperate  feud  of  afler^ttme, 
He  shelterM  there  a  daughter  of  the  diitie, 
A  foe  beloved,  and  ofi*spring  of  a  foe, 
Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  woe; 
How,  when  the  storm  of  war  was  still'd,  he  led 
His  island«clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 
Their  deep  green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door, 
Then  dived  —  it  seem'd  as  if  to  rise  no  more: 
His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark. 
Or  deem'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark, 
Row'd  round  in  sorrow  the  sea<girded  rock, 
Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock ; 
When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 
A  goddess  rise  —  m  deem'd  they  In  their  awe ; 
And  their  oonpanioD,  glorious  by  her  side, 
Proud  and  exulting  in  his  merraatd-bride; 
And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  tiiey  bore 
With  sounding  conohs  and  joyoiM  shouts  to  shore; 
How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  cahnly  died,  — 
And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride? 
Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 


Which  follow'd  wlidly  Sa  that  wild  i 

This  tale;  enongh  that  all  within  that  cave 

Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 

Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death. 

When  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 

Their  nuptial  vaults  his  arms  outstrctdi'd*  and  prcss'd 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast 

The  waves  without  sang  round  their  ooucb,  their  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er: 

Within,  tlieir  hearts  made  all  their  harmony, 

Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 

And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock, 
Where  were  they?  O'er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied. 
To  seek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice  —  but  where? 
The  wave^  which  bore  them  still,  their  foes  would  bear. 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase. 
In  search  of  Christian  now  renew'd  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  anns  made  way. 
Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gain'd  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay ; 
No  further  chance  or  ohoiee  rcmain'd;  and  right 
For  the  first  further  rode  which  met  their  sight 
They  steer'd,  to  take  thdr  latest  view  of  land, 
And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand; 
Dismiss'd  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew; 
But  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again. 
Nor  add  a  sacrifioe  which  were  in  vain ; 
For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  wliioh  must  be  widded  here? 

They  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene, 
Wliere  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet  had  been; 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye. 
Stern  and  sustain'd,  of  man's  extremity. 
When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains,  — 
They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 
Who  dyed  Thermopylv  with  holy  blood« 
But,  ah!  iiow  diflercntl  'tis  the  caii^e  makes  all, 
Ilcgradcs  or  hallows,  cstuaga  in. Ji^  fall* 
O'er  til  cm  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense. 
Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon'd  hence; 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears. 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years ; 
No  nation's  eyes  would  on  thdr  tomb  be  bent. 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument; 
However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt, 
Thdr  life  was  shame,  thdr  epitaph  was  guilt. 
And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one. 
The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone; 
Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  whieh  linger'd  yet: 
But  now  the  die  was  to  he  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  faU  1  But  still  he  fiused  the  shock 


CANTO  IV 


THE  ISLAND. 


323 


ObdnraCe  as  a  portion  of  the  rook 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  lix'd  his  lerelFd  gnn. 
Dark  as  a  sullen  clond  before  the  sun. 

The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm'd>  and  firm  the  oreir 
To  act  wbateTer  dnty  bade  them  do; 
Careless  of  danger,  afrthe  onward  wind 
hi  of  the  leaves  it  strewB,  nor  looks  behind: 
And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wishM  to  go 
Against  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe, 
And  felt  tliat  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 
Rriton  no  more,  had  onoe  been  Britain's  still. 
They  hail'd  him  to  snrrcnder  —  no  reply ; 
Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky. 
They  hall'd  again  •—  no  answer ;  yet  once  more 
They  offer'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 
The  echoes  only,  from  the  rock's  rebound. 
Took  their  last  fhrewell  of  the  dying  sound. 
Then  flash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame. 
And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim, 
Whfle  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell 
Which  peal'd  in  Yain,  and  flattened  as  they  fell; 
Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 
By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  carthor  heaven. 
After  the  ^st  fierce  peal,  as  they  pull'<inigh0r. 
They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shonl,  *'*Now,  firel" 
And  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died. 
Two  fell ;  the  rest  assail'd  the  rock's  rough  side. 
And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  (heir  foes, 
Disdain'd  all  fkurther  efforts,  save  to  dose. 
But  steep  the  erag,  and  all  without  a  path. 
Bach  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath. 
While,  placed  'midst  clefts  the  least  accessible, 
Whidi  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  well, 
The  three  maintain'd  a  strife  which  must  not  yield. 
In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build. 
Their  erery  shot  told;  while  the  assailant  fell, 
Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpet  shell ; 
But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still. 
Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 
Borroonded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 
Bnoogh  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 
The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 
But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bait ; 
Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 
And  not  a  groan  inform'd  their  foes  who  fell. 
Christian  died  last  —  twice  wounded ;  and  onoe  more 
Mercy  was  oficr'd  when  they  saw  his  gore ; 
Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die, 
With  though  a  hostile  hand  to  close  his  eye. 
A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 
The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 
The  sound  revived  him,  or  appear'd  to  wake 
Some  passion  which  a  weakly  gesture  spake; 
He  beckon'd  to  the  foremost  who  drew  nigh, 
Bot,  as  they  near'd,  he  reared  his  weapon  high  — 
His  last  ball  had  been  aim'd,  but  from  his  breast 
He  tore  the  topmost  button  from  his  vest  *)> 


>  In  TMbMdl*f  ae«ewil  of 
relatkw  of  a  yoooit  Frt 


Che  SMOttd  of  PniMia,  lb«rt  if  a 

),  who  wiCb  hid  mittreM  appeared 


Down  the  tube  dash'd  it,  levell'd,  fired,  and  smiled 
As  his  foe  fell;  then,  like  a  serpent,  coU'd 
His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 
Look'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep; 
Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clcneh'd  his  hand,  and  shook 
His  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook ; 
Then  plunged :  the  rook  below  reoeWed  like  glass 
His  body  crush'd  into  one  gory  mass. 
With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form, 
Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm; 
A  fair-hair'd  scalp,  besmcar'd  with  blood  and  weeds, 
Yet  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds ; 
Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last, 
As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 
Yet  glitter'd,  but  at  distance  —  hurl'd  away 
To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 
The  rest  was  nothing  —  saye  a  life  mis-spent. 
And  soul  —  bat  who  shall  answer  where  It  went? 
'Tis  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead ;  mid  they 
Who  doom  to  hell,  thcinsdYes  arp  gn  the  way, 
l7nless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 
Are  pardon'd  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

The  deed  was  over!  All  were  gone  or  ta'en. 
The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain. 
Chain'd  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew, 
They  stood  with  honour,  were  the  wretched  few 
Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle; 
But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 
Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 
While  o'er  them  flapp'd  the  sea-birds'  dewy  wing, 
Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  surge^ 
And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge: 
But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below, 
Btemal  with  unsympathetic  flow; 
Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on, 
And  sprang  the  flying-fish  against  the  sun. 
Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height, 
To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight 

'Twas  mom;  and  Ncnha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray. 
And  watch  if  aught  approach'd  the  amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air: 
It  flapp'd,  it  fill'd,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch :  her  breath  began  to  fail 
With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high. 
While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie: 
But  no  I  it  came  not;  fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessened  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 
She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eye8t 
To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 


to  be  of  lome  rank.  He  enlitted  and  deserted  at  Scfaweidnits;  and  after 
a  desperate  resUtance  wa«  retaken,  baYing  killed  an  officer,  wko  at 
tempted  to  aeiia  bim  after  be  waa  woonded,  by  the  dlacharge  of  bi> 
musket  loaded  with  a  button  of  his  oniform.  Some  drcomstancea  on  hik 
eoort'martial  raised  a  great  interest  amongst  his  Judges,  who  wished  to 
discover  bis  real  sitnation  in  life,  which  he  offered  to  disclose,  bat  to  the 
king  only,  to  whom  be  reqnesled  permission  to  write.  This  was  refused, 
and  Frederic  was  flUed  with  the  greatest  indignation,  ft^mbafHed  caHosIty 
or  some  other  mutiTO,  when  he  understood  that  his  request  bad  been  denied. 


324 


THE  ISLAND. 


CANTO  rr.   ! 


On  the  horizon  yerg«d  the  distant  deck, 

Diminished,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck  — 

Then  yanish'd.  All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy ! 

Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  ronse  her  hoy; 

Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 

That  happy  love  coald  angur  or  recall; 

Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 

His  bounding  Nereid  over  the  broad  sea; 

Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 

Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 

Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar, 

That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore ; 

But  when  these  vanished,  she  pursued  her  prow, 

Regain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now  : 

Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark, 

Than  now  was  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

Again  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view, 
No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue; 


No  sullen  ship  hiy  bristling  o'er  the  foam, 

A  floating  dungeon:  —  all  was  hope  and  homel 

A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay, 

With  sounding  shells,  and  heralded  their  way ; 

The  Chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour*d. 

And  weloomed  Torqoil  as  a  son  restored ;  . 

The  women  throng'd,  embracing  and  embraced 

By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased, 

And  how  escaped?  The  tale  was  told;  and  then 

One  acclamation  rent  the  si^  again ; 

And  firom  that  hour  a  new  tradition  gave 

Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  ''Neuha's  Cave." 

A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height. 

Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 

The  feast  in  honour  of  the  guest,  retum'd 

To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  earn'd ; 

A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 

As  only  the  yet  in£uit  world  displays. 


325 


MANFRED, 

A    DRAMATIC    POEM. 


There  we  more  things  in  heaven  and  ewth,   Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  yoar  philosophy. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONiE. 


Manfred. 

Chamois  Hunter. 

Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch  of  the  Alpb. 
Arimanbs. 


;4>* 


Nemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spirits.  , 

The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher 
Alps;  partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in 
the  Mountains. 


A    C    T      L 


MiAMBO  atone.  — 


SCENE  L 

Scene,  a  Gothic  Gallery.  —  Time,  Midnight 


Mcmfirtd  The  lamp  must  be  replenished,  hot  even  then 
It  will  not  bum  so  long  as  I  must  watch : 
My  slombers  —  if  I  slumber  —  are  not  sleep, 
Bot  a  eontinnanoe  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not:  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  Tigil,  and  these  eyes  but  dose      / 
To  look  within ;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear  ]/ 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men.         / 
jBut  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise :  V  ' 
'[Sorrow  is  knowledge:  Jhey  who  know  the  oioat 
Mshnoaniltgdeepest  o^er  tjap  fa*«'  trn*^? 
TheJ'rcei>fy  nowjedge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Phitosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essayed,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 
Bat  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good. 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men  — 
>  Bat  this  avaiPd  not:  I  hare  had  my  foes. 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fkllcn  before  me  — 
Bat  this  avaird  not:  ~- Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  ail  I  see  In  other  beings, 
Rave  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.  I  have  no  dread, 


And  feel  the  corse  to  have  no  natural  fear. 

Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 

Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth.  — 

Now  to  my  task.  —  Mysterious  Agency! 

Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe! 

Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light  — 

Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 

In  subtler  essence  —  ye,  to  whom  the  tops 

Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts, 

And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  ftimiliar  things  — 

1  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm. 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  yon  —  Rise  1  appear ! 

They  come  not  yet.  —  Now  by  the  voice  of  him 

Who  is  the  first  among  you  —  by  this  sign. 

Which  makes  you  tremble  —  by  the  claims  of  him 

Who  is  undying,  —  Rise!  appear !  —  Appear!      Ca  paase. 

If  It  be  so.  —  Spirits  of  earth  and  air. 

Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me;  by  a  power. 

Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-speU, 

Which  had  its  birth-place  in  a  star  condemned. 

The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolished  world, 

A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 

By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul. 

The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 

I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will.  —  Appear! 

Ik  »tar  Is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gallery;  It  u 
statioiMry)  and  a  voiec  is  keard  liaging. 


326 


MANFRBD. 


icri 


FSrst  Spiril, 
Mortal!  to  thy  bidding  bow'd,  /tVA 

From  my  mansion  in  the  clond,      V^    \ 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 

And  the  sammer*a  san-set  gtlda 
"With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 

Which  Is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion: 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden. 

On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 

Mortal  —  be  tliy  wish  avow'd ! 

Voice  of  the  Second  Spir&, 
Mont-Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  moantains. 

They  crowned  him  long  ago 
Oil  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds,  * 

With  a  diadem  of  snow.  '^  « ^ 

Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  avalanche  in  his  hand ;  .  v\C 

But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball         V 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass,  * 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  tlie  Spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern 'd  base  — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou? 

Voice  of  the  Third  Spirii, 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters. 

Where  the  wave  bath  no  strife,  ^  «\' 

Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger,  x.    «  ' 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life. 
Where  the  mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surfkce 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells ; 
O'er  my  calm  hall  of  coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd  — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold! 

Fmtrth  Spirit, 
Where  the  slumbering  earthquake  r ' 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire,  x  ^V  " 

And  the  lakes  of  bitumen  \  i  \  ^ 

Rise  boilingly  higher;  ^' 

Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birth-place, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide  — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  mc, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide! 

F^h  Spirit. 
I'm  the  rider  of  the  wind. 
The  stirrer  of  the  storm ; 


M 


'■r 


The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  tlie  blast: 
The  fleet  I  met  sall'd  well,  and  yet 

'Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past 

Sixth  Spirit, 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light 

Seventh  Spirit. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny. 

Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me: 

It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air ; 

Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 

Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 

The  boor  arrived  —  and  it  became 

A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse. 

The  menace  of  the  universe; 

Still  rolllnr  oi^ulh  innate  foree, 

Without  ^fl^^Vb^ont  a  coarse, 

A  bright  defomi^^9fiigh. 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 

And  thou  I  beneath  its  influence  born  — 

Thou  worm !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn  — 

Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine,^ 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend. 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 

And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee  — 

What  wouldst  thou,  child  of  day  I  with  me ! 

The  Seven  l^riU. 

Barth,  ooeaO)  air,  night,  moantaios,  winds,  thy  star, 

Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  child  of  clay  1 
Before  thee,  at  thy  quest,  their  spirits  are  — 

What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals  -»  say? 

Manf.  ForgstlJiljiesB 

Firtt  Spirit.  Of  what  —  of  whom  —  and  why  ? 
'  Mta^.  Of  that  which  is  within  me;  read  it  tlicre  — 
Te  know  it,  and  I  oannot  utter  it 

SIpirit,  We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess: 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  ally 
JThese  shall  be  thine. 
^J     Man/,  Oblivion,  self-objixifip  — 
Can  ye  not  wrTog  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  ofler  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 

Spirit.  It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill; 
But  —  thou  mayst  die. 

Man/.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me? 

l^iriL  We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  foiget; 
We  are  eternal;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present  Art  thou  answer'd?  Iheie 

Man/.  Ye  mock  me-- butthepower  which  brought  |6 


y 


I  ACT  L 


MANFRED. 


327 


Hath  made  yoa  mine.  Slaves,  aooffnot  at  my  will ! 
The  miod,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Perrading,  and  far-darting  as  yonr  own. 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yonrs,  though  ooop'd  in  clay ! 
Answer^-or  I  will  teach  ye  what  I  am. 

S^iriL  Weanswer  as  we  answer 'd;  onr  reply 
Is  ercn  in  thine  own  words. 

Manf,  Why  say  ye  so? 

Sjririt,  If,  as  thoo  sayst,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  hare  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
iCortals  caU  death  hath  nouglit  to  do  with  us. 

Mntf.  I  then  have  calfd  ye  from  your  realms  in  vain; 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me. 

^nn't  Say; 
What  we  possess  we  offer;  it  is  thine:  ,^.  ^ 

Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again  —  ^^ 

Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of  days  — 

Mwrf,  Accursed !  what  have  I  to  do  with  days  T 
They  are  too  long  already.  Hence —  begone!    [service; 

Sjpirit.  Yet  pause:  being  here,  our  will  would  do  thee 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  otiier  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes  ? 

MfOif.  No,  none :  yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we  part  — 
[  would  behold  ye  &ce  to  fooe.  I  hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters;  and  I  sec 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star. 
Bat  nothing  more.  Approach  me  as  ye  are. 
Or  ooe,  or  all,  in  your  accustomed  forms. 

SpirU,  We  hare  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  arc  the  mind  and  principle : 
But  choose  a  form  —  in  that  we  will  appear. 

Majrf,  I  have  no  choice;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.  Let  him. 
Who  Is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting  —  Come! 

Seffenth  Spirit    app«ariiig  ia  Cbe  aUpt  or  a  b««ati<tel  «nnale 
flgnre.)  Bchold!  ly 

Manf.  Oh  God!  ifitbethus,andaaM 
Art  not  a  madness  aad  a  mockery,  ^ 

I  yet  might  he  most  happy.  —  i  will  clasp  thee, 
And  we  again  will  be  —  CTh«  Agnre  vu>i*h«f . 

My  heart  is  cnish'd !  CMaafl-ed  fails  MotdcM. 

(A.  voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  Mrhich  fuiJowt.) 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave,  ^ 

And  the  glow-worm  in  tlic  grass, 
And  the  meteor  on  the  grayc^ 
And  the  wisp  on  the  morass ; 
When  the  falliag  stars  are  shooting, 
And  the  answered  owls  are  hooting, 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Shall  my  sonS  be  upon  thine, 
With  a  power  and  witii  a  sign- 
Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 
Tet  thy  spirit  sliall  not  sleep ; 
There  arc  shades  which  will  not  vanish, 
Tbere  are  tkouglits  thou  canst  not  banish ; 


By  a  power  to  thee  unknown. 
Thou  canst  never  be  alone; 
Thou  art  wrapt  as  witli  a  shroud, 
Thou  art  gathered  in  a  cloud; 
And  for  ever  shalt  tliou  dwell 
In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by. 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen. 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turn'd  around  thy  head, 
Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  oonoeai. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptised  thee  with  a  curse; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare ; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rc^ioice; 

And  to  thee  shall  Ni|[^t  deny  / 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  diee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 
An  essence  which  bath  strength  to  kill ; 
From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 
The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring ; 
From  thy  own  smile  I  snatch'd  tttc  snake, 
For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake ; 
From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 
Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  lacm ; 
In  proving  every  poison  known, 
I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent-smile, 

By  thy  uniathom'd  gulls  of  guile, 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye, 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy ; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art. 

Which  pasa'd  for  human  thine  own  heart ; 

By  tiiy  delight  in  others'  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee!  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  T  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear ; 

Lo!  the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pnss'd  «  now  wither  I 


328 


M4NFRED. 


^^H 


SCENS  IL 

The  MouiUin  of  the  Jongft-aii.  Tfme,  If orftlnp. 
Manf&bd  aloDe  opon  the  Cliff*. 

Man/,  The  spiritfl  I  have  raised  abandon  mc  ~ 
The  spella  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me  — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me; 
I  lean  no  more  on  super-human  aid. 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  pasj,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf  d  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search.  —  My  mother  Barth ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful?  I  cannot  love  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight  --  thou  shinest  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  for  ever  —  wherefore  do  I  pause? 
I  feel  the  impulse  ^  yet  I  do  not  plunge; 
I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede; 
And  my  brain  reels  —  and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 
There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds 
And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live; 
If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  n^seif 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself^ 
The  last  infirmity  of  evil.  Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  oloud-Ksleaving  minister,  CAn  ragie  pwws. 
'  W  hose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven. 
Well  mayst  thou  swoop  so  near  me  —  1  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorg>e  thitie  eaglets ;  thou  art  gone 
i.  Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above 
With  a  pervading  vision.  —  Beautiftil! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we. 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  Its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will, 
Till  our  mortality  predominates. 
And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  themselves. 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.  Hark!  the  note, 

LThe  Shepherd's  pipe  in  the  distaQce  ii  heard. 

The  natural  music  of  the  mouotain-rccd  — 

For  here  the  patriarchs^l  days  are  not 

A  pastoral  iable  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 

Mix'd  with  the  sweet  hells  of  the  sauntering  herd; 

My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.  --  Oh,  that  I  were 

The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 

A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 

A  bodiless  eigoymeot  —  born  and  dying 

With  the  blest  tooe  wbiob  made  me ! 


Boter  fVon  below  a  Ciuicoii  Hcwtbb. 


C.  Hunter,  Even  so. 
This  way  the  chamois  leapt:  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail  —  What  is  here  ? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd  ' 

A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers. 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-born  peasant's,  at  this  distance.  — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Manf.  (Not  perceiviDg  the  other.)  To  be  thuS  — 

Giay-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines. 

Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 

A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 

Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay  — 

And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus. 

Having  been  otherwise!  Now  ftirrow'd  o'er 

Witli  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years; 

And  hours  —  all  tortured  into  ages  —  hours 

Which  I  outlive!  —  Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice ! 

Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 

In  mountainous  overwhelming,  come  and  crash  me! 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath. 

Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict:  but  ye  pass. 

And  only  ftUl  on  things  that  still  would  live; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 

And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager 

C  Hunt  The  mists  begin  to  rise  firom  up  the  vallef ; 
I'll  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chanoe 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Manf.  The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers^  doads 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury. 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  hdl, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles.  —  I  am  giddy. 

CHunt,  I  must  approach  him  cautiously;  if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 
J    Manf,  Mouptains  have  fallen, 
^Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren ;  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splinters, 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel  —  thus. 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenberg  — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it? 

CHutU,  Friend!  have  a  care. 
Your  next  step  may  be  fatal !  —  for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink! 

Moj^,  (Not  hearing  him.)  Such  would  huve  been  for  ne  t 
.   fitting  tomb. 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
^^or  the  wind's  pastime  —  as  thus  —thus  fhey  shall  be — 
Vf  In  this  one  plunge.  —  Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens  I 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully  — 
Ye  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth !  take  these  atoms! 

(Ai  Mamibbd  it  ia  tot  to  ipriag  frooi  the  dUT.  ibe  CKaMoa 
HujiTB  Miiie  wM  rttalM  Urn  wich  a  middeB  gr«ips> 


i 


r  iL 


MANFRED. 


329 


C  Himt.  Hold,  madmao !  —  though  aweary  of  thy  life, 

lin  not  our  pare  Tales  with  thy  guilty  blood. 

ray  with  me  —  I  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Manf,  I  am  most  sick  at  heart  —  nay,  grasp  me  not  — 

m  all  feebleness  —  the  mountains  whirl 

i&ning  around  me  —  I  grow  blind.  —  What  art  thoa? 

C  Hkmi,  ril  answer  that  anoo.  ~  Away  with  me  — 

le  douds  grow  thicker  —  there  —  now  lean  on  me  — 

He  yoar  foot  here  —  here,  take  this  staff,  and  ding 


A  moment  to  that  shrub  ,-^  now  give  me  your  hand. 

And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle  —  softly  —  well  — 

The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour  — 

Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  footiil^. 

And  something  like  a  patliway,  which  the  torrent 

Hath  wash'd  since  winter.  —  Come,  'tis  braTely  done  — 

You  should  haye  been  a  hunter.  —  Follow  me. 

Ut  tbey  dcfccBd  the  ro«ks  tvith  diflcnlty,  Uic  sceiic  dosetO 


A  c  T     n. 


/' 


SCENE  L 

A    CotUte    amongst    the   Bernese   AIpi. 
Mampbbo  and  ibe  Chamois  Hi/mthii. 

C.  Ar»t.  No,  no  —  yet  pause  —  thoa  must  not  yet  go 

ly  mind  and  body  arc  alike  unfit  [forth : 

> trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least; 

lien  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide  — 

It  whither? 

Mm{f.  It  imports  not:  I  do  know 

y  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance. 

CHunt.  Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high  li 

le  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags      [neage  — 

K>k  o'er  the  lower  valleys  —  which  of  these 

ay  call  thee  Lord?  I  only  know  their  portals ; 

y  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 

>  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls,^ 

itODsing  with  the  vassals ;  but  the  paths, 

liich  step  from  out  our  mountains  io  their  doors, 

aM>w  from  childhood  —  which  of  these  is  thine? 

Mgnf.  No  matter. 

C  BunL  Well,  Sir,  pardon  me  the  question. 

Ml  be  of  better  cheer.  Come,  taste  my  wine; 

Ifofanancioit  vintage;  many  a  day 

'bis  tbaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 

It  it  do  thus  for  thine  —  Come,  pledge  me  fairly. 

ibnf.  Away,  away !  there's  blood  upon  the  brim! 

fin  it  then  never  —  never  sink  in  the  earth  ?  [from  thee. 

CHunt^  What  dost  thou  mean?  thy  senses  wander 

Moif.  I  say  'tis  blood-my  blood !  the  pure  warm  stream 

fbich  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 

then  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart, 

gloved  eaob  other  as  we  should  not  love. 

Ml  this  was  shed :  but  still  it  rises  up, 

iboring  the  cloods,  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven, 

Here  thoa  art  not  —  and  I  shall  never  be.  [dcning  sin, 

C  Ant  Man  of  strange  words>  and  some  half-mad- 

Ibicfa  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  wliate'er 

If  dread  and  sofferance  be,  there's  comfort  yet  — 

k  aid  of  holy  men,  and  hcayenly  patience  —      [made 

^  Patience,  and  patience!  Hence— that  word  was 
^.es  of  burthen,  not  for  birds  of  prey ; 


Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dost  like  thine,  — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

CHunL  Thanks  to  Heaven! 
I  woald  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  iame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill. 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 

Jl^Ianf,  Do  I  not  bear  it?  —  Look  on  me  —  I  live. 

C  Hunt.  This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 

Manf,  I  tell  thee,  man!  I  have  lived  many  years. 
Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  those  which  I  must  number:  ages  —  ages —  , 
Space  and  eternity  —  and  consciousness, 
With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death  —  and  still  unslaked ! 

C  Hunt.  Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set;  I  am  thine  elder  far. 

Maiif,  Thinkst  thou  existence  doth  depend  on  time  ? 
It  doth :  but  actions  are  our  epochs:  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable. 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms;  and  one  desert. 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves-bBcak, 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcsasscs  and  wrecks. 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

C,  Hunt,  Alas !  he's  mad— but  yet  J  must  not  leave  him. 

Manf,  I  would  I  were  —  for  then  tHp  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distemper 'd  dream.      \^ 

a  Hunt.  What  is  it 
That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  lookst  upon  ? 

ilfan^.  Myself  and  thee  •—  a  peasant  of  the  Alps  -^ 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home, 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep ;  thy  toils, 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf, 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph : 
This  do  I  see  —  and  then  I  look  within  — r 
It  matters  not  —  my  soul  was  scordi'd  already  1    [mine? 

C  Hunt  And  wouldst  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot  for 

Man/.  No,  friend !  I  would  not  wrong  thee,  nor  ex* 
My  lot  with  living  being:  Icaifbear —  [change 

21* 


330 


MANFRED. 


Acrl 


1 


Howerer  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear  — * 

III  life  what  others  coald  not  brook  to  dream, 

But  perish  in  their  slamber. 

C.  Hunt  Aofi  with  this  — 
This  cautions  feeling  for  another's  pain, 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil?  —  say  not  so, 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd  revenge 
Upon  bis  enemies? 

Manf,  Ob!  no,  no,  no  I 
ICy  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved :  I  never  quell'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence  — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal. 

CHuni.  Heaven  give  thee  rest! 
And  penitence  to  restore  thee  to  thyself; 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Marif,  I  need  them  not, 
But  can  ^dure  thy  pity.   I  depart  — 
'Tis  time— farewell!— Here's  gold,  and  thanks  for  thee 
No  words  —  it  is  thy  due.  —  Follow  me  not  — 
I  know  my  path  —  the  mountain-peril 's  past:  — 
And  once  again,  I  charge  thee,  follow  not !      CExtt  Manned 

SCBNE  IL 

A  lower  Tallcy  in  the  Alps.  —  A  Cataract. 
Enter  Manfbbd. 

It  is  not  noon  —  the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  tlie  many  hues  of  heaven. 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
Cer  the  crag'sliieadlong  perpendicular. 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  a]on& 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant-steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.   No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude. 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters.  —  I  will  call  her. 

(MattrRaD  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm  of  his 
handy  and  flings  it  in  the  air,  mattering  the  a^ja- 
ration.  After  a  pause,  theWiTCB  ov  m  Alps  rises 
beneath  the  arch  of  the  snubeam  of  the  torrent) 

Man/.  Beautiful  Spirit!  with  thy  hair  of  light, 
And  dacsling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 
The  charms  of  earth's  least-mortal  daughters  grow 
To  an  unearthly  statnre,in  an  essence 
Of  purer  element^;  while  the  hues  of  youth  — 
Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 
Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart. 
Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 
Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow. 
The  blush  of  earth  embraciog  with  her  heaven,  — 
Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 
The  b^uties  of  the  sunbow  whicli  bends  o'er  thee. 
Beautiful  Spirit!  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 
Wlierein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 
Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 
I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  son 
Of  earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 
At  times  to  commune  wiA  them  —  if  that  he 


J 


Avail  him  of  his  spells  —  to  call  thee  thus. 
And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  earth  I 
I  know  thee  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power; 
I  know  thee,  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts. 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both,  ^ 

Fatal  and  fhted  In  thy  sufferings. 
I  have  expected  this  —  what  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

Jfott/:  To  look  upon  thy  beauty  —  nothing  farther. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  ofthose  who  govern  her  - 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.  I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

Witch,  What  could  be  the  quest 
Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible  ? 

Manf,  A  boon; 
But  why  should  I  repeat  it?  'twere  in  vain. 

Witch.  I  know  not  that;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

Manf.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  'tis  but  the  same; 
^^My  pang  shall  find  a  voioenProm  my  youth  upwards 
I  Imv  spirit  walk'-d  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
*Kor  looic'd  upon  the  esifth  with  humaneyes; 
The  thirst  of  their  a^ibition  was  not  mine. 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine; 
^T  Plh  MiT  ffyi^rf"'  ^y  passions  and  my  powers, 
lade  me  a  stranger;  thougli  I  wore  tlie  form, 
faSdnosympatl^  with  breathing  flesh,  >^ 
Kor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one  who but  of  her  aaon. 

I  said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Ll  held  but  slight  communion;  but  instead, 
y^  i  LMy  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 
JThe  difficult  air  of  the  ioed  mountain's  top, 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build^nor  insect's  wing 
Flit  o'er  the  herbiess  granite;  ^  to  plunge 
Into' the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 
Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 
In  these  my  early  strength  exulted;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon. 
The  stars  and  their  development;  or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim ;  i 

Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  scattered  leaves. 
While  autumn-winds  were  at  their  evening-song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone; 
For  if  tlie  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one,  — 
Hating  to  be  so,  ~  cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  my s^  degraded  back  to  them. 
And  was  all  day  again.  And  then  I  dived. 
In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death,  ., 

Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect ;  and  drew 
From  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap*d-up  dusl«.4 
Conclusions  most  forbiddea.  ThcnIpass'd 
The  nights  of  years  in  scienoes  nnlaught, 
Save  in  the  old  time;  and  with  time  and  toil,  J 

And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance  j 

As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air,  .^ 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth» 


MANFRED. 


331 


^ce,  and  tho  peopled  infinite,  I  made 

pbe  ejea  familiar  witlPeternitjr, 

hKh  as,  before  me,  did  the  Ma^,  and 

fe  who  from  out  their  foantain-dweliings  raised 

bros  and  Antcros,  at  Gadara, 

;a  I  do  thee;  —  and  with  my  knowledge  iprew 

lie  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

tf  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

Witch.  Proceed. 

Manf,  Oh!  I  bat  thus  prolonged  my  words, 
toasting^  these  idle  attributes,  because 
iB  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief — 
lot  to  my  task.  I  have  not  named  to  thee 
father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
l^ith  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties; 
f  I  had  such,  they  seem*d  not  such  to  me  -^ 
fet  thefe  was  one 

WiteA,  Sparc  not  thyself  —  proceed. 

MmHf,  She  was  like  me  in  lineaments  —  her  eyes, 
ler  hair,  her  features,  ail,  to  tho  very  tone 
Bven  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine; 
Bat  soflen'd  all,  and  temper *d  iiito  beauty; 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings^ 
rhe  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
ro  comprehend  the  Universe:  nor  these 
Hone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine. 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears  —  which  I  had  not; 
bid  tenderness  —  but  that  I  had  for  her, 
Snmility  — and  that  I  never  had. 
ler  fianlts  were  mine  —  her  virtues  were  her  own -j/^ 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy  'd  her  I  ^         / 

Witek,  With  thy  hand  ?  [heart  / 

Bttmf.  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — which  broke  her 
It  gassed  on  mine,  and  wither'd.  I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers  —  and  yet  her  blood  was  shed  *- 
[  saw  —  and  could  not  staunch  it. 

Wiiek.  And  for  this  — 
k  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
Hie  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
IGngling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
fhe  giAs  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrinkst  back 
To  recreant  mortality  —  Aivay ! 

SUttf.  Daughter  of  Air  I  1  tell  thcc,  since  that  hour  — 
But  words  are  breath  —  look  on  mc  in  my  sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watcliings  —  Come  and  sit  by  me  I 
Ky  solitude  is  solitude  no  more. 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies;  -- 1  have  gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn. 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset;  —  I  have  prayd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing  —  'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  death  —  but  in  the  war 
Of  dements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me. 
And  fiital  things  pass'd  harmless  —  the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 
Bade  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break, 
la  phantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  alBuence  of  my  soul  —  which  one  day  was 
A  Croesus  in  creation  —  I  plunged  deep, 
Bat,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
hto  the  golf  of  my  unfathom'd  ttiought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind  ^  Forgctfulness 


I  sought  in  aU,  save  where  'tis  to  be  found, 
And  that  I  have  to  learn  —  my  sciences, 
My  long  pursued  and  super-liuman  art, 
Is  mortal  here  —  I  dwell  in  my  despair  — 
And  live  —  and  live  for  ever. 

Witch,  It  may  be 
That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Mar^,  To  do  this  thy  power 
Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so  —  in  any  shape  —  in  any  hour  — 
With  any  torture  —  so  it  be  the  last 

Witch,  That  Is  not  in  my  province ;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes.  / 

Manf,  1  will  not  swear.— Obey !  and  whom?  the  spirits  •/ 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave         y 
Of  those  who  served  me  —  Never ! 

Witch,  Is  this  all? 
Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer?  —  Yet  bethink  thee. 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

Man/,  I  have  said  it 

Witch,  Enough !  —  I  may  retire  then  —  say ! 

Man/,  Retire!  [The  witch  disoppears. 

Man/  (alone.)  We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror:  days 
Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke  — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart. 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  feintness  — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few  —  how  less  than  few  —  wherein  the  soul' 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.  I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science  —  I  can  call  the  dead,  > 

And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be: 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  notliing  —  if  they  answer  not  — 
The  buried  Prophet  answered  to  the  Hag 
OfEndor;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny  —  he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknoiving  what  he  slew, 
And  died  unpardoned  —  though  he  caird  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath. 
Or  Ax  her  term  of  vengeance  —  she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfiU'd. 
If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living;  had  I  never  loved. 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful  — 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.  What  is  she  ? 
What  is  she  now?  —  a  sufferer  for  my  sins  — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon  —  or  nothing. 
Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain  — 
Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare: 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil  —  now  I  tremble, 


332 


MANFRED. 


Acri 


And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 

Bat  I  can  act  even  what  1  most  abhor. 

And  clmmpion  haman  fears.  —  The  night  approaches. 

CKxit 

SCENE   III. 

The  Sammlt  of  the  Jangflta-MonnCaia. 

Enter  Fibst  Dbstmy. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright; 

And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 

Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread, 

And  leave  no  traces ;  o'er  the  savage  sea. 

The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain-ice. 

We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  ^ut  on 

The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam, 

Frozen  in  a  moment  —  a  dead  whirlpool's  image; 

And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle. 

The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake  — -  where  the  clouds 

Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by  — 

Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils; 

Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters  on  our  way 

To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 

Is  our  great  festival  —  'tis  strange  they  come  not. 

A  voice  witboat,  slngiDg. 

The  captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne. 
Lay  buried  in  torpor. 

Forgotten  and  lone; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shiver'd  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers  — 

He*8  Tyrant  again  I 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer  my  care, 
With  a  nation's  destruction  —  his  flight  and  despair. 

Second  Yolee,  wltboat 

The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast, 

But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast; 

There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck, 

And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck; 

Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair. 

And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care; 

A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea  — 

But  1  saved  him  to  wreak  furtlier  havoc  for  mc ! 

Fibst  DBrninr,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it. 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping: 

Sullenly,  slowly, 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it  — 

Thousands  lie  lowly; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish  — 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  should  cherish ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelope  a  nation  — 


The  blest  are  the  dead, 

Who  see  not  the  sight         • 
Of  their  own  desolation.  — 

This  work  of  a  night. 
This  wreck  of  a  realm  —  this  deed  of  my  doing  — 
For  ages  I've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing! 

Botcr  tlie  Seeood  and  TUrd  Dibtihvb. 
The  Three 

Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men. 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves! 
First  DetL  Welcome!  —  Where's  Nemesis? 
Second  De$L  At  some  great  work; 
But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 
Third  Dett,  Behold  she  oometh. 

Enter  Nkmbus. 

First  Best,  Say,  where  hast  thou  been? 
My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Nem,  I  was  detain'd  repairing  scatter'd  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties. 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies. 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness;  from  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date. 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves. 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit  —  Away! 
We  have  outstaid  the  hour  —  mount  wc  our  ckmds! 


SCENE   IV. 


The  Hall  of  Arimanes.  —  Arhnanes  on  his  Throne,  a  Globe  of  Rrc. 
sarronndcd  by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 

Hail  to  our  Master!  —  Prince  of  Earth  and  Air!  — 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters  —  in  his  liand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command ! 
He  brcatheth  —  and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea; 

He  speaketh  —  and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder; 
He  gazeth  —  from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee; 

He  moveth  —  earthquakes  rend  the  world  asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise; 

His  shadow  is  the  pestilence;  his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies; 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  war  offers  daily  sacrifice ; 

To  him  death  pays  his  tribute;  life  is  liis, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies  — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is! 

Enter  the  DcrnniBs  and  Kbmisis. 

First  Best,  Glory  to  Arimanes!  on  the  earth' 
His  power  increascth  —  both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty ! 

Sec,  Best.  Glory  to  Arimanes!  we  who  bow 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his  throne ! 


km  II 


HANFRBD. 


333 


/ 


mrd  Dtit,  Glory  to  Arimanes!  —  we  await  his  nod ! 

Am.  SoTcrdgn  of  sovereigns!  wearetliine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  oars, 
And  most  things  wholly  so;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  oar  care. 
And  we  are  vigilant  —  Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  folfiird  to  the  utmost 

Enter  ICamvbid. 

A  SjinriL  What  is  here? 
A  mortal !  —  Thoo  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship! 

SfeoMd  i^nrU.  I  do  know  the  man — 
A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill! 

Tkird  SjnriU  Bow  down  and  worship,  sfaye!— What, 
knowst  thoa  not 
Thine  and  oar  sovereign  ?  —  Tremble,  and  obey !    [clay, 

AU  the  SpiriU,  Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  condemned 
ChDd  of  the  Earth !  or  dread  the  worst 
^Manf,  I  know  it; 
And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not 

Fourth  Spirit  'Twill  be  taught  thee.  [earth , 

Mmif,  Tis  taught  already;  —  many  a  night  on  the 
Ob  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 
And  8trew*d  my  head  with  ashes;  I  have  known 
Tbefiilaess  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sank  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  ray  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit,  Dost  thou  dare 
Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  glory  —  Crouch !  I  say. 

MtMf.  Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  hima 
The  overruling  Infinite  —  the  Maker  1 

Who  made  him  not  for  worship  —  let  him  kneel,  ' 

And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirit*,  Crash  the  worm! 
Tear  him  in  pieces ! 

FirttDett  Hence!  Avaunt!  he's  mine. 
Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible !  this  man 
b  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote:  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Oor  own ;  his  knowledge  and  his  powers  and  will. 
As  for  as  is  compatible  with  clay. 
Which  clogs  the  etherial  essence,  have  bieen  sacb 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne;  bis  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth. 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know  — 
That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science        / 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that  ^ 

Whiekxi  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all  —  the  passions,  attri bates 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  being, 
Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is  exempt, 
Have  pierced  his  heart ;  and  in  their  consequence 
Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not, 
Tet  pardon  those  who  pity.  He  is  mine. 
And  thine,  it  may  be  —  be  it  so,  Or  not. 
No  other  Spirit  in  this^region  hath 
A  tool  like  bis  ^  or  poser  upon  his  souL 


rpo^u 


Nem.  What  doth  he  here  then? 

First  Dest,  Let  him  answer  that  [power 

3ianf,  Ye  know  what  I  have  known;   and  without 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond  —  I  come  in  quest 
Of  such  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

Nem.  What  wouldst  thou? 

Mm^,  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 
Call  up  the  dead  —  my  question  is  for  them. 

Nem,  Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal? 

Arim,  Tea. 

Nem,  Whom  wouldst  thou 
Uncharnel? 

Man/,  One  without  a  tomb  —  call  up 
Astarte^ 

Nemeeit. 
Shadow^or  Spirit! 

Whatever  thou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  returned  to  the  earth  — 

Re -appear  to  the  day ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form. 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear!  -<  Appear!  —  Appear! 
Wbo  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here ! 

(The  Pbuitom  of  Aitabtb  riaet  and  vtands  in  the  midaC.) 

Maiu  Can  this  be  death  ?  there's  bfoom  upon  her  check  ? 
But  now  1  sec  it  is  no  living  hue. 
But  a  strange  hectic  —  like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  pcrisli'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same!  Oh,  God!  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same  —  Astarte!  —  No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her  —  but  bid  her  speak.— 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis. 
By  the  power  which  hath  broken 

The  grave  which  inthrall'd  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 
Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee ! 
JIfanf,  She  is  silent. 
And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answer'd. 

Nem,  My  power  extends  no  further.  Prince  of  Air! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone  —  command  her  voice. 
Arim,  Spirit —  obey  this  sceptre! 
JVifm.  Silent  still! 
She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  Powers.  Mortal!  thy  quest  is  vain. 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man/-  Hear  me,  hear  me  ~ 
jlstarte !  my  beloved !  speak  to  me : 
I  have  so  much  endured  ^~  so  much  endure  — 
Look  on  me!  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.  Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  1  loved  thee :  we  were  not  mads 


3,34 


MANFRED. 


ACT  m 


y 


To  torture  thus  each  other,  thongh  it  were 

The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  hare  loved. 

Say  that  thou  loathest  me  not  —  that  I  do  bear 

This  punishment  for  both  —  that  thou  wilt  be 

One  of  the  bless 'd  —  and  that  I  shall  die; 

For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 

To  bind  me  in  existence  —  in  a  life 

Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality  — 

A  future  like  the  past  I  cannot  rest  y 

I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek :       \/ 

1  feel  but  what  thou  art  —  and  what  I  am; 

And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 

The  voice  which  was  my  music  ~  Speak  to  mel 

For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 

Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 

And  woke  the  mountain-wolves,  and  made  the  caves 

Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 

Which  answer'd  me  —  many  tilings  u|iwcr'd  mc  — 

Spirits  and  men  —  but  thou  wert  silent  all. 

Yet  speak  to  me!  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars 

And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 

Speak  to  me!  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth 

And  never  found  thy  likeness  —  Speak  to  me! 

Look  on  the  fiends  around  —  they  feel  for  me : 

I  fear  them  not,  and  feci  for  thee  alone  — 

Speak  to  me!  though  it  be  in  wrath ;  —  but  say  — 

I  reck  not  what  •—  but  let  me  hear  thee  once  - 

This  once  —  once  more! 


Ph€miomofA$tart0,  Manfredl 

Manf,  Say  on,  say  on  — 
I  live  but  in  the  sound  —  it  \s  thy  voice ! 
,  Phant,  Manfred!  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly  tik 
Faraivell! 
l/ymanf.  Yet  one  word  more  —  am  I  forgiven? 

Phant,  Farewell! 

Manf.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

Phant  Farewell! 

Manf.  One  word  for  mercy !  Say,  thou  loveAt  me. 

PhanL  Manfred!  [The  Spirit  or  Astute  diMpfjCM. 

Nem,  She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd; 
Her  words  will  be  fnlfill'd.  Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit,  He  is  convulsed.  —  This  is  to  be  a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality.  [makes 

Another  Spirit,  Yet,  sec,  he  mastereth  himself  and 
;  His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 
Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers! 

Manf.  None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  (arewelL 

Manf.  We  meet  then!  Where?  On  the  earth?  — 
Even  as  thou  wilt;  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.  Fare  ye  well !  LExit  umni. 

(Scene  closes.) 


ACT     in. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Cude  oT  Manfred. 

M^NFBBD  and  Hkuiam. 

Manf  What  is  the  hour? 

Herm.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset, 
And  promises  a  lovely  twilight 

Manf  Say, 
Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed? 

Hemu  All,  my  lord,  are  ready; 
Here  is  the  key  and  casket 

Manf  It  is  well: 
Thou  mayst  retire.  CExU  Herman. 

Matif.  (alone.)  There  Is  a  calm  upon  me  — 
Inexplicable  stillness  1  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "Kalon,"  found, 
And  seated  in  my  souL  It  will  not  last. 


But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  setae. 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.  Who  is  there  ? 

Re-enter  Herman. 

£brm.  My  lord,  the  Abbot  of  St  Maurice  cra^-ei 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  ov  St.  Mauricb. 

AbboL  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred! 

Manf  Thanks,  holy  father!  welcome  to  these  waUs; 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blcssetli  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot,  Would  it  were  so,  Count!  — 
But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Maif  Herman,  retire.  What  would  my  reverend  guest? 

Abbot.  Thus, 'Without  prelude:  — Age  and  zeal,  m> 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege;  [office, 

Our  near,  tliough  not  acquainted,  neighbourhood 
May  also  be  my  herald.  Rumours  strange^ 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  name;  a  noble  name 


ACT  m. 


MANFRED. 


335 


y 


For  centaries;  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  aniropair'd ! 

Mtoif,  Proceed,  —  I  listen. 

A\^t.  'Tia  said  thba  boldest  conrerse  with  the  thing^s 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  tho  dark  abodes. 
The  many  efil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  Yalley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  commnnest  I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fdlows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Szehangc  thy  thonghts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
b  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

Murf^  And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these  things  ? 

AhhoL  My  pjoos  brethren —  the  scared  peasantry  — 
Even  thy  own  vassals  •—  who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.  Thy  life's  in  peril. 

Mmnf.  Take  it. 

Abbot  I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy  — 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to  Heaven. 

Ma^,  I  bear  thee.  This  is  my  reply :  whatc'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself.  —  I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal  / 
To  be  my  mediator.  Havelsinn'd  \J 

Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish !    , 

Abbot  My  son!  I  did  not  speak  of  punishment, 
But  penitence  and  pardon ;  -7  with  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains  —  and  for  the  last, 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  tlie  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts ;  the  first 
I  leave  to  Heaven  —  ^'Vengeance  is  mine  alone !"  ^ 
So  saith  the  Liord,  and  with  all  humbleness  "> 

His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 

Man/,  Old  man !  there  is  no  power  in  holy  men. 
Nor  charm  in  prayer  —  nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence  —  nor  outward  look  —  nor  fast — 
Nor  agony  —  nor,  greater  than  all  these, 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair. 
Which  Is  remorse  without  the  fiear  of  hell. 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven  —  can  jexordse 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit  the  quick  sense 
Of  its  owfi-ains,  wrong,  sufferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd  > 

He  deals  on  his  own  souL 

Akboi.  AH  this  is  well; 
For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place. 
Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned : 
And  the  commencement  of  atonement  Is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity*  —  Say  on  — 
And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught; 
And  all  we  can  absolve  thee,  shall  be  pardon'd. 

JlUnf,  When  Rome's  sixth  Emperor  was  near  his  tast, 
The  victim  of  a  self-inHtoted  wound, 


To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates,  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier. 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  staunch  *d 
The  gfushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe; 
The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back  and  said  — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance, 
<«It  is  too  late  --  is  this  fidelity  T 

Abbot  And  what  of  this? 

Mta^,  1  answer  with  the  Roman  — 
"It  is  too  late!" 

Abbot  It  never  can  be  so. 
To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul. 
And  thy  own  soul  with  Heaven.  Hast  thou  no  hope? 
'Tis  strange  —  even  those  who  do  despair  above, 
Yet  shape  themselves  some  phantasy  on  earth, 
To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

Mm^f,  Ay  —  fhtiier  I  I  have  had  those  earthly  visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth. 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 
The  enlightener  of  nations;  and  to  rise 
1  knew  not  whither  —  it  might  be  to  fall; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 
Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height. 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss 
(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies) 
Lies  low  but  mighty  still.  —  But  this  is  past, 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbot  And  wherefore  so? 

Manf,  I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down ;  for  he 
Mustserve  who  fain  would  sway— and  soothe^and  sue— 
And  watch  all  time  —  and  pry  into  all  place  — 
And  be  a  living  lie  —  who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  amongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are;  I  disdain'd  to  mingle  with 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader  —  and  of  wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  L 

Abbot  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men? 

Mm^.  Because  my  natur/s^was  averse  froni.Iifc; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make^ 
But  find  a  desolation :  —  like  the  wind. 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o*er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast. 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves. 
And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought, 
But  being  met  is  deadly;  such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot  Alas! 
I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid 
From  me  and  firom  my  calling;  yet  so  young, 
I  still  would  — 

Man/.  Look  on  me!  there  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth  and  die  ere  middle  age. 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure  —  some  of  study  — 
Some  worn  with  toil  —  some  of  mere  weariness  •— 
Some  of  disease  —  and  some  insanity  — 
And  some  of  withcr'd,  or  of  broken  hearts ;  ^ 


336 


MANFRED. 


ACT  in. 


For  this  lut  is  a  malady  which  akys 
More  than  are  Dumber'd  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearingp  many  names. 
Look  upon  me!  for  even  of  all  these  thini^s 
Have  I  partaken;  and  of  all  these  things. 
One  were  enough ;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  I  ever  was, 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

Abbot  Yet,  bear  me  still  «- 

Man/.  Old  man !  I  do  respect 
Thine  order,  and  revere  thine  years ;  1  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain : 
Think  me  not  churlish ;  I  would  spare  thyself, 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy  —  and  so  —  farewell.      CKxU  Manfred. 

Abbot  This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature:  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 
A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 
Hadthey  been  wisely  mingled;  as  it  is. 
It  is  an  awful  chaos  —  light  and  darkness  -— 
And  mind  and  dust  —  and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 
Mix'd  and  contending  without  end  or  order. 
All  dormant  or  destructive :  he  will  perish, 
And  yet  he  must  not;  I  will  try  once  more, 
For  such  are  worth  redemption;  and  my  duty 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 
I'll  follow  him  *•  bat  cautiously,  though  surely. 

CExU  Abl>ot 
SCENE  IL 

Another  chtmber. 

BlfiNPRiD  and  HvufAN. 

Herman,  My  Lord,you  bade  me  wait  on  yoa  at  sunset; 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountaio. 

ilfaTi/'.  Doth  heso? 
I  will  look  on  him.       [Manfred  adTuew  to  the  window  of  tfae  ball 
Glorious  Orb!  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant-sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return  — 
Most  glorious  Orbl  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd ! 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain-tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons !  Thou  material  God ! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown  — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  lihadow  I  Thou  chief  star ! 
Centre  of  many  stars!  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays ! 
Sire  of  the  seasons !  Monarch  of  the  climes. 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them !  for  near  or  for. 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee. 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects ;  *-  thou  dost  rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.  Fare  thee  well! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.  As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 


My  latest  look:  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  liave  been 
Of  a  more  &tal  nature.  He  is  gone : 

I  follow.  CBxIt  Uaafrvd 

SCENE   III. 

The  Mountains  —  The  Cattle  or  Manfred  at  some  distance  —  A  Terract 
before  a  Tower.  —  Time,  Twllff(ht 

Hbbkaji,  MaiiuxL,  and  other  Dependants  of  ManranD. 

Hertn,  'Tis  strange  enough;  night  after  night,  for  yean^ 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 
Without  a  witness.   I  have  been  within  it,  — 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-times;  but  from  it. 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.  To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter ;  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  yean, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel  'T were  dangerous; 
Content  thyself  with  what  thou  knowst  already. 

Herm,  Ah !  Manuel !  thou  art  elderly  and  wise. 
And  conldstsay  much ;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  tbecastie— 
How  many  years  is't? 

ManueL  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 
I  served  his  fatlier,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 

Hemu  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

ManueL  I  speak  not 
Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits : 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud,  —  but  gay  and  free  — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  niglit 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day ;  he  did  ^ot  walk  the  rooks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside,' 
i  From  men  and  their  delights.  / 

Nerm.  Beshrew  the  hour,      ^ 
But  those  were  jocund  times!  I  would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again ;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  foigotten  them. 

Manuel,  These  walls 
Must  change  their  chieftain  first  Oh!  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

Herm,  Come,  be  friendly; 
Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch : 
I've  heard  thoe  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happened  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel,  That  was  a  niglit  indeed ;  I  do  remember 
'Twas  twilight  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening;  —  yonired  cloud,  whiob  rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then,  — 
So  like  that  it  might  bo  the  same;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain-snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower,  — 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  liim 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings  —  her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
Tliat  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love,  — 


iCT  ni. 


MANFR£a 


337 


A«  he,  indeed,  bj  blood  was  bonnd  ta  d(H 

The  lady  Astarte^  his  —  Hnshl  wlio  comes  here? 

Eater  the  Abbot. 

AhhoL  Where  is  yoar  master  ? 

Herm.  Yonder,  in  tlie  tower. 

Abbot,  I  most  speak  with  him. 

BianueL  'Tis  impossible. 
He  is  most  private,  and  most  not  be  thus 
Intraded  on. 

AMnjt.  Upon  myself!  take 
The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be  ^ 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Herm.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 
Tills  eve  already. 

AbboU  Herman!  I  command  thee, 
Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Herm,  We  dare  not 

Abbot,  Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 
Of  my  own  purpose. 

MamuL  Reverend  fieUher,  stop  — 
I  pray  yon  pause. 

Abbot  Why  so? 

MgmteL  But  step  this  way, 
And  I  will  tell  you  further.  CExennt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Interior  of  the  Tower. 
Mamprxd  alone. 

3tai^,  The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Ofthesnow-sbining mountains. —  Beautiful!    / 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night  *^ 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  fleuniliar  face 
Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
1  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
Wh^  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
!iCidst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin;  from  afar 
The  watchdog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Cassars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
B^un  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
6offie  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot  —  where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
\nd  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths,  — 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurcrs  place  of  growth;  — 
But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wrcvk  in  ruinous  perfection! 
While  Caesar's  chaipbers,  and  the  Augustan  balls, 
Orovcl  on  earth  in  Indistinct  decay.  -~ 
And  thoQ  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 


All  this,  and  oast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 

Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fiird  up. 

As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

Witti  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old!  — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns.  —  'Twas  such  a  night! 

'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time; 

But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 

Even  at  the  """ITil"^  ffhfllT  **^Y  fihftnld  *"-"y 

Themserycslnj>ensivcor 

Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abbot,  My  good  Lord! 
I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness  —  all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head  —  could  I  say  heart  — 
Could  1  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost 

Manf.  Thouknowstmenot; 
My  days  are  niimber'd,  and  my  deeds  recorded : 
Retire,  ot  'twill  be  dangerous  --  Away ! 

Abbot,  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me? 

MoHf.  Not  1; 
I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand. 
And  would  pre.scrve  thee. 

Abbot,  What  dost  thou  mean? 

Manf,  Look  there! 
What  dost  thou  see? 

Abbot,  Nothing. 

Man/,  Look  there,  I  say, 
And  steadfastly;  —  now  tell  mc  what  thou  seest?  [not  — 

Abbot,  That  which  should  shake  me,  ~  but  I  fear  it 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise 
Like  an  infernal  god  from  out  the  earth ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds;  he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me  —  but  I  do  fear  him  not  [but 

Manf,  Thou  hast  no  cause —  he  shall  not  harm  thee  — 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  say  to  thee  —  Retire ! 

Abbot,  And  I  reply  — 
>fcvcr  —  till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend  — 
What  doth  he  here? 

Manf,  Why  —  ay  —  what  doth  he  here? 
I  did  not  send  for  him,  —  he  is  unbidden. 

Abbot,  Alas!  lost  mortal!  what  with  guests  like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake. 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him? 
Ah!,  he  unveils  his  aspect;  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell  — 
Avaunt! 

Man/,  Pronounce  —  what  is  thy  musioa? 

Spirit  Come! 

22 


338 


MANFRED. 


ACT  m 


/f 


Abbot  What  art  thoa ,  nnknowo  befog?  answer  I  •- 
speak! 

Spirit,  gfae  genius  tiftUiR  mftrtfll.  —  Come!  'tis  time. 

Man/,  I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  sammoas  me.  Who  sent  thee  here? 

Spirit  Thooi'lt  know  aiioa  —  Come!  come! 

Manf.  I  have  commanded 
Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And  strivca  with  thy  masters.  Get  thee  hence! 

iSitirit  Mortal!  thine  hoar  is  come — Away!  I  say. 

Man/.  I  knew,  and  know  my  hoar  is  come,  bat  not 
To  render  up  my  soal  to  such  as  thee: 
Away !  Til  die  as  I  have  lived  —  alone. 

Spirit  Then  I  mast  summon  up  my  brethren.  —  Rise! 

[Other  Spirlti  rite  ap. 

Abbot  Avaunt!  ye  evil  ones!  —  Avaunt!  I  say,  —      • 
Ye  have  no  power  wliere  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  tlie  name  — 

Spirit  Old  man! 
We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain;  this  roan  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him  —  Away !  away ! 

Man/  I  do  defy  ye,  —  though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye  —  earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits;  what  ye  fake 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

S^tirit  Reluctant  mortal! 
Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal?  —  Can  it  be  tliat  thoo 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched! 

Man/  Thou  false  fiend,  tl^ou  liest ! 
My  life  is  in  its  last  hour  —  that  1  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
\nd  thy  surrounding  angels;  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science  —  penance  —  daring  — 
And  length  of  watching  —  strength  of  mind  —  and  skill 


[line:    y 


In  knowledge  of  oar  fathers  —  when  the  eartf. 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side. 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy:  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength  —  I  do  defy  —  deny  — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye!  -~ 

Spirit,  But  thy  many  crimes 
Have  made  thee  — 

Man/  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee? 
Must  crimes  be  panisb'd  bat  by  other  crimes. 
And  greater  criminals?  —  Back  to  thy  bell! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  kndw: 
What  I  have  done  is  done ;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine: 
|The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
tHcquital Jor  its  good  or  evil  tjj5mffhts  -^ 
Is  iisuus A  origin  of  ill  and  end  — 
And  its  own  place  and  time  —  its  innate  sensc^ 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  witliout; 
But  is  absorbed  in  safferanee  or  in  joy. 
Bom  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert 
T%ou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  oooldst  nottenptme; 
1  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey  — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter.  —  Back,  ye  baffled  fiends! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me  —  bat  not  yours ! 

LTbe  Demon*  dii^>pttf. 

Abbot  Alas!  how  pale  thou  art  —  thy  lips  are  white  — 
And  thy  breast  heaves  —  and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle.  —  Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven  — 
Pray  —  albeit  but  in  thought,  —  but  die  not  thus. 

Man/  'Tis  over  —  my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not; 
But  all  things  swim  around  roe,  and  the  eartli 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.  Fare  thee  weU  — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot  Cold  —  cold  —  even  to  the  heart  — 
But  yet  one  prayer  —  alas !  how  fiu-es  it  w  ith  tlicc  ?  — 

Manf.  Old  man!  'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

CMaaHred  expire. 

Abbot  He's  gone  —  his  soul  hath  ta*cn  its  cartiiless 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think  —  but  he  is  gone,      [flight  — 


339 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


Dox  inqsieti   tarbldns   Adrim. 


PREFACE. 


The  eonsplraef  of  the  Doge  Mariao  Faliero  is  one  of 
tbe  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the  most 
tiBgnlar  goTernmcnt,  city,  and  people  of  modem  history. 
It  oecurred  in  the  year  13&5.  Bvery  thing  about  Venice 
is,  or  was,  extraordinary  —  her  aspcet  is  like  a  dream, 
sad  her  history  is  like  a  romance.  The  story  of  this  Doge 
is  to  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles,  and  particularly  de- 
tailed in  the  **Lives  of  tbe  Doges/'  by  Karin  Sanuto, 
which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It  is  simply  and  clearly 
related,  and  is,  perhaps,  more  dramatic  in  itself  than  any 
scenes  which  can  be  founded  upon  the  subject 

Marino  Fallero  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  talents 
and  of  Gourege.  I  find  him  commander  in  chief  of  tbe 
land-forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  he  beat  the  King 
of  Hongmry  and  his  army  of  80,000  men,  killing 8000 men 
and  keeping  the  besieged  at  the  same  time  in  check,  an 
exploit  to  which  I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except 
that  ofCsBsar  at  Alesia  and  ofPrinoe  Eugene  at  Belgrade. 
He  was  afterwards  commander  of  tlie  fleet  in  the  same 
war.  He  took  Capo  dlstria.  He  was  ambassador  at 
Genoa  and  Rome,  at  which  last  he  recdvcd  the  news  of 
his  election  to  the  Dukedom ;  his  absence  being  a  proof 
that  he  soaght  is  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  was  apprized  of 
his  predecessor's  death  and  his  own  succession  at  the 
sanse  moment  But  be  appears  to  have  been  of  an  un- 
goTcmable  temper.  A  story  is  told  by  Sanuto,  of  his 
having,  many  years  before,  when  podesta  and  captain  at 
Treviso,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  bishop,  who  was  somewhat 
tardy  in  bringing  the  Host  For  this  honest  Sanuto 
'^saddles  him  with  a  judgment ,"  as  Thwackum  did 
Square;  but  he  does  not  teU  us  whether  he  was  punished 
or  rebuked  -by  the  Senate  for  this  outrage  at  the  time  of 
itsootnmissioo.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  after- 
wards at  peace  with  the  church,  for  we  find  him  ambas- 
sador at  Rome ,  and  invested  with  the  fief  of  Yal  di  Ma- 
rino, in  the  March  ofTreviso,  and  with  the  title  of  Count, 
by  Lorenzo,  Count-Bishop  ofCeneda.  For  these  facts 
my  »«tliorities  are,  Sanuto,  Vettor  Sandi,  Andrea  Na- 
vagero,  and  the  account  of  the  siege  of  Zara,  Arai  pub- 
fisli^  by  the  lodefiitlgaUe  Abate  Mordli,  in  his  '*Mo* 
•■BBeoti  VeneoanI  di  varia  letteratnra,"  printed  in  1706, 
wM  of  which  I  have  looked  over  In  the  original  language. 
The  modems,  Dara,  Sismondi,  andLaugier,  nearly  agree 
aritfc  the  anmeat  dironiclers.    Sismondi  attributes  tbe 


conspiracy  to  his  Jealauiy;  but  I  find  this  nowhere  as- 
serted by  the  national  historians.  Vettor  Sandi ,  indeed, 

says,  that  '*Altri  scrisscro  che dalla  gelosa  suspizion 

di  esso  Doge  siasi  fatto  (Michel  Stcno)  stacoar  con  vio- 
lensa,''etc  etc. ;  but  this  appears  to  have  been  by  no  means 
the  general  opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to  by  Sanuto  or  by 
Navagero;  and  Sandi  h imself  adds  a  moment  after,  that 
''per  altre  Yenesiane  memorie  traspiri,  che  non  il  solo 
desiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  oonginra,  ma  anrhe 
lainnata  abituale  ambizion  sua,  percui  anclava a  farsi 
principe  indi pendente."  The  first  motive  appears  to  have 
been  excited  by  the  gross  aflfront  of  the  words  written  by 
Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and  by  the  light  and 
inadequate  sentence  of  the  Forty  on  the  offender ,  who 
was  one  of  their  **ire  Capi."  The  attentions  of  Steno  him- 
self appear  to  have  been  directed  towards  one  of  her 
damsels,  and  not  to  the  '*Dogarcssa"  herself,  against 
whose  fame  not  tbe  slightest  insinuation  appears,  while 
she  is  praised  for  her  beauty,  and  remarked  for  beryl 
Neither  do  I  find  it  asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sani 
an  assertion)  that  the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealou: 
bis  wife;  but  rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for  his 
own  honour,  warranted  by  his  past  services  and  present 
dignity. 

I  know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  to  in 
English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  hla  View  of  Italy.  His 
account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests  about  old 
men  and  young  wives,  and  wondering  at  so  great  an 
effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute  and  severe  an 
observer  of  mankind  as  the  author  of  Zclnco  could  won- 
der at  this  is  inconceivable.  He  knew  that  a  basin  of 
water  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's  gown  deprived  the  Duke 
of  Malborough  of  his  command,  and  led  to  the  inglorious 
peace  of  Utrecht— that  Louis  XIY  was  plunged  into  the 
most  desolating  wars,  because  his  minister  was  nettled  at 
his  finding  &ult  with  a  window,  and  wished  to  give  him 
another  occupation  —  that  Helen  lost  Troy  —  that  Lu- 
cretia  expelled  thcTarquins  from  Rome—  and  that  Cava 
brought  the  Moors  to  Spain  —  that  an  insulted  husband 
led  the  Gauls  to  Clusium ,  and  thence  to  Rome  —  that  a 
single  verse  of  Frederic  II.  of  Prussia  on  the  Abbe  de 
Bernis,  and  a  jest  on  Madame  de  Pompadour,  led  to  the 
battle  of  Rosbach  ^  that  the  elopement  of  Dearbborgil 
with  Mac  Murchad  conducted  the  English  to  the  slavery 


while 


340 


PRBFACE  TO  MARINO  FALIBRO. 


of  Ireland  —  that  a  personal  pique  between  Maria  An- 
toinette and  the  Duke  of  Orleans  precipitated  the  first 
expulsion  of  the  Bourbons  —  and,  not  to  muitiplj  in- 
stances, tliat  Commodus,  Domitian,  and  Caligula  fell 
TictimSy  not  to  their  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  ren- 
geance  — andtliat  an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark 
from  the  ship  in  which  be  would  have  sailed  to  America, 
destroyed  both  King  and  Commonwealth.  After  these 
instances,  on  tlie  least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extraor- 
dinary in  Dr.  Moore  to  seem  surprised  that  a  man,  used 
to  command,  who  had  served  and  swayed  in  the  most  im- 
portant offices,  should  fiercely  resent,  in  a  fierce  age,  an 
unpunished  affront,  the  grossest  that  can  be  offered  to  a 
man,  be  he  prince  or  peasant  The  age  of  Faliero  is  little 
to  the  purpose,  unless  to  fkvour  it 

The  young  inan*a  wrath  is  like  itraw  on  Are, 
Bat  Uko  red  hot  tteel  i«  the  old  man**  ire. 

Yoong  men  soon  ^ive  and  looo  forget  affronts. 
Old  age  ia  alow  at  both. 

Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosopliical :  —  "Talc 
fit  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un'  uomo,  che  la  sua  nascit^,  la 
sua  ctk,  il  suo  carattere  dovcvano  tencr  lontano  dalle 
passioni  produttrici  di  grand!  delitti.  I  suoi  talenix  per 
lungo  tempo  esercitati  ne'  maggiori  impicghi,  la  sua 
capacitii  sperimcntata  ne'  governi  e  nelle  ambasciate,  gli 
avevano  acquistato  la  stima  e  la  fiducia  de'  cittadini,  cd 
avevano  unit!  i  suffragj  per  collocarlo  alia  testa  dclla 
republica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grado  che  terminava  glorio- 
samenta  la  sua  Tita,  il  risentimento  di  un'  ingiuria  leg- 
giera  insinud  nel  ano  cuore  tal  veleno  che  bastd  a  cor- 
rompere  le  antiche  sue  qualita,  e  a  condurlo  al  termine 
dei  soellerati;  serio  esempio,  che  prova  non  ettervietit^ 
in  cui  la  prudeiua  um^na  na  Heura,  e  che  neW  uomo 
restano  sempre  poitiom  capaei  a  disonorarlo,  quando  non 
invigtlitopra  te  ttesso,**  Laugier,  Italian  translation,  vol. 
iv.  p.  30. 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  begged 
his  life?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers, and  find  nothing 
of  the  kind;  it  is  true  that  he  avowed  all.  He  was  con- 
ducted to  the  place  of  torture,  but  there  is  no  mention 
made  of  any  application  for  mercy  on  his  part;  and  the 
very  circumstance  of  their  having  taken  him  to  the  rack 
seems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  having  shown  a  want 
of  firmness,  which  would  doubtless  have  been  also  men- 
tioned by  those  minute  historians  who  by  iio  means  fa- 
vour bim :  such,  indeed,  would  be  contrary  to  his  cha- 
racter as  a  soldier,  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  at 
which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the  truth  of  history.  I  know  no 
justification  at  any  distance  of  time  for  calumniating  an 
historical  character;  surely  truth  belongs  to  the  dead 
and  to  the  unfortunate,  and  they  who  hare  died  upon  a 
scaffold  have  generally  had  faults  enough  of  their  own, 
without  attributing  to  them  that  which  the  very  incurring 
of  the  perils  which  conducted  them  to  their  violent  death 
renders,  of  all  others,  the  most  improbable.  The  black 
veil  which  is  painted  over  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero 
amongst  the  doges,  and  the  Giant's  Staircase,  where  be 
was  crowned,  and  discrowned,  and  decapitated,  struck 
forcibly  upon  my  imagination,  as  did  his  fiery  character 


and  strange  story.  I  went  in  1819,  in  search  of  histonb, 
more  than  once,  to  the  church  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo; 
and  as  I  was  standing  before  the  monument  of  another 
family,  a  priest  came  up  to  me  and  said,  "I  can  show  yoo 
finer  monuments  than  that''  1  told  him  that  I  was  in 
search  of  that  of  the  Faliero  family,  and  particularly  of 
the  Doge  Marino's.  ''Oh,"  said  he,  "I  will  show  it  yoo;" 
and  conducting  me  to  the  outside,  pointed  out  a  Sarco- 
phagus in  the  wall,  with  an  illegible  inscription.  He  ssid 
that  it  had  been  in  a  convent  adjoining,  but  was  removed 
after  thcFrench  came,  and  placed  in  its  present  situation; 
that  he  had  seen  the  tomb  opened  at  its  removal;  there 
were  still  some  bones  remaining,  but  no  positive  vcsti|;e 
of  the  decapitation.  The  equestrian  statue  of  which  1 
have  made  mention  in  the  third  act  as  before  that  church, 
is  not,  however,  of  a  Faliero,  but  of  some  other  now 
obsolete  warrior,  although  of  a  later  date.  There  were 
two  other  Doges  of  this  family  prior  to  Marino :  Ordelafo, 
who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara,  in  1117,  (where  his  descendant 
afterwards  conquered  the  Huns)  and  Vital  Faliero,  who 
reigned  in  1082.  The  family,  originally  from  Fano,  was 
of  the  most  illustrious  in  blood  and  wealth  in  the  city  of 
once  the  most  wealthy  and  still  the  most  ancient  families 
in  Europe.  The  length  I  have  gone  into  on  this  subject 
will  show  the  interest  I  have  taken  in  it  Whether  I  have 
succeeded  or  not  in  the  tragedy,  I  have  at  least  trans- 
ferred into  our  language  an  historical  fact  worthy  of 
commemoration. 

It  is  now  four  years  that  I  have  meditated  this  work, 
and  bcfbre  I  had  sufficiently  examined  the  records,  I  was 
rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn  on  a  jealousy  is 
Faliero.  But  perceiving  no  foundation  for  this  ia  histo- 
rical truth,  and  aware  that  jealousy  is  an  exhausted 
passion  in  tlte  drama,  I  have  given  it  a  more  historical 
form.  I  was,  besides,  well  advised  by  the  late  Matthew 
Lewis  on  that  point,  in  talking  with  him  of  ray  inteDtion, 
at  Venice,  in  1817.  '*If  yoo  make  him  jealous,"  said  be, 
''recollect  that  yoo  have  to  contend  with  established 
writers,  to  say  nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and  an  exhausted 
subject;  —  stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge's  natural  chnrar- 
ter,  whidi  will  bear  you  out,  if  properly  drawn ;  and 
make  your  plot  as  regular  as  you  can."  Sir  WilKam 
Drummund  gave  me  nearly  the  same  counsel.  How  far 
I  have  followed  these  instructions,  or  whether  they  have 
availed  me,  is  not  for  me  to  decide.  I  have  bad  no  view 
to  the  stage;  in  its  present  state  il  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very 
exalted  oliject  of  ambition ;  besides,  I  have  been  too 
much  beliind  the  scenes  to  have  thought  it  so  at  any 
time.  And  I  cannot  conceive  any  man  of  irritable  fecfiair 
putting  himself  at  the  mercies  of  an  audience;  —  the 
sneering  reader,  and  the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review, 
are  scattered  and  distant  calamities;  but  the  tramplinie 
of  an  intelligent  or  of  an  ignorant  audience  on  a  pro- 
duction which,  be  it  good  or  bad,  has  been  a  mental  la- 
bour to  the  writer,  is  a  palpable  and  immediate  grievance* 
heightened  by  a  man's  doubt  of  their  competency  to 
judge,  and  his  certainty  of  his  own  impmdenoe  in  eleet» 
ing  them  his  judges.  Were  I  capable  of  writing  a  play 
which  could  be  deemed  stage-worthy,  success  wo 
give  me  no  pleasure,  and  failure  great  pain.  It » for  1 
reason  that,  even  during  the  time  Of  being  one  of  th» 


ACT  I. 


MARINO  PALTSRO. 


341 


eonunittee  of  one  of  the  theatres,  I  never  made  the 
attempt,  and  never  wiU.  *)  But  surely  there  is  dramatic 
power  sOmowbere,  —where  Joanna  Baillie,  andMllIman, 
and  John  Wilson  eadst  The  <^City  of  the  Pla^e"  and 

*)  While  I  ms  in  tfie  mb-commitlet  of  Drvy  Lane  Theatre,  I  can 
vomeh  for  my  coUcacaea,  and  1  hope  for  myself ,  that  we  did  oar  best  to 
hriag  back  the  legitimate  drama.  1  tried  what  I  could  to  get  *'De  Mont 
fortf*  rrrived  ,  bat  in  vain ,  and  eqaalJy  In  vain  !n  fevoar  of  Sotheby'i 
''Ivan,*'  vrhich  was  thought  an  acting  play ;  and  I  endeavoured  aluo  to 
wake  Mr.  Coleridge  to  write  a  tragedy.  Those  who  «re  tiot  in  the  fcceret 
wis  favdljr  heUeve  that  the  "School  for  Scandal"  is  the  play  which  has 
bro«gbt  iea»t  mooey,  averaging  the  number  of  timeft  it  ha«  been  acted 
siaoe  its  production  ;  so  Manager  Dibdln  assured  me.  Of  what  has  oc- 
carred  since  Maturin's  "Bertram,"  I  am  not  awaie;  so  that  I  may  be  tra- 
daeinc  throagh  !|;norance,  some  excellent  new  writers,  if  so,  I  Iwg  their 
pardon.  I  bare  been  abaent  from  England  nearly  Sto  years,  and.  till  last 
year,  I  never  read  an  EugUih  newspaper  sinee  my  dcpartnrc^  and  am  now 
only  aware  of  theatrical  matters  through  the  medium  of  the  Parisian 
Bagltsh  Gaxettc  of  Galignani,  and  only  Ibr  the  last  twelve  Months.  Let 
■M  tfcesi  deprecate  alT  offence  to  tragic  or  comic  writers,  to  whom  I  wish 
w«L  and  of  whom  I  know  nothing.  The  long  complaints  of  the  aaual 
ittte  of  the  drama  arise,  however,  from  no  fanlt  of  the  perfonners.  I  can 
ccaceive  nothing  better  than  Kemhle,  Cooke,  and  Kean,  in  their  very 
diferent  maimers,  or  than  EUiston  in  gentleroanN  comedy,  and  in  some 
partt  of  tragedy.  Miss  fV  NeiU  I  never  saw,  having  made  and  kept  a  de* 
tcnninatioa  to  see  nothing  which  should  divide  or  distarb  my  recollection 
orSiddooa.  Siddons  and  Kemble  were  toe  ideal  of  tragic  action ;  I  never 
saw  any  tiling  at  all  resembling  them,  even  in  person:  for  this  reason, 
wr  shall  never  see  again  Coriolanns  or  Macbeth.  When  Kean  is  blamed 
#>r  wane  of  dignity,  we  shoold  remember  that  it  is  a  grace  and  not  an  art, 
and  not  to  be  attained  bar  study.  In  all  not  »up8|inataral  parts  he  is  per. 
fecc;  even  hi4  very  deflects  belong,  or  seem  to  belong,  to  the  parts  them. 
selves,  and  appear  traer  to  nature.  But  of  Kemble  we  mny  g^y,  with  re. 
fereDce  to  his  acting,  what  the  Cardinal  de  Uetc  said  of  the  Marijuii  cf 
Montro<«,  "that  be  was  the  only  tnaa  be  ever  uw  who  reminde'l  him  of 
the  heroes  of  Plntardi.'' 


the  "Fall  of  Jemsaleni''  are  ftill  of  the  best  ''mttUtHH" 
for  traeredy  that  has  been  seen  since  Horace  Walpole, 
except  passages  of  Ethwald  and  De  Montfort.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  underrate  Horace  WaJpole;  firstly,  because 
he  was  a  nobleman,  and  secondly,  beeanse  he  was  a 
gentleman;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  composition  of 
his  incomparable  letters,  and  of  the  Castle  of  Otranto, 
he  is  the  ''Ultimns  Romanomm/'  the  author  of  the 
Mysterious  Mother,  a  tragedy  of  the  highest  order,  and 
not  a  puling  love-play.  He  is  the  father  of  the  ilrst  ro- 
mance, and  of  the  last  tragedy  in  our  language,  and 
surely  worthy  of  a  higher  place  than  any  living  writer, 
be  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Fallero,  I  forgot 
to  mention  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though  still  too 
remote,  a  nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the  irregularity, 
which  is  the  reproach  of  the  English  theatrical  compo- 
sitions, permits,  has  induced  me  to  represent  the  con- 
spiracy as  already  formed,  and  the  Doge  acceding  to  it, 
whereas,  in  fhct,  it  was  of  his  own  preparation  and  that 
of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The  other  characters  (except  that 
of  the  duchess),  incidents,  and  almost  the  time,  which 
was  wonderfully  short  for  such  a  design  in  real  life, 
are  strictly  historical,  except  that  all  the  consultations 
took  place  in  the  palace.  Had  I  followed  this,  the  unity 
would  have  been  better  preserved;  but  I  wished  to 
produce  the  Doge  in  the  full  assembly  of  the  conspi- 
rators, instead  of  monotonously  placing  him  always  in 
dialogue  with  the  same  individuals.  For  the  real  focts, 
I  refer  to  the  extracts  given  in  the  Appendix  in  Italian, 
with  a  translation. 


DRAMATIS   PBRSONiE. 


MBN. 
Marino  Faliero,  Do^e  of  Venice, 
Bertuccio  Fali£RO,  Nephew  of  ike  Doge, 
LiOKi,  c  Patrician  and  Senator. 
Bekinteiide,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Tem 
Michel  Steno,  one  of  the  three  Capi  of  the  Forty, 
Israel  Bertuccio,  Chief  of  the  Arsenal, 
Phiup  Calendaro,  .  Conspirator,. 

IUgolino,  ' 

Bertram, 

Siffnor  of  the  Night, 
First  Citizen, 
Second  Citizen. 


Third  Citizen, 

VlNCENZO,    \ 

Pietro,        \    Officers  belonging  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 

Battista,    ) 

Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 

Guards,  Conspirators,  Citizens,  The  Council  of  Ten, 
The  Giunta,  etc.  etc. 

WOMEH. 

Angiolina,  Wife  to  the  Doge. 
xVIaRIanna,  her  Friend. 

Female  Attendants, 

Scene,  Venice  —  in  the  year  1355. 


ACT 


SCENE  I. 

An  Antechamber  in  the  Dneal  Palace. 
Pimio  tpeaks,  in  entering ,    to  Battista. 

M-^tro,  Is  not  tRe  messenger  return'd  ? 
BaUista.  Not  yet; 


I  have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded, 
But  still  the  Signory  is  deep  in  council 
And  long  debate  on  Stcno's  accusation. 

Pietro.  Too  long  —  at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

Batt.  How  bears  he 
These  moments  of  suspense? 


342 


AURtNO  FALIBRO 


ACT  1 


PiHr0.  WiUifllniggliag'palienoe. 
Placed  at  the  dacal  table,  oof  er'd  o'er 
With  all  the  apparel  of  the  atate,  petkiona, 
Dcspatoliet,  jodgmeotf,  acts*  repricres,  reporta. 
He  sit^  a«  rapt  io  datjr;  but  whene'er 
He  hears  the  jsrriog  of  a  distant  door. 
Or  aogbi  that  intimates  a  oominf  step, 
Or  murmur  of  a  voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 
And  he  will  staK  up  from  his  eliair,  tlien  pause, 
And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gase 
Upon  some  edict;  but  I  have  obscrred 
For  the  last  hour  ho  has  not  tum'd  a  leaf. 

Batt.  'Tis  said  he  is  much  moved;  and  doubtless 'twas 
Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

Phiro*  Ay,  if  a  poor  man:  Steno's  a  patrician. 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

B^OL  Then  you  think 
Ho  will  not  be  judged  hardly, 

PietrQ.  'T  were  enough 
He  be  judged  justly;  but  'tis  not  for  ns 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty, 

Bmtt,  And  here  it  comes.  —  What  news,  Yincenzo? 

Enter  Vinccxso. 

Fine.  'Tis 
Decided;  but  as  yet  his  doom's  unknown: 
I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 
The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's  judgment 
Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him.  CExeoDt. 

SCBNE  n. 

The  Dacml  Cbwnbcr. 
BfAiXito  Fauxbo,  Dogs;  and  bb  nephew,  Butuccio  Faubbo. 

Bertuccio  Faliero,  It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  yon 

Doife,  Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  did,  [justice. 

Who  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  bis  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 

B.  PaL  His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him ;  such  an  act 
Would  bring  contempt  on  all  authority. 

Doge.  Know  you  not  Venice?  k  now  you  not  the  Forty  ? 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 

Bertuccio  Faliero  (addr eMing  Yincbmo,  then  enrtriDc). 

How  now  — •  wliat  tidings? 

Vme.  I  am  charged  to  tell  his  highness  tliat  the  court 
Has  pass'd  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through. 
The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge; 
In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  prince  of  the  Rcpublio,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

Doge,  Yes  — 
They  are  wond'rons  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 
Sentence  is  past,  you  say  ? 

Fnic.  It  is,  your  highness : 
The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 
Was  call'd  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due,  . 
Not  only  to  the  Chief  of  the  Republic, 
But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united. 

B.  PaL  Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you  have  perceived, 
Ofthetrdeoimn? 


Fine.  No,  my  lord;  yon  know 
The  secret  customs  of  the  courts  in  Venice.  [iniess, 

B*  PaL  True;  but  there  stiH  Is  sometliiog  given  to 
Which  a  shrewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would  caldi  at; 
A  whisper,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 
More  or  less  sotemn  spread  o'er  the  tribunal. 
The  Forty  are  but  men — most  worthy  men, 
And  wise,  and  just,  and  cautious—  this  I  grant  — 
And  secret  as  tlic  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty ;  but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects  ^ 
At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number  — 
A  searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 
Would  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

Vine.  M.y  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  moment. 
And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 
Whicli  pass'd  among  the  judges,  even  in  seeraiog; 
My  station  near  the  accused  too,  Hichel  Steno, 
Made  me  — 

Doge  (abrapciy.)  And  how  look'd  kef  deliver  that. 

Vmc.  Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign'd 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were;  —  but  lof 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highness. 

Enter  the  Sickbtabt  eftbc  Fdriy. 

Sec*  The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  past  on  Michel  Steno,  born 
Patrician,  and  arraign'd  upon  the  charge 
Contain 'd,  together  with  its  penalty. 
Within  the  rescript  which  I  now  present  tipper: 

Doge.  Retire  and  wait  without  --   Take  thou  this 

[Bxennt  SccrcCnry  asid  ViBCfB«r. 

The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

B.FaL  Patience,  my  dear  uncle: 
Why  do  you  tremble  thus?  —  nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wish'd. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

B.FaL  (reading.)  <a>ecreed 
<«In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice, 
"That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confessiod, 
*'Gullty  on  the  last  night  of  Carnival 
"Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 
"The  following  words " 

Doge.  Wouldst  thou  repent  them? 
Wouldst  thou  repeat  them  —  thou,  a  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  deep  dishonour  of  our  house, 
Dishonour'd  in  its  chief —  tliat  chief  the  prince 
Of  Venice,  first  of  cities?  —  To  the  sentence. 

B.  FaL  Forgive  me,  my  good  lord ;  I  will  obey  — 
(Read*)  ''That  Michel  Steno  be  detain'd  a  montli 
"In  close  arrest" 

Doge.  Proceed. 

B.  FaL  My  lord,  'tis  finish'd.  ['Tis  frilse  ~ 

Doge.  How,  say  you?  —  finish'd!    Do  I  dream?  — 
Give  me  the  paper  —  (Snatches  tbc  |»ap«r  and  rcwIjO  '*Tis  ds-^j 
creed  in  council,  f| 

That  Michel  Steno" Nephew^  thine  arm !  ii 

B.  FaL  Nay,  J 


Aur  I. 


MARiKO  FALIBRO. 


MS 


Cbeer  up,  be  Gain;  this  transpert  is  oncall'd  iw  -^ 
Let  me  seek  some  aasistaooe. 

Ocye.  Stop,  sir  —  Stir  DOt — 
TkpasL 

B.Fal,  I  eauDot  but  agree  with  yon, 
The  sentence  is  too  slight  for  the  offenoe  — 
It  is  not  honourable  Id  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slight  a  penalty  to  that 
^  Wfaidi  was  a  foul  affront  to  you,  and  eyen 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects;  but  His  not 
Yet  without  remedy:  you  ean  appeal 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 
Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 
Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  declined. 
And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent 
Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle?  why  do  you  stand 
So  fi  v'd  ?  You  heed  me  not :  -« I  pray  you,  hear  me ! 

Doge  ((UMiIag  down  the  ducal  bonnet,  and  offering  to  trample  npon 
it,  exdaimi,  ^  he  m  withheld  hy  bU  oef  h«w^ 

Oh,  that  the  Saracen  were  in  Saint  Mark's! 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

B.F^l.  For  the  sake 
Of  Heayen  and  all  its  Saints,  my  lord  — 

Di^ge,  Away! 
Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  the  port! 
Oh,  that  the  Huns  whom  I  overthrew  at  Zara 
Were  ranged  around  the  palace! 

B.FoL  Tis  not  well 
In  Yenioe^  Duke  to  say  so. 

Di^ge.  Venice'  Duke! 
Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice?  let  me  see  him. 
That  he  may  do  me  right 

B.Fal  If  you  forget 
Yovr  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty, 
Reroemhcr  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 
The  Duke  of  Venice 

l>o§9  (inicrrnpHns  him).  There  is  no  such  tiling  — 
it  is  a  word  —  nay,  worse  —  a  worthless  by- word : 
The  most  despised,  wroog'd,  outraged,  helpless  wretch, 
Who  h^ps  his  bread,  if  *tjs  refused  by  one, 
Hay  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart ; 
But  he,  who  is  denied  his  rigjit  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Than  the  rejected  beggar  —  he's  a  slave  — 
And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 
Bven  from  this  hour,*  the  meanest  hrtisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
Jfay  spit  apoQ  us :  —  where  is  our  redress? 

B.  PmL  The  law,  my  prince  — 

Doge  (ioterrapGng  htm).  Tou  See  what  it  hss  dono: 
I  ask'd  no  remedy  but  from  the  law  — 
Isooght  DO  vengeance  but  redress  by  law  •— 
IcaO'd  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law  — 
As  aorereign,  I  appeal'd  unto  my  subjects, 
Tlie  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  right  to  be  so. 
fbe  rights  of  place  and  ehoice,  of  birth  and  service, 
BoncNirs  and  years»  these  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 
the  travel,  toil,  the  perib,  the  fotignes, 
riie  Mood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years, 
RTcre-  wdgh'd  i'  the  balance,  'galast  the  foulest  stain. 


The  grossest  insult,  most  oootemptnous  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician  —  and  found  waatiiig! 
And  this  is  to  be  borne? 

B.  Fat.  I  say  not  that:  — 
la  case  your  fresh  appeal  sliould  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  aM  even. 

Doge,  Appeal  again!  artthoumy  brother's^imi? 
A  scion  of  the  house  of  Fallero? 
The  nephew  of  a  Doge?  and  of  that  blood 
Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice? 
But  thou  sayst  well  —  we  must  be  humlilenow. 

B,  FaL  My  princely  uncle !  you  are  too  mwoh  moved :  — 
I  grant  it  was  a  grow  offence ;  and  grossly 
Left  without  fitting  punishment;  but  still 
This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation. 
Or  any  provocation :  if  we  are  wrong'd. 
We  will  ask  justice;  if  It  be  denied, 
We'll  take  it;  but  may  do  all  this  in  calmness  -^ 
Deep  vengeance  Is  the  daugliter  of  deep  silence. 
I  have  yet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 
\  love  our  house,  I  honour  you,  its  eblef, 
The  guardian  of  my  youth,  and  its  Instructor  •-- 
But  though  I  understand  your  grie^  and  enter 
In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appal  me 
To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 
O'ersweep  all  bounds,  and  foam  itself  to  air. 

Doge.  I  tell  thee  —  muH  I  tell  thee  —  what  thy  father 
Would  have  required  no  words  to  comprehend : 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch  ?  hast  thou  no  soul  -^ 
Ko  pride  —  no  passion  —  no  deep  sense  of  honour  ? 

B,  FaL  'Tis  thefirst  time  that  hoaoor  has  been  doubted, 
And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  sceptic. 

Doge.  You  know  the  full  offence  of  this  bom  villain, 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon, 
Who  threw  his  sting  Into  a  poisonous  libel. 
And  on  the  honour  of---  Oh,  God  I  —  my  wife. 
The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men's  honour. 
Left  a  base  slur  to  pass  from  mouth  to  month 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  eoarae  foul  comments, 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene ; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polish'd  girise, 
Whisper'd  the  tale,  and  smiled  upon  tiie  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them  -^  a  oomrteoos  wittol. 
Patient  —  ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  disliononr. 

B.  Fed.  But  still  it  was  a  lie  —  you  knew  h  false, 
And  so  did  all  men. 

Doge,  Nephew,  the  high  Roman 
Said  "Caesar's  wife  must  not  even  be  sospected,'* 
And  put  her  from  him. 

B.  FaL  True  —  but  m  those  days  — 

Doge,  What  is  it  that  a  Roman  would  not  su4fcr. 
That  a  Venetian  prince  must  bear?  Old  Dandolo 
Refused  the  diadem  of  all  the  Cassars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cap  I  trample  on, 
Because  'tis  now  degraded. 

B,FaL  'Tisevensa 

Doge.  It  is  —  it  is :  —  I  ^d  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  orcatnre,  thus  most  vihsfy  slandered. 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 
FoFthat  he  had  been  long  her  fUher's  IHend 


su 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


Acri» 


And  patron  of  ber  house,  as  if  there  were 
No  love  in  woman's  heart  bat  lost  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces;  —  1  did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain's  infomy  on  her. 
But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head. 
The  justice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  ha(|^a  wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him» 
-  Who  hath  a  home  whose  hoirth  is  dear  to  him, 
Who  bath  a  name  whose  honour's  all  to  him. 
When  these  are  tainted  by  the  aooursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

B.FaL  And  what  redress 
Did  you  expect  as  his  lit  punishment? 

Doge,  Death !  Was  I  not  the  sovereign  of  the  state  — 
Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made 
A  mockery  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me? 
Was  I  not  injured  as  a  husband  ?  scorn'd 
As  man?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince? 
Was  not  offence  like  his  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ?  —  and  he  lives  I 
Had  he,  instead  of  on  the  I)oge's  throne, 
Stamp'd  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's  stool. 
His  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold;  for  thecarle 
Had  stabb'd  him  on  the  instant 

B.FoL  Do  not  doubt  it. 
He  shall  not  live  till  sunset  —  leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  yourself. 

Doge,  Hold,  nephew!  this 
Would  have  sufficed  but  yesterday :  at  present 
I  have  no  further  wrath  against  this  man. 

B*  FaL  What  mean  you  ?  is  not  the  offence  redoubled 
By  this  most  rank  —  I  will  not  say  —  acquittal. 
For  it  is  worse,  being  full  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offenee,  and  leaving  it  unpunish'd  ? 

Doge,  It  i$  redoubled,  but  not  now  by  him : 
The  Forty  hath  decreed  a  month's  arrest  — 
We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

B,FaL  Obey  them/ 
Who  have  forgot  their  4uty  to  the  sovereign  ? 

Doge,  Why,  yes;  —  boy,  you  perceive  it  then  at  last: 
Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 
For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  it. 
They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  rights 
(For  here  the  sovereign  is  a  citizen) ; 
But,  notwithstanding,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 
Of  Steno's  head  —  he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

B,  FaL  Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had  yon  left  to  me 
The  mode  and  means:  if  you  had  calmly  heard  me, 
I  never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape. 
But  wish'd  you  to  repress  such  gusU  of  passion, 
That  we  more  surely  might  devise  together 
Bis  taking  ofi^ 

Doge,  No,  nephew,  he  must  live ; 
At  least,  just  now  —  a  life  so  vile  as  his 
Were  nothing  at  this  hour;  in  th 'olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask'd  a  single  victim. 
Great  expiations  had  a  hecatomb. 

B,  FmL  Your  wishes  are  my  law;  and  yet  I  foin 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  my  heart 
The  honour  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

Doge.  Fearnot;youshallhavctimeandpkceofpi«of: 


But  be  not  thou  too  rash,  as  I  have  been* 
1  am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now; 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

B,  FmL  Why  that's  my  uncle ! 
The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and  sovereign  of  himself  1 
I  wonder'd  to  perceive  you  so  forget 
All  prudence  in  your  fury,  at  tliese  years, 
Although  the  cause  — 

Doge,  Ay,  think  upon  the  cause  — 
Forget  it  not:  —  When  you  lie  down  to  rest. 
Let  it  be  black  among  your  dreams ;  and  when 
The  morn  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  lll-omen'd  cloud 
Upon  a  summer -day  of  festival: 
So  will  it  stand  to  me;  —  but  speak  not,  stir  not,  -- 
Leave  all  to  mc;  —  we  shall  have  much  to  do. 
And  yon  shall  have  a  part  —  But  now  retire, 
'Tis  fit  I  were  alone.  [I  depart, 

B,  Fal,  (Taking  np  ud  pUdng  die  dscal  bonnet  on  the  taMe).  J^ 

I  pray  you  to  resume  what  you  hare  spurn'd* 

Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a  crown. 

And  now  I  take  my  leave,  imploring  you 

In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 

As  doth  become  your  near  and  fiiithfiil  kinsman. 

And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject 

CKzic  Bertaccio  Palicm 

Doge(m>itu).  Adieu,  my  worthy  nephew.  —   Hollow 

bauble  !  {Taking  np  the  dacal  of) 

Beset  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown. 

Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 

With  tlie  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings; 

Thou  idle,  gilded,  and  degraded  toy. 

Let  me  resume  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor.  [Pati  it  m. 

How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee  I  and  my  temples 

Throb  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight 

Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem? 

Could  I  not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 

Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules. 

Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince 

A  pageant?  In  my  life  I  have  achieved 

Tasks  not  less  difficult  —  achieved  for  them. 

Who  thus  repay  me!  —  Can  I  not  requite  theni? 

Oh,  for  one  year !  Oh,  but  for  even  a  day 

Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 

My  soul  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord  I 

I  would  have  dash'd  amongst  them,  aj^king  few 

In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swoln  patricians; 

But  now  I  must  look  round  for  other  hands 

To  serve  this  hoary  head;  —  but  it  shall  plan 

In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 

Herculean,  though  as  yet  'tis  but  a  chaos 

Of  darkly-brooding  thoughts:  my  fancy  is 

In  her  first  work,  more  nearly  to  the  light 

Holding  the  sleeping  images  of  things. 

For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment  — 

The  troops  are  few  in  — 

I 

Bnter  Tikcb.szo. 

There  is  one  without  -••    - 

Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 


kCT  h 


MARIKO  PALIBRO. 


345 


Dojfe»  rmanweli  — 
I  can  ace  no  one,  not  even  a  patrioian  — 
Let  him  refer  bis  business  to  the  coanoU. 

Yin,  My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply; 
It  cannot  much  import  —  he's  a  plebeian. 
The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

Dofe,  How!  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a  galley? 
That  is  —  I  mean  —  a  servant  of  the  state : 
Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service.       CBsu  Vincenxo. 

Doffe (jttAnB).   This  patron  may  be  sounded;  I  will  try 
I  know  the  people  to  be  discontented ;  [him. 

They  have  cause,  since  Sapienza's  adverse  day. 
When  Genoa  conquerM:  they  have  further  cause, 
Sinoe  they  are  nothing  in  the  state,  and  in 
The  city  worse  than  nothing  —  mere  machines. 
To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  pleasure. 
The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  promised. 
And  murmur  deeply  —  any  hope  of  change 
Will  draw  them  forward:  they  shall  pay  themselvei 
With  plunder:  —  but  the  priests  —  1-doubt  the  priest- 
Will  not  be  with  us ;  they  have  hated  me  [hood 
Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  madden'd  with  the  drone, 
I  smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso, 
Quickening  his  holy  march :  yet,  ne'ertheless, 
They  nuy  be  won ,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 
By  some  well-timed  concessions;  but,  above 
AU  things,  I  must  be  speedy;  at  my  hour 
Of  twilight  little  light  of  life  remains. 
Coold  1  free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wrongs, 
1  had  lived  too  long,  and  willingly  would  sleep 
Kext  moment  with  my  sires ;  and,  wanting  this, 
Better  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 
Had  been  already  where  —  how  soon,  I  care  not  — 
The  whole  roust  be  extingnishM ;  —  better  that 
They  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 
The  thing  these  arch-oppressors  fain  would  make  me. 
Let  me  consider  —  of  efficient  troops 
There  are  three  thousand  posted  at  — 

Enter  Vuicknzo  and  Isxaxx.  BxBTuccia 

fme.  May  it  please 
Yoor  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I  spake  of 
b  here  to  crave  your  patience. 

Dcffe.  Leave  the  chamber, 

TincenXO.  —  [Exit  Ytncenxo. 

Su-,  you  may  advance  —  what  would  you? 

Bertuecio.  Redress. 

D9ffe*  Of  whom? 

BerL  OfGodandoftheDoge. 

Doffe,  Alas !  my  friend,  you  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 
Too  mast  address  the  coundL 

Bert,  Twereinvain; 
For  he  who  bjured  me  is  one  of  them.  [there  ? 

Z>#ye.  There's  blood  upon  tliy  face  —  how  came  it 

BerL  'Tis  mine,  and  not  the  first  I've  shed  for  Venice, 
Baft  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand: 
A  noble  smote  me. 

Dope,  Doth  be  live? 

Bert,  Not  long  — 
ktat  for  the  hope  I  had  and  have,  that  you. 


My  prince,  yourself  a  soldier,  wiH  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself;  if  not  — 
I  say  no  more. 

Doge,  But  something  you  would  do  — 
Is  it  not  so? 

BerL  I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

Do^e,  Why,  so  is  he  who  smote  yon. 

Bert,  Heiscairdso; 
Nay,  more,  a  noble  one  —  at  least,  in  Venice: 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one. 
And  treats  me  like  a  brute,  the  brute  may  turn  — 
'Tis  said  the  worm  will. 

Doge,  Say  —  his  name  and  lineage  ? 

Bert  Barbaro, 

Dope,  What  was  the  cause?  or  the  pretext? 

Bert,  1  am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal,  employ 'd 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  the  Genoese  last  year. 
This  morning  comes  the  noble  Barbaro 
Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 
Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house. 
To  execute  the  state's  decree;  I  dared 
To  justify  the  men  —  he  raised  his  hand, — 
Behold  my  blood !  the  first  time  it  e'er  fiow'd 
Dishonourably. 

Doge,  Have  you  long  time  served? 

BerL  So  long  as  to  remember  Zara's  siege. 
And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  there, 
Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. 

Doge,  How!  are  we  comrades?  —  the  state's  ducal 
robes 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Rome; 
So  that  I  recognised  you  not  Who  placed  you  ? 

Bert,  The  late  Doge;  keeping  still  my  old  command 
As  patron  of  a  galley :  my  new  office 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say) ; 
1  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a  helpless  plaintiff, 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

Doge,  Are  you  much  hurt? 

Bert.  Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

Doge,  Speak  out;  fear  nothing:  being  stung  at  heart, 
What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this  man? 

Bert  That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and  yet  will  do. 

Dope,  Then  wherefore  came  you  here? 

Bert,  I  come  for  justice. 
Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.  Had  any, 
Save  Faliero,  fill'd  the  ducal  throne, 
This  blood  had  been  wash'd.ont  in  otiier  blood. 

Doge,  You  come  to  me  for  justice  —  unto  mei 
The  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cannot  give  it; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it  —  'twas  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago. 

Bert  How  says  your  highness? 

Doge  Stcno  is  condemn 'd 
To  a  month's  confinement. 

Bert  What!  the  same  who  dared 
22* 


346 


MARINO  FALIBRO. 


Aori 


To  stain  the  dacal  throne  with  those  foal  words, 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice? 

Doge,  Ay,  doubtless  they  have  echo'd  o'er  thearsenal, 
Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer's  clink, 
As  a  good  jest  to  joliy  artisans; 
Or  making  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 
In  the  vile  tune  of  every  galley-slave. 
Who,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  exulted 
He  was  not  a  shamed  dotard,  like  the  Doge. 

Bert,  Is  it  possible?  a  month's  imprisonmentl 
No  more  for  Steno? 

Doge^  You  have  heard  the  offenoe. 
And  now  you  know  his  punishment;  and  then 
You  ask  redress  of  me!  Go  to  the  Forty, 
Who  pass'd  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno; 
They'll  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt 

BerU  Ah  I  dared  I  speak  my  feelings ! 

Doge,  Give  them  breath. 
Mine  have  no  further  outrage  to  endure. 

Bert,  Then,  in  a  word,  it  rests  but  on  your  wor4 
To  punish  and  avenge—  I  will  nptsay 
My  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  blow, 
However  vile,  to  such  a  thing  as  I  am?  — 
But  the  base  insult  done  your  state  and  perion. 

Doge.  You  overrate  my  power,  which  is  a  pageant 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown;  these  robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags; 
Nay,  more,  a  beggar's  are  bis  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  poor  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 

BerU  Wouldstthonbeking? 

Doge,  Yes  —  ofa  happy  people. 

Bert.  Wouldst  thoa  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice? 

Doge,  Ay, 
If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty. 
Bo  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 
To  this  o'ergrown  aristoeratio  Hydra, 
The  poisonous  beads  of  whoseenvenom'd  body 
Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  alL 

Bert,  Yet,  thou  wast  bom  and  still  hast  lived  patrician. 

Doge,  In  evil  hour  was  I  so  born ;  my  birth 
Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insulted :  but 
I  lived  and  toil'd  a  soldier  and  a  servant 
Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate; 
Their  good  and  my  own  honour  were  my  guerdon. 
I  have  fought  and  bled;  commanded,  ay,  and  oouquer'd; 
Have  made  and  marr'd  peace  oft  in  embassies, 
As  it  might  chanoe  to  be  our  country's  'vantage; 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty, 
Through  almost  sixty  years,  and  still  for  Venice, 
My  fathers'  and  my  birthplace,  whose  dear  spin», 
Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Lagoon, 
It  was  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 
Onoe  more ;  but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 
Nor  sect,  nor  fiiction,  did  I  bleed  or  sweat ! 
But  would  you  know  why  I  have  done  alt  this? 
Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 
Hath  ripp'd  her  bosom  ?  Had  the  bird  a  Toicc, 
She'd  tell  thee  'twas  for  «//  her  little  ones. 

Bert,  And  yet  they  made  thee  duke. 

Doge,  Theg  modems  wo; 


f  sought  it  not,  the  flattering  letters  met  nse 

Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy. 

And  never  having  hitherto  refused 

Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  state,  I  did  not. 

At  these  late  years,  decline  what  was  tbe  highest 

Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 

In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure: 

Bear  witness, for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject. 

When  I  can  neither  rigiit  myself  nor  tbee. 

Bert,  You  shall  do  both,  if  you  possess  the  wiU; 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppress'd. 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal will  yon  give  it? 

Doge,  You  speak  in  riddles. 

Bert,  Which  shall  soon  be  read. 
At  peril  of  my  life,  if  yon  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 

Doge,  Say  on. 

Bert.  Not  thou, 
Nor  I  alone,  arc  injured  and  abused, 
Contemn'd  and  trampled  on,  but  tbe  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  conception  of  their  wrongs : 
The  foreign  soldiers  in  tbe  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears; 
The  native  mariners  and  civic  troops 
Feel  with  their  friends;  for  who  is  he  amongst  them 
Whose  brethren,  parents*  children,  wives,  or  sisters. 
Have  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution. 
From  the  patricians  7  And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintain'd 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
From  thdr  hard  earnings,  has  inflamed  them  fnrthcr: 
Even  now  —  but,  I  forget  that,  speaking  thus, 
Perhaps  I  pass  tlie  sentence  of  my  death  I  [death ! 

Doge,  And,  suffering  what  thou  hast  done,  fearsttlioo 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

Bert,  No,  I  will  speak 
At  every  hazard;  and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Should  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him. 
And  sorrow  too;  for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

Doge.  From  me  fear  nothing;  out  with  it  [serrel 

BerL  Know ,  then ,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn  li 
A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true; 
Men  who  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 
Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  riglit 
To  do  so ;  having  served  her  in  all  dimes. 
And,  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes. 
Would  do  the  same  from  those  within  her  walls. 
They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 
For  their  great  purpose;  they  have  arms,  and  means. 
And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  fhith,  and  patient  courage. 

Doge,  For  what  then  do  they  paose? 

Bert,  An  hour  to  strike. 

Doge  (Mid^.  Saint  Mark's  shall  strike  that  hour! 

Bert,  I  now  have  placed 
My  life,  my  honour,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  Arm  belief 
That  injuries  like  ours,  sprung  from  one  cause. 
Will  generate  one  vengeance:  should  it  be  so. 
Be  our  chief  now  —  our  sovereign  hereafter. 


ncr  L 


MARINO  FAL1BRO. 


347 


i>oge.  How  maby  are  ye  t 

BerL  I'll  oot  answer  that 
Tin  I  am  answcr'd. 

Dope^  How,  Sir!  do  yoa  menace? 

Bert.  No;  laiBrm.  I  have  betray 'd  myself; 
Bnt  tliere's  no  tortnre  in  the  mystic  wells 
Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  in  those 
Not  less  appalling  cells,  the  **leaden  roofs/' 
To  force  a  single  name  from  me  of  others. 
The  Po2si  and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain; 
They  might  wring  blood  from  mc,  bat  treachery  never, 
And  I  would  pass  the  fearful  "Bridge  of  Sighs," 
Joyous  that  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e'er 
Would  echo  o'er  the  Stygian  wave  which  flows 
Between  the  murderers  and  the  murder'd,  washing 
The  prison  and  the  palace- walls:  there  are 
Those  who  would  live  to  think  on't,  and  avenge  me. 

Doge*  If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come  here 
To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course 
To  do  yoursef  f  due  right  ? 

BerL  Because  the  man 
Who  elaims  protection  from  authority, 
Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  that  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  combining  to  destroy  it.      • 
B^  I  sate  down  too  humbly  with  this  blow, 
A  moody  brow  and  mutter'd  threats  had  made  me 
A  mark'd  man  to  the  Forty's  inquisition ; 
Bat  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  fear'd, 
And  less  distrusted.  But,  besides  aU  this, 
1  had  another  reason, 

Bog€.  What  was  that? 

BerL  Some  rumours  that  the  Doge  was  greatly  moved 
By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori 
Of  Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 
Had  reach'd  me.  I  had  served  you,  honour'd  you, 
And  felt  that  you  were  dangerously  insulted, 
Bong  of  an  order  of  such  spirits,  as 
Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil:  ^twas 
My  wish  to  prove  and  qrge  you  to  redress. 
Mow  yon  know  all ;  and  that  I  speak  the  truth. 
My  peril  be  the  proof. 

Doffe.  You  have  deeply  ventured  ; 
But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win : 
Thus  fiir  I'll  answer  you  — your  secret's  safe. 

Bert.  And  IS  this  all? 

Depe,  Unless  with  all  entrusted. 
What  would  you  have. me  answer? 

Brrt.  1  would  have  you 
Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

De^,  Bnt  I  must  know  your  plan,  your  names,  and 
The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  the  former  [numbers : 
Matured  and  strengtben'd. 

Bert.  Wc'r .?  enough  already; 
Yon  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

DiHfe.  Bot  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of  your  chiefs. 

Bert.  Tliat  shall  be  done  upon  yourformal  pledge 
Yo  keep  the  feith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 


Doff€.  When?  where? 

Bert,  This  night  I'll  bring  to  your  apartment 
Two  of  the  principals;  a  greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

Doffe.  Stay,  I  must  think  of  this. 
What  if  I  were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace ? 

Bert.  You  must  come  i^ne. 

Doge.  With  but  my  nephew. 

BerL  Not  were  he  your  son.  [arms, 

Dope.  Wretch !  darest  thou  name  my  son?  He  died  in 
At  Sapienza,  for  this  faithless  state. 
Oh  I  that  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes  1 
Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes! 
I  should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strang^s.  [est, 

Bert.  Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom  thou  doubt- 
But  will  regard  thee  with  a  filial  feeling, 
So  that  thou  keepst  a  father's  faith  with  them. 

Dope.  The  die  is  cast*  Where  is  the  place  of  meeting? 

BerL  At  midnight  I  will  be  alone  and  masked 
Where'er  your  highness  pleases  to  direct  me, 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  you  where 
You  shall  rcceivt  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project 

Dope.  At  what  hour  anses 
The  moon  ? 

BerL  Late,  but  the  atmosphere  is  thick  and  dusky; 
'Tis  a  sirocco. 

Dope.  At  the  midnight-hour,  then, 
Near  to  the  churcii  where  sleep  my  sires;  tho  same, 
Twin-named  from  the  apostles  John  and  Paul; 
A  gondola,  witli  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  in  tlie  narrow  channel  which  glides  by. 
Be  there. 

BerL  I  will  not  fail. 

Dope.  And  now  retire -« 

BerL  In  the  full  hope  your  highness  will  not  falter 
In  your  great  purpose.  Prince,  I  take  my  leave. 

LZxit  Bertacrio. 

Dope  (aohM).  At  n)idnight,  by  the  church  Saints  John  and 
Where  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I  repair  —  .  [Paul, 

To  what  ?  to  bold  a  council  in  the  dark 
With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states  I 
And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vault. 
Where  lie  two  Doges  who  preceded  me. 
And  pluck  me  do wn  amongst  them ?    Would  they  could ! 
For  I  should  rest  in  honour  with  the  honour'd. 
Alas!  I  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name, 
Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles;  but  I  will  redeem  it 
Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals. 
By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that's  base  in  Venice, 
And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time. 
Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 
But  try  the  Caesar,  or  the  Catiline, 
By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert  —  success. 


348 


UARINO  FAUERO. 


ACT  a 


t.. 


\^   ,>i 


7 

/    Axo 
n</toUna, 


ACT      II. 


SCEMB  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Oocal  Palace. 


Angiouna  (wilie  of  the  Doge)  and  Mabunna. 

An^oiina,  What  was  the  Dole's  answer? 

Marianna,  That  he  was 
That  moment  summoned  to  a  conference; 
But  'tis  by  this  time  ended,  f  perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking; 
And  the  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stad 
The  glittering  waters. 

Anp,  Would  he  were  retam'd! 
He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late; 
And  Time,  which  has  not  tamed  his  fierr  spirit, 
Nor  yet  enfeebled  even  his  mortal  frame, 
Which  seems  to  be  more  nourisird  by  a  soul 
So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  consume 
Less  hardy  clay  —  Time  has  but  tittle  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.  Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 
In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  sorrow,  all  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity:  his  thoughts, 
His  feelings,  passions,  good  or  eril,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age ;  and  his  bold  brow 
Bears  but  the  scars  of  mind,  the  thoughts  of  years, 
Not  their  decrepitude :  and  he  of  late 
Has  been  more  agitated  than  his  wont. 
Would  he  were  come !  for  I  alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  spirit 

Mar,  It  is  true. 
His  highness  has  of  late  been  g^reatly  moved 
By  the  afiront  of  Steno,  and  with  cause; 
But  the  offender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  doom'd  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

An^,  'Twas  a  gross  insult;  but  I  heed  It  not 
For  the  rash  soorner's  falsehood  in  itself, 
But  for  the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  Impression 
Which  it  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  fiery,  the  austere  —  austere 
To  all  save  me:  I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  conduct 

Mar.  Assuredly 
The  Doge  can  not  suspect  yon?  [serawPd  his  He, 

Anff,  Suspect  mef  Why  Steno  dared  not:  when  be 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon's  glimmering  light, 
His  own  still  conscience  smote  him  tor  the  act. 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  frown'd  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

Mar.  'Twerefit 
He  should  be  p|intsh'd  grievously. 


An^.  He  is  so. 

ilfar.  What!  is  the  sentence  past?  is  he  condcmn'd? 

Anff,  I  know  not  that,  but  he  has  been  detected. 

Mar.  And  deem  yon  this  enough  for  such  fouff  scorn? 

Anff.  I  would  not  be  a  judge  in  my  own  cause. 
Nor  do  T  know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reach  the  soul  of  ribalds  such  as  Steno; 
But  if  his  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitors  thnn  they 
Have  nifHed  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acquittance. 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

Mar.  Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  slander'd  virtue. 

Ang.  Why,  what  is  virtue  if  it  needs  a  victim? 
Or  if  it  must  depend  upon  men's  words? 
The  dying  Roman  said,  **'twas  but  a  name:'* 
It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it 

Mar.  Tetfoflmanyadame, 
Stainless  and  fa ithfiiV would  fed  all  the  wrong 
Of  such  a  slander;  and  less  rigid  ladies. 
Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 
And  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 
For  justice. 

Ang.  This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 
And  not  the  quality  they  prise:  the  first 
Have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  hold  their  honour, 
If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon'd  fortli ; 
And  those  who  have  not  kept  it,  seek  its  seeming 
As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  the  want  hut  not  because 
They  think  jt  so;  they  live  in  others*  thoughts. 
And  would  seem  honest  as  they  must  seem  fair. 

Mar.  Ton  have  strange  thoughts  for  a  patrician  dame. 

Ang.  And  yet  they  were  my  father's;  with  his  name. 
The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

Mar,  You  want  none; 
W  ifc  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  republic.  [bride, 

Ang,  I  should  have  sought  none  thougli  a  peasant's 
But  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestow 'd  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend, 
The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge. 

Mar,  And  with  that  hand  did  he  bestow  your  heart  ? 

Anff.  He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  bestow'd. 

Mar.  Yet  this  strange  disproportion  in  your  years. 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers. 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  sneh  an  union 
Could  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy.  [heart 

Ang.  The  world  will  think  with  worldling.^ ;  hot  my 
Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  arc  many, 
But  never  diflieult 

Mmr,  And  do  yon  love  him? 

Aup.  I  love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 
Love,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 


ACT  II. 


MARINO  PALIBRO. 


349 


To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 

And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 

The  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 

To  baser  passions.  He  bestow 'd  my  hand 

Upon  Faliero:  he  had  known  him  noble, 

Brave,  generous;  rich  in  all  the  qualities 

Of  soldier,  citiBen,  and  friend;  in  all 

Sttcii  have  I  found  him  as  my  fhther  said. 

His  fiiults  are  those  that  dwell  in  the  high  bosoms 

Of  men  who  have  commanded;  too  much  pride, 

And  the  deep  passions  fiercely  foster'd  by 

The  uses  of  patricians,and  a  life 

Spent  in  the  storms  of  state  and  war;  and  also 

Prom  the  quick  sense  of  honour,  which  becomes 

A  doty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 

When  overstrain'd,  and  this  I  fear  in  him. 

And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  youth  upwards, 

Tct  tempered  by  redeeming  nobleness 

la  sach  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 

Has  kivish'd  all  its  chief  employs  upon  him. 

From  his  first  fight  to  his  last  embassy, 

From  which  on  his  return  the  dukedom  met  him. 

Mmr,  But,  previotfs  to  this  marriage,  had  your  heart 
Ne'er  beat  for  any  of  the  noble  youth, 
Such  as  In  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 
IScanty  like  yours?  or  since  have  you  ne'er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  foir  hand  were  still  to  give. 
Might  now  pretend  to  Loredano's  daughter? 

Any.  I  anawer'd  your  first  question  when  I  said 
I  married. 

ittir.  And  the  second? 

Anp,  Keeds  no  answer. 

Mar,  I  pray  your  pardon,  if  I  have  offended. 

An$.  I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise :  I  knew  not 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselvos 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  now  might  choose. 
Or  aught,  save  their  past  chcMce. 

Mmr,  Tis  their  past  choice 
That  fiir  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Now  choose  more  wisely,  could  they  cancel  it. 

Any.  It  may  be  so.  I  knew  n6t  of  such  thoughts. 

Mmr.  Here  comes  the  Doge  -—  shall  I  retire? 

Amy.  It  may 
Be  better  yon  should  quit  me;  he  seems  wrapt 
la  thought — How  pensively  he  takes  his  way ! 

[Exit  llttiumm. 
Enter  die  Poci  «id  PitTBa 

Do^B  (awin«).  There  is  a  certain  Philip  Calendaro 
\ow  in  the  Anienal,  who  holds  command 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  Inlluence 
Besides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades; 
This  man,  I  bear,  is  bold  and  popular. 
Sadden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret :  'twould 
Be  well  that  he  were  won :  I  needs  must  hope 
Thar  Israel  Bertuccio  has  secured  him, 
Bat  bin  would  be  — 

Phtro,  My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 
For  brcaking.in  upon  your  meditation; 
The  Senator  Bertuccio,  your  kinsman. 
Charged  me  to  follow  and  inquire  your  pleasure 
To  fin  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 


DoffB,  At  sunset  —  Stay  a  moment  let  me  see  — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night  iBztt  Pietro. 

Awf.  ACylord! 

Doffe,  My  dearest  child,  forgive  me  —  why  delay 
So  loi|g  approaching  me?  —  I  saw  you  not 

Any.  You  were  absorb'd  in  thought,  and  he  who  now 
Has  parted  from  yon  might  have  words  of  weight   . 
To  bear  yon  from  the  senate. 

Doffe.  From  the  senate? 

Atiff,  I  would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  duty 
And  theirs. 

Dope.  The  senate's 4uty!  you  mistake; 
Tis  we  who  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 

Anp.  1  thought  the  Duke  had  held  cominand  in  Venice. 

Dope,  He  shall.— But  let  that  pass. — We  will  bejoeund. 
How  fares  it  with  you  ?  have  you  been  abroad? 
The  day  Is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favours  the  gondolier's  light  skimming  oar; 
Or  have  you  hold  a  levee  of  your  friends? 
Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary? 
Say  —  is  there  aught  that  you  would  will  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke?  or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendour,  or  of  honest  pleasure. 
Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 
To  compensate  for  many  a  dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  mov<*d  with  many  cares? 
Speak,  and  'tis  done 

Anp.  you're  ever  kind  to  me  — 
1  have  nothing  to  desire,  or  to  request. 
Except  to  see  you  oftener  and  calmer. 

Dt>ge,  Calmer? 

Anp.  Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord.  —  Ah,  why 
Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone. 
And  let  sucli  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow, 
As,  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much? 

Dope,  Disclose  too  much  I  *-  of  what  ? 
What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

Anp,  A  heart  so  ill 
At  ease. 

Dope,  'Tis  nothing,  child.  —  But  in  the  state 
You  know  what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
Who  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth ; 
Now  suffering  from  the  Genoese  without. 
And  malcontents  within  —  'tis  this  which  makes  me 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont 

Anp,  Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
Till  in  these  |ate  days  did  I  see  you  thus. 
Forgive  me:  there  is  something  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  disdiargo  of  public  duties. 
Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 
Have  rendered  light,  nay,  a  necessity. 
To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.  'Tis  not 
In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  you; 
You,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk. 
And  climb'd  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power 
And  never  frunted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  and  ne'er  feel  dizsy. 
Were  Genoa's  galleys  riding  in  the  port,    . 
Were  civil  iiiry  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 


350 


MARINO  FALIBRO:. 


ACT  a 


Too  are  not  to  be  brought  on,  bat  wonld  foil, 
Af  yon  have  risen,  with  an  nnalter'd  brow : 
Your  feeling:s  now  are  of  a  different  kind; 
Something  has  stnng  yoar  pride,  not  patriotism. 

Doge,  Pride!  Angiolina?  Alas!  none  is  left  me. 

Anp,  Yes  —  the  same  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels. 
And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 
Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature: 
The  vile  are  only  vain ;  the  great  are  prond. 

Doffe,  I  had  the  pride  of  honour,  of  your  honour* 
Deep  at  my  heart  —  But  let  us  change  the  theme. 

Anff.  Ah  no !  —  As  I  have  ever  shared  your  kindness 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress:  were  it  of  public  import, 
You  know  I  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  from  you ;  but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  ligliten  or  divide  it.  Since  the  day 
When  foolish  Steno's  ribaldry  detected 
Unfix'd  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed, 
And  I  would  soothe  you  back  to  what  you  were. 

Doge,  To  what  I  was!  —  Have  you  heard  Steno's 

Ang,  No.  [sentence? 

Doge,  A  month's  arrest. 

Ang.  Is  it  not  enough  ? 

Doge.  Enough  I  -^  Yes,  for  a  drunken  galley-slave, 
Who,  stnng  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his  master; 
But  not  for  a  deliberate,  fiilse,  cool  villain, 
Who  stains  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honour 
Even  on  the  throne  of  his  authority. 

Ang.  There  seems  to  me  enough  in  the  conrictioa 
Of  a  patrician  guilty  of  a  falsehood: 
All  other  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honour. 

Doge,  Such  men  have  no  honour; 
They  have  but  their  vile  lives  -^  and  these  are  spared. 

Ang,  You  would  not  have  him  die  for  this  offence? 

Doge,  Not  now:  —  being  still  alive,  I'd  have  him  live 
Long  as  he  can ;  he  has  ceased  to  merit  death ; 
The  guilty  saved  liath  damn'd  his  hundred  judges, 
And  be  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  tliclrs.  . 

Ang.  Oh  I  had  this  false  and  flippant  libeller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampoon, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have  known 
A  joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more. 

Doge,  Does  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  for  blood? 
And  he  who  lainU  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  it 
Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  thame  of  blows, 
That  make  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  ? 
Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honour? 
And  less  than  honour,  for  a  little  gold  ? 
Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treason  ? 
Is 't  nothing  to  have  QU'd  these  veins  with  poison 
For  their  once  healthful  current?  is  it  nothing 
To  have  stain'd  your  name  and  mine  —  the  noblest  names  ? 
Is 't  nothing  to  have  brouglit  into  contempt 
A  prince  before  his  people?  to  liave  fail'd 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 
To  youth  in  woman,  and  old  age  in  man? 
To  virtue  in  your  sex,  and  dignity 
In  ours?  —  But  let  them  look  to  it  who  have  saved  him« 


Ang,  Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemiea. 

Doge,  Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own?  Is  Satan  saved 
From  wrath  eternal? 

Ang,  Do  not  speak  thus  wildly  — 
Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 

Doge,  Amen!  May  Heaven  forgive  them. 

Ang,  And  will  you? 

Doge,  Yes,  when  they  are  in  Heaven ! 

Ang,  And  not  till  then  ? 

Doge,  What  matters  my  forgiveness?  an  old  nan's, 
Worn  out,  scom'd,  spnrn'd,  abused ;  what  matters  tbeo 
My  pardon  more  than  my  resentment  ?  both 
Being  weak  and  worthless  ?  I  have  lived  too  long.  — 
But  let  us  change  the  argument  —  My  child! 
My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 
The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deem'd 
Thy  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend. 
That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame!  —  Alas ! 
Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless.  Hadst  thou 
But  had  a  different  husband,  ang  husband 
In  Venice  save  the  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand. 
This  blasphemy  had  never  fallen  upon  thee. 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  pure, 
To  suffer  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged ! 

Ang,  I  am  too  well  avenged,  for  yon  still  love  rae^ 
And  trust,  and  honour  me;  and  all  men  know 
That  you  ate  just,  and  I  am  true:  what  more 
Could  I  require,  or  >oa  command  ? 

Doge,  'Tiswell, 
And  may  be  better;  but  whate'er  betide. 
Be  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memory. 

Ang,  Why  speak  you  thus? 

Doge,  it  is  no  matter  why; 
But  I  would  still,  whatever  others  think, 
Have  your  respeot  both  now  and  in  my  graye. 

Ang,  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ?  has  it  evet  faii'd  ? 

Doge.  Come  hither,  child;  I  would  a  word  with  yoo. 
Your  father  was  my  friend ;  unequal  fortune 
Made  him  my  debtor  for  some  courtesies 
Which  bind  the  good  more  firmly:  when,  opprest 
With  his  last  malady,  he  will'd  our  union. 
It  was  not  to  repay  me,  long  repaid 
Before  by  bis  great  loyalty  in  friendship; 
His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beaaty 
In  honourable  safety  from  the  perils 
Which,  in  this  scorpion-nest  of  vice,  assail 
A  lonely  and  undower'd  maid.  I  did  not 
Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppose  the  thought 
Which  soothed  his  death-bed. 

Ang.  I  have  not  forgotten 
The  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak. 
If  my  young  heart  held  any  preference 
Which  would  have  made  me  happier;  nor  your  offer 
To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  anght  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  claim 
My  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 

Doge,  Thus, 
'T  was  not  a  foolish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  folse  edge  of  aged  appetite. 
Which  made  me  covetous  of  girlish  beauty. 
And  a  young  bride:  for  in  my  fieriest  youth 


ACTIL 


MARINO  PALIERO. 


351 


I  iwaj'd  sach  paMions ;  nor  was  this  my  age 

lofcclcd  with  Uiat  leprosy  of  iust 

Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  Ticioos  meiiy 

Makiog  them  ransack  to  the  very  Jast 

The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vanish 'd  joys ; 

Or  bay  in  scifish  marriage  some  young  victim. 

Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that's  honest, 

Too  feeling  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 

Our  wedlock  was  not  of  this  sort;  you  had 

Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in  answer 

Your  lather's  ciioice. 

Ang.  I  did  so;  I  would  do  so 
la  face  of  earth  and  heaven;  for  I  have  never 
Repented  for  my  sake;  sometimes  for  yours. 
In  pondering  o'er  your  late  disquietudes.* 

I>op€.  I  knew  my  heart  wonld  never  treat  yon  harslily ; 
I  knew  my  days  eoujd  not  disturb  you  long; 
And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 
His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again, 
Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skilful  to  select 
By  passing  these  probationary  years 
Inheriting  a  prince's  name  and  rielies , 
Secured,  by  the  short  penanoe  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law's  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  migbi. 
Have  urged  against  her  right;  —  my  best  friend's  child 
Would  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years. 
And  not  less  truly  in  a  faithftil  heart 

Anff.  My  lord,  I  look'd  but  to  my  father's  wbhca. 
Halfow'd  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 
Widi  foith  to  him  with  whom  I  was  afHaneed. 
Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  cross'd  my  dreams;  and  should 
The  hour  you  speak  of  come,  it  will  be  seen  so. 

Dq^.  1  do  believe  yon;  and  I  know  you  true: 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I  knew  to  be  iUusion,  and  ne^er  &w 
Lasthig,  but  often  fatal.  It  bad  been 
Mo  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 
And  eould  sot  be  so  now,  did  soeh  exist 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  j  our  welflue^  and 
A  free  eomplianee  with  all  honest  wishes; 
A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  ftiliugs 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  cheek 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  yon  know 
Too  had  been  won,  but  thought  the  ehangeyour  choioe; 
A  pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  oondnot,  — 
A  trust  in  you  —  a  patriarohal  love. 
And  not  a  doting  liOmage  —  friendship,  fhlth  -* 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
ITigfatelmm,  I  hoped  fbr. 

Am^.  And  hnve  ever  had. 

/loye.  I  think  so.  For  tlie  dHTerenee  In  oar  years, 
Ton  knew  It,  choosing  me,  and  eliose :  I  trusted 
Mot  to  my  qualities,  nor  wooM  have  fhHh 
In  siidi,  nor  outward  omameBts,  of  nature, 
Were  I  still  in  my  fite-and-twcntlcth  spring: 
I  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loradano 


Pure  in  your  veins;  I  trusted  to  the  soul 

God  gave  you  —  to  the  troths  your  fattier  taught  yon  -« 

Toyoiir  belief  in  heaven  —  to  your  mild  virtues  — 

To  your  own  &ith  and  honour,  fbr  my  own.  [trust, 

Anff,  Vou  have  done  weiL  —  I  thank  you  for  that 
Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honour  you  the  more  fbr. 
>  Doife*  Where  is  honour. 
Innate  and  precept-strengthen'd,  ^tis  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial ;  where  it  is  not  —  where 
Light  thoughts  arc  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
'Twerc  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood. 
Although  'twere  wed  to  him  it  covets  most: 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble-chiseird  beauty,  or 
The  demi«>deity,  Alcides,in 
His  migesty  of  superhuman  manhood, 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it: 
Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virtue  cannot  change. 
The  onoe  fall'n  woman  must  for  ever  fall ; 
For  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  son,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks  life,  and  light,  and  glory  from  her  aspect 

Angf.  And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in  others, 
(I  pray  yon  pardon  me;)  but  wherefore  yield  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fotaf  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno? 

Dojfe,  You  mistake  me. 
It  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus; 
Had  it  been  so,  he  should  -  -  but  let  that  pass. 

Att0»  What  Is 't  you  feel  so  deeply,  then,  even  now? 

Deg€,  The  violated  majesty  of  Venioe, 
At  onoe  insulted  in  her  lord  and  hiws. 

An^  Alas  I  why  will  you  tlius  consider  it?  [baek 

Doff0.  I  have  thought  on  't  till  —  but  let  me  lead  you 
To  what  I  uiged ;  all  these  things  being  noted, 
I  wedded  you;  the  world  then  did  me  justiee 
Upon  the  motive,  and  my  eonduot  proved 
They  did  me  right,  while  yours  was  all  to  praise : 
You  had  all  freedom  —  all  respect  —  all  trust 
From  me  and  mine ;  and,  born  of  those  who  made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  firom  tlieir  thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  jrou  appear'd 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

Anjf.  To  what  does  this  ooodnet  ? 

D00e.  To  thus  much  -*-  tliat 
A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all  — 
A  villain,  whom  for  his  unbridled  bearing, 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  olfanibcrs; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart. 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison; 
And  woman's  innooenee,  man's  lionour,  pass 
Into  a  by-word;  and  the  doubly  felon 


352 


MARINO  FALIBRO. 


ACT  B. 


(Who  first  iotnlted  wgiii  modesty 
By  a  gross  affront  to  yoar  attendant  damsels. 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 
Requite  himself  for  his  most  jast  expulsion, 
By  blaiskening  pablicly  his  sovereign's  consort, 
And  be  absolved  by  his  upright  compeers. 

Ang,  But  lie  has  been  condemned  Into  captivity. 

Doge,  For  such'as  him  a  dungeon  were  acquittal; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a  palace.  But  Tve  done  with  him; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 

Ang,  With  me,  my  lord? 

Doge,  Yes,  Angiolina.  J>o  not  marvel ;  I 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  1  fed  ^ 

My  life  cannot  be  long;  and  fain  would  have  you 
Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 
This  scroll  (Giviog  her  a  ptper)  -^  Fear  not;  they  are  for 

your  advantage: 
Read  them  hereafter,  at  the  fitting  hour. 

Ang.  My  lord,  in  life,  and  after  life,  yon  shall 
Be  honoured  still  by  me :  but  may  your  days 
Be  many  yet  •—  and  happier  than  the  presentj 
This  passion  will  give  way,  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be  — what  yon  were. 

Doge,  I  will  be  what  I  should  be,  or  be  nothing; 
But  never  more  ^  oh !  never,  never  more, 
O'er  the  few  days  or  hours  which  yet  await 
The  blighted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Sweet  quiet  shed  her  sunset !  Never  more  * 

Those  summer-shadows  rising  from  the  past 
Of  a  not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life, 
Mellomng  the  last  hours  as  the  night  approaches, 
Shall  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest 
I  had  but  little  more  to  task,  or  hope. 
Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat. 
And  the  soul's  labour  through  which  I  had  toilM 
To  make  m.y  country  honour'd.  As  her  servant  — 
Her  servant,  though  her  chief—  I  would  have  gone 
Down  to  my  fathers  with  a  name  serene 
And  pure  as  theirs;  but  this  has  been  denied  me.  •» 
Would  I  had  died  at  Zaral 

Ang,  There  yon  saved 
The  state;  then  live  to  save  her  still.  A  day 
Another  day  like  that  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them  and  sole  revenge  for  yon. 

Doge,  But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age; 
My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  'tis 
Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once, 
That  which  scarce  one  more  fovonr'd  eitizen 
May  win  in  many  states  and  years.  But  why 
Thus  speak  I?  Venice  has  forgot  that  day  — 
Then  why  should  I  remember  it  ?  — -  Farewell, 
Sweet  Angiolina!  I  must  to  my  cabinet ; 
There's  mdch  for  me  to  do  —  and  the  hour  hastens. 

Ang,  Remember  what  yon  were. 

Doge,  It  were  in  vain ! 
Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  joy. 
While  sorrow's  memory  is  a  sorrow  still. 

Ang,  At  least,  wbate'er  may  urge,  let  me  implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pause  of  rest: 
Your  sleep  for  many  nights  has  been  so  turbid. 


That  it  had  been  relief  to  have  awaked  yon. 

Had  I  not  hoped  tliat  nature  would  o'crpower 

At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  slumbers  thus. 

An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  t<Hl8 

With  fitter  thoughts  and  fireshen'd  strength. 

Doge,  I  cannot  — 
I  must  not,  if  I  could;  for  never  waa 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful:  yet  a  few  — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights. 
And  I  shall  slumber  well  —  but  where?  —  no  matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

Ang,  Let  me  be 
An  instant  —  yet  an  instant  your  oompaoion; 
I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 

Doge,  Come  then. 
My  gentle  child  -forgive  me;  thou  wert  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine. 
Now  darkling  in  their  dose  toward  the  deep  vale 
Where  Death  sits  robed  in  his  all-sweeping  shadoir. 
When  I  am  gone  —  it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirring 
Within  —  above  —  around,  that  in  this  dty 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  irerc  by  pestilenee  or  war,  — 
When  I  am  nothing,  let  that  which  I  wm 
Be  still  sometimes  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  shadow  in  thy  fancy,  of  a  thing 
Which  would  not  have  thee  mourn  it,  but  remember;  — 
Let  us  begone,  my  child  —  the  time  \b  preMlng.    lEas^L 

SCENE  H. 

A  retired  «poc  near  the  ArtcuL  ' 

ISAAIL  BXRTVCCiU    and    PuUjr    CkUtUOMMO, 

CaUndaro,  How  sped  you,  Israel,  in  your  lateeoia» 

Bert.  Why,  welL  [plaint? 

CaL  Is*t  possible!  will  he  be  punished  ? 

Bert,  Yes.      .  *     * 

Cal.  With  what?  a  mulct  or  an  arrest? 

Bert,  With  death!  — 

CaL  Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge. 
Such  as  I  counseird  you,  with  your  own  band. 

Bert.  Yes;  and  for  one  sole  draught  of  bate  fon^ 
The  great  redress  we  meditate  for  Yenioe, 
And  change  a  life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile ; 
Leaving  one  scorpion  crush'd,  and  thoosaiids  stiQgiog 
My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen! 
No,  Calendaro;  these  same  drops  of  blood. 
Shed  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 
For  their  requital  —  But  not  only  his; 
We  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs,  alone: 
Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men. 
But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

Cal,  You  have  more  patience  than  I  care  to  boast 
Had  I  been  present  when  you  bore  this  insult, 
I  must  have  slain  him,  or  expired  myself 
In  the  vain  effort  to  repress  my  wrath.  [marr'd; 

Bert  Thank  Heaven,  you  were  not*— all  had  else  been 
As  'tis,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  stilL 

Cal.  You  saw 
The  Doge  —-what  answer  gave  he  ? 


ACT  IL 


MABINO  FALIERO. 


353 


Bert,  That  there  was 
Ho  panishment  for  such  as  Barbaro. 

CmL  1  toM  yon  so  before,  and  that  'twas  idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

Bert.  At  least, 
It  Inll'd  saspicion,  showing  confidence* 
Had  I  been  silent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  bis  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

Cai,  Bnt  wherefore  not  address  yoa  to  the  Council? 
The  Doge  is  a  mere  puppet,  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.  Why  speak  to  Atm .' 

Bert,  You  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

CaL  Why  not  now?  ^ 

Bert.  Be  patient  but  till  midnight   Get  your  musters, 
And  bid  our  friends  prepare  their  companies :  — 
Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow. 
Perhaps  in  a  few  hours ;  we  have  long  waited 
For  a  fit  time  —  that  hour  is  on  the  dial. 
It  may  be  of  to-morrow's  sun:  delay 
Beyond  may  breed  us  double  danger.  See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting, 
And  arm'd,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 
Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wut 
The  signal. 

CaL  These  brave  words  have  breathed  new  life 
Into  my  veinaT^  I  am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  hesitating  councils :  day  on  day 
Crawl'd  on,  and  added  bat  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 
Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  oursdves. 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrants'  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deal  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  freedom! 
I'm  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

BerL  We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death !  the  grave 
Is  diainless.  Have  you  all  the  musters  ready  ? 
And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  sixty? 

Cal,  AU  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number. 

Bert.  No  matter ;  we  can  do  without  Whose  are  they? 

Ckl.  Bertram's  and  old  Soranso's,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

Bert.  Tour  fieiy  nature  makes  you  deem  all  those 
Who  arc  not  restless,  cold:  bnt  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  In  more  loud  avengers.  Do  not  doubt  them. 

CkL  1  do  no  doubt  the  elder;  bat  in  Bertram 
There  is  a  hesitating  softness,  ftital 
To  enterprise  like  oars:  I've  seen  that  man 
Weep  like  an  infimt  o'er  the  misery 
Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater; 
And  in  a  recent  quarrel  I  beheld  him 
Turn  sick  at  sight  of  blood,  altiiough  a  villain's. 

BerL  The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart  and  eyes. 
And  feel  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 
I  iMive  known  Bertram  long  I  there  doth  not  breathe 
A  sool  more  ftiU  of  honoar. 

Cmi.  It  may  be  so: 
I  apprehend  less  treachery  thaa  weakness; 


Yet,  as  he  has  nO  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkincss  of  spirit. 
He  may  go  througli  the  ordeal ;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us: 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

Bert  Such  ties  are  not 
For  those  who  are  cali'd  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one  — 
We  mast  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpose  — 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country  -— 
And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful, 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven. 
And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

CaL  But,  if  we  fail  — 

Bert*  They  never  fail  who  die 
In  a  great  cause :  the  block  may  soak  their  gore ; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun;  their  limbs 
Be  strung  to  city-gates  and  castle-walls  — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.  Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a  doom. 
They  but  augment  the  deep  and  sweeping  thoughts 
Which  o'erpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom.  What  were  we. 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived  ?  He  died  in  saving 
Rome  liberty,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson  *- 
A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time. 
When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 
Turns  servile:he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 
'<The  last  of  Romans!*'  Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

Oi/.  Our  feth6rs  did  not  fly  from  Attila 
Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprang 
On  banks  redeem'd  from  the  rude  ocean's  ooec, 
To  own  a  thousand  despots  in  his  place. 
Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 
A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silkworms  masters! 
The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 
As  sceptre:  these  unmanly  creeping  things 
Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 
As  with  a  spell. 

Bert.  It  shall  be  broken  soon. 
You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness; 
To-day  I  have  not  b^n  the  usual  round, 
And  why  thou  knowest;  but  thy  vigilance 
Will  better  have  supplied  my  care:  these  orders 
In  recent  ooun<»l,  to  redoable  now 
Oar  efforts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 
Lent  a  fiiir  colour  to  the  introdoction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal. 
As  new  artificers  for  thtir  equipoient. 
Or  fresh  recruits  obtain'd  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fieet  —  Are  all  supplied  with  arms  ? 

CtU.  All  who  were  deem'd  trustworthy;  there  are  some 
Whom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance 
Till  it  bo  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them ; 
When  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 
They  have  no  opportunity  to  pause. 
Bat  needs  most  on  with  those  who  will  sorrooad  them* 
23 


354 


MARINO  FALIBRa 


ACria 


Bert.  YoQ  ha  ve  said  we]L— Have  yoQ  rcmark'd  allrach? 

CaL  I've  uoted  most;  and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  cantioii  in  tiieir  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if 'tis 
Commenced  to-morrow ;  but  till  'tis  begun, 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 

Bert  Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted  hour. 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletto  Biondo, 
And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  ttieir  watch 
Within  the  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready. 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  Ax  on. 

CaL  Wc  will  not  ftiil. 

Bert  Let  all  the  rest  be  there;  <» 

I  have  a  stranger  to  present  to  them. 

CaL  A  stranger!  doth  he  know  the  secret? 

Bert  Yes. 

CaL  And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends'  lires 
On  a  rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not? 

Bert  I  have  risk'd  no  man's  life  except  my  own  — 
Of  that  be  certain :  be  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according 
His  aid;  and,  if  reluctant,  he  ao  liess 
Is  in  our  power;  he  comes  alone  with  me, 
And  cannot  'scape  us ;  but  he  will  not  swerve. 

CaL  I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know  him: 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

Bert  Ay,  in  spirit, 
Although  a  child  of  greatness;  he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow  oae  ^ 
One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great  changes; 
Ko  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny; 
Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ;  noUe 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ;  quick,  yet  wary : 
Yet  for  all  this,  so  foil  of  certain  passions. 
That  if  once  stirr'd  aad  baffled,  as  be  has  been 


Upon  the  tendcrest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  lifce  to  tliat  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  htsr  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  rerenge; 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal; 
He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppress'd. 
And  shares  their  sufferings.  Take  him  all  in  all. 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  us» 

CeX.  And  what  part  would  you  liave  him  take  with  as? 

Bert  It  may  be,  that  of  C3iie£. 

CaL  What!  and  resign 
Your  own  command  as  leader? 

Bert  Even  so. 
My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well. 
And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.  Experience, 
Some  skiU,  and  your  own  choice^  had  mark'd  me  oat 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear:  if  I  hare  found  such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  own  more  worthy^  think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness. 
And,  coretous  of  brief  authority. 
Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts. 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  qualities?  No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better;  but  you  all  shall  ju4g&  — 
Away !  and  let  us  meet  at  the  fix'd  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

CaL  Worthy  Bertnocio,  I  have  known  yoo  ever 
Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  Chief; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  I  know  not,  but 
I  am  with  you,  as  I  have  ever  been. 
In  all  our  undertakings.  Now  farewell, 
Until  tlie  hour  of  midnight  sees  ns  meet  £iik««k 


ACT       III. 


SOfiNE  I. 

Scene,  the  »pire  between  the  Canal  and  tfie  Chorch  of  San  Gloynmii  e 

San  Paolo.   An  eqae»trian  StalM  before  It.  —  A  Ooodoto  Hea  ia  tlie  OkMi 

aC  some  dIUtance. 

Enter    1m   J>o«n  Wont,  dlepiiiefl. 

Doge,  I  am  before  the  hour,  the  hour  whose  voice. 
Pealing  into  the  arch  of  niglil^  might  strike 
These  palaces  with  ominens  totlcring» 
And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  eoraer-stona^ 
W^aking  the  sleepers  from  some  hideous  deeam 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 

Of  th«it  which  will  befiill  tiienk  Yes,  prowl  city  1  [thee 
Thou  mnst  be  cleansed  of  the  black  Wood  which  makes 
A  hizar-house  of  tyranny :  the  task 


Is  forced  upon  me>  I  have  sought  it  not ; 

And  therefore  was  I  pnaisli'd,  seeing  this 

Patrician  pestilettce  spread  on  and  oa» 

Until  at  length  it  smotc me  mi^  shmabeiiB 

And  I  am  tainted,  and  must  wash. away 

The  plftgue-spots  in  the  hiealing  wavo.  Tall  fane! 

Where  sleep  my  iaChcrs,  whose  dim  statoca  shfadew 

The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dca<l. 

Where  all  tiie  prpgnaat  hearts  of  ««r  bold  bloo<l» 

Mouldcr'd  into  a  iiut6  of  ashes,  hold 

In  one  shrunk  heap  what  oaoe  amde  many  licraeSy 

When  what  is  now  a  handful  shook  tiie  eartb  — * 

Fane  of  the  tutelar  Saints  who  guard  our  house  1 

Vault,  where  two  Doges  rest  —  my  sires  X  wbo  died 

The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  aeid» 


^  in. 


liARlNO  FALIBRa 


355 


WUh  a  long  race  of  other  lineal  obiefii 

And  sages,  whose  great  labours,  woandSy  and  state 

i  hare  inherited,  —  let  the  grayes  gape, 

Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead. 

And  poor  them  from  thy  portals  to  gaze  on  me  I 

I  call  them  ap,  and  them  and  thee  to  witness 

What  it  hath  been  which  pat  me  to  this  task  — 

Their  pure  high  blood,  their  blason-roU  of  glories, 

Their  mightj  name  dishonour'd  all  m  Bie, 

Not  by  me,  bat  by  the  ungrate^  nobles 

We  foqght  to  make  our  equals,  not  our  lords:  -<- 

And  chiefly  thou,  Ordclafo  tlic  bravei. 

Who  perished  in  the  field,  where  I  since  ooaquer'd, 

Battling  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 

Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  offer'd  up 

By  thy  descendant  merit  such  aoquittanoe? 

Spirits!  smile  down  upon  me;  formyoanse 

Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  can  be  of  yours,  <--> 

Yoor  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  up  ia  miae» 

And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  raoe  \ 

Let  me  but  prosper,  and  I  make  this  city 

Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house'aname 

Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and  berealt^ ! 

Enter  IsfUtL  BuTVCCiO, 

BerL  Who  goes  there  ? 

Doffe.  A  friend  to  Venice. 

B^rL  'Tishc. 
Welcome,  my  lord,  —  you  are  before  the  time. 

Doge.  I  am  ready  to  proceed  to  your  assembly. 

BtrL  Have  with  you !  —  I  am  proud  and  pleased  to  see 
Such  confident  alacrity.  Your  doubts 
Snoc  oar  last  meeting,  then,  are  all  dispelled? 

Doge.  Not  so  —  but  I  have  set  my  little  left 
Oflifeupon  this  cast:  the  die  was  tbrowA 
When  I  first  listen'd  to  your  treason  —  Start  not! 
Tlat  is  the  word;  I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names. 
Though  I  be  wrought  on  to  commit  them.  When 
I  heard  you  tempt  your  sovereign,  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragg'd  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice :  now  you  may, 
If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 

BerL  Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most  unmerited ; 
I  am  no  spy,  and  neither  are  we  traitors.  [the  right 

Dege»  We! -^  We! —  no  matter  —  you  have  earn'd 
To  talk  of  ««.  —  But  to  the  point.  If  this 
Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  render'd  free 
And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves. 
Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs. 
And  makes  her  children  with  their  little  bands 
Strew  flowers  o'er  her  deliverers'  ashes,  then 
The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed, 
And  we  shaQ  be  like  the  two  Bmti  ia 
The  annals  of  hereafter ;  but  if  not. 
If  we  Should  fiul,  employing  bloody  means 
And  seoret  plot,  although  to  a  good  end. 
Still  we  are  traitors,  honest  Israel  ,*  —  thou 
No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 
Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother^rebel. 

Bert  'Tis  not  the  moment  to  consider  thus, 


£ls(9 1  eould  answer.  —  Let  us  to  tiie  meeting, 
Or  we  may  be  obsc^rved  in  lingering  here. 

Doge.  Vffi  are  observed,  and  have  been* 

BerU  We  observed! 
Let  me  discover  -*  and  this  steel  t^ 

Doge,  Put  up; 
Here  are  no  human  witnesses;  look  tliere  — 
What  see  you? 

BerU  Only  a  tall  warrior's  statue 
Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Ofthe  dull  moon. 

Doge.  That  warrior  was  the  sire 
Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  hinU»y  the  twice  rescued  city :  -^ 
Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us,  or  no  ? 

Bert.  My  lord,  these  are  mere  phantasies  j  there  are 
No  eyes  in  marble. 

Doge.  But  there  are  inDeath. 
I  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spirit  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  felt ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  spell  to  stir  the  dead, 
'Tis  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon* 
Deemst  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief, 
Stands  plotting  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  graves 
With  stung  plebeians? 

Bert.  It  had  been  as  well 
To  have  ponder'd  this  before^  —  ere  you  embark'd 
In  our  great  enterprise.  «*  Do  you  repent? 

Doge.  No  -^  but  Ifeel,  and  shall  do  to  the  last 
I  cannot  quench  a  glorious  life  at  once. 
Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  must  be^ 
And  take  men's  lives  by  stealth,  without  some  pause: 
Yet  doubt  me  not,  it  is  this  very  feeling, 
And  knowing  what  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus. 
Which  is  your  best  security.  There's  not 
A  roused  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 
So  wrong'd  as  I,  so  fallen,  so  loudly  call'd 
To  his  redress ;  the  very  means  I  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such. 
That  I  abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I  must  do  to  pay  them  baek  for  theirs. 

Bert.  Let  us  away  —  hark !  —  the  hour  strikes. 

Doge.  On  —  on  — 
It  is  our  knell,  or  that  of  Venice  —  On.  — 

Bert.  Say,  rather,  'tis  her  freedom's  rising  peal 
Of  triumph — This  way  —  we  are  near  the  place.    [ExeaoL 

SCENE  IL 

The  House  where  the  Cbn«pfarators  meet 

Daoolino,  Doro,  BsBTaiMy  FvDKLB  TaBTiiANO,  Calkxparo*  Antonio 
DBixR  Brnus,  etc 

CaL  (eoteriD^  Are  all  here? 

Dagolino.  All  with  you:  except  the  three 
On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  is  expected  momently. 

CaL  Where's  Bertram? 

Bertram.  Here!  * 

Col.  Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 
The  number  wanting  in  your  company? 


356 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


ACT  m 


Bertram,  I  had  mark'd  out  some:  but  I  have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  lyth. 

CaL  There  is  no  need 
Of  trusting  to  their  faith :  who,  save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fully  of  our  intent?  they  think  themselves 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory, 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses ; 
But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  well-flesh'd 
In  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators, 
They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 
The  example  of  their  chiefs ;  and  I  for  one 
Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
And  safety  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish'd. 

Bertram,  How  say  you?  all! 

CaL  Whom  wouldst  thou  spare? 

Bertram,  I  spare? 
I  have  no  power  to  spare.  I  only  questioned, 
Thinking  that  even  amongst  these  wicked  men 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Blight  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

CaL  Yes,  such  pity 
As  when  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  son 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 
Deserve  and  have.  Why,  I  should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these :  they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain  —  one  mass,  one  breath,  one  body; 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together, 
Revel,  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  oonoert,  — 
So  let  them  die  as  onef 

Dag,  Sliould  <me  survive. 
He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole:  it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy 
Which  must  be  rooted  out ;  and  if  there  were 
A  single  shoot  of  the  old  tree  in  life, 
'Twould  fksten  in  the  soil  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bitter  fruit. 
Bertram,  we  must  be  firm ! 

CaL  Look  to  it  well, 
Bertram ;  I  have  an  eye  upon  thee. 

Bertram.  Who 
Distrusts  me? 

CaL  Not  I;  for  if  I  did  so, 
Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  trust: 
It  is  tby  softness,  not  thy  want  of  fiiith. 
Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

9  B^r/ritm.  You  should  know 
Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am ;  a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppression; 
A  kind  man,  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me;  and  if  brave  or  no. 
You,  Calendaro,-ean  pronounoe,  who  have  seen  me 
Put  to  the  proof;  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 
I'll  clear  them  on  your  person ! 


Col,  You  are  welcome. 
When  once  our  enterprise  is  o'er,  which  mast  not 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 

Bertram.  I  am  no  brawler;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me;  else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades?  but  no  less 
I  own  my  natural  weakness;  I  have  not 
Yet  learn'd  to  think  of  indiscrimi nate  murder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering ;  and  the  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  not 
To  me  a  thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  men  surprised  a  glory.  Wdl  —  too  well 
I  know  that  we  must  do  such  things  on  those 
Whose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers;  but 
If  there  were  some  of  these  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate^  fi»r  our  own  sakes 
And  for  our  honour,  to  take  off  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 
I  had  been  glad;  and  see  no  cause  in  this 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion! 

Dag,  Calm  thee,  Bertram; 
For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  good  heart 
It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands:  we'll  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom's  fountain! 

Enter  Israel  Butvocio  and  ibe  Doci,  ditfuwd. 

Dag,  Welcome,  Israel.  [art  late  ^ 

Contptraton,  Mostweloome. — Brave Beilaccioy  thou 
Who  is  this  stranger  ? 

CaL  It  is  time  to  name  him. 
Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet  hiia 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  known 
That  thou  wouldst  add  a  brother  to  our  cause. 
Approved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  by  all. 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.  Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 

Bert,  Stranger,  step  forth !        CThe  Doge  diicovan  hmidc. 

Contp,  To  arms!  —  we  are  betray 'd  ~  it  is  the  I>ogcl 
Down  with  them  both !  our  traitorous  captain,  and 
The  tyrant  he  hath  sold  us  to! 

CaL  (drawing  hU  sword)  Hold  f  Hold  1 

Who  moves  a  step  against  them  dies.  Hold !  hear 

Bertuccio  —  What!  are  you  appalFd  to  see 

A  lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man 

Amongst  yon  ? — Israel,  speak !  what  means  this  mystery ! 

Bert,  Let  them  advance  and  strike  at  thdr  own  boaoai^ 
Ungrateful  suicides!  for  on  our  lives 
Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  and  their  hopes. 

Doge.  Strike!  —  If  I  dreaded  death,  a  death  UMira 
Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict,  [fcnttti 

I  should  not  now  be  here :  —  Oh,  noble  Courage ! 
The  eldest-born  of  Fear,  which  makes  you  biUTe 
Against  this  solitary  hoary  head! 
Sec  the  bold  chieft,  who  would  reform  a  state 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and  dread 
At  sight  of  one  patrician!  —  Butcher  me. 
You  can;  I  care  not  —  Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of?  look  upon  them ! 

CaL  Faith!  he  hath  shamed  ns,  and  deservedly. 


4Cr  IIL 


MimiNO  FALIBRO. 


357 


Was  this  yoar  tnut  ia  joar  true  «faief  B«rtiic«»o» 
To  tarn  your  swords  against  him  and  bis  guest? 
Sheathe  them,  and  bear  him. 

Bert.  I  disdain  to  speak. 
Tbey  might  and  most  have  Imown  a  heart  like  mine 
Incapable  of  treachery ;  and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  all  6tdng  means 
To  ftirtber  their  design  was  ne'er  abased* 
They  might  be  certain  that  whoe'er  was  brooght 
By  me  into  this  conncil,  bad  been  Jed 
To  take  his  choioe  —  as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

Dojf€,  And  whidi  am  I  to  be?  yonr  actions  leave 
Some  caiMc  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choioe. 

Bert.  My  lord,  we  would  have  perish'd  here  togetJicr, 
Had  these  rash  men  proceeded;  but,  behold, 
They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  impulse. 
And  droop  their  heads;  believe  me,  tbey  are  such 
As  I  described  them.  -—  Speak  to  them. 

CW.  Ay,  speak; 
We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

Btrt  (addrcttiDg  tht  consplratora)  YoU  are  Safe, 

Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant  —  listen  then, 
And  know  my  words  for  truths 

Ihffe,  You  see  me  here, 
As  one  of  yon  hath  said,  an  old,  unarm'd, 
Defenceless  man;  and  yesterday  yon  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  ball  of  ducal  state, 
Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles, 
Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  mine. 
Nor  yours,  but  of  our  masters  —  the  patricians. 
Why  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know ; 
Why  I  am  here,  he  who  hath  been  most  wroog'd, 
He  who  among  yon  hath  been  most  insulted, 
Oatiaged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me, 
Asking  of  his  own  heart  what  brought  him  here? 
Ton  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it, 
Aod  judge  of  it  for  differently  from  those 
Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 
Bvt  spare  me  the  recital  —  it  is  here, 
Here  at  my  heart  the  outrage  — » but  my  words, 
Already  spent  in  unavailing  plaints, 
Would  only  show  my  feebleness  the  more, 
And  I  come  here  to  strengthen  even  the  strong, 
Aod  urge  them  on  to  deeds,  and  not  to  war 
With  woman's  weapons ;  but  I  need  not  urge  you. 
Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public  vices 
In  this  —  I  cannot  call  it  common-wealth 
Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  ndther  prince  nor  people, 
But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 
Without  its  virtues  —  temperance  and  valour. 
The  lords  of  Lacedemon  were  true  soldiers, 
But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 
Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved. 
Although  drest  out  to  head  a  pageant,  as 
The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 
A  pastime  for  their  children.  You  are  met 
To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  state, 
This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre^ 
Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood,  —  and  theui 


We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 

Condensing  in  a  &ir  free  common- wealth 

Not  rash  equality,  but  equal  rights, 

Proportion'd  like  the  columns  to  the  temple, 

Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 

And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 

So  that  no  part  could  be  removed  without 

Infri  ngement  of  the  general  symmetry. 

In  operating  tiiis  great  change,  I  claim 

To  be  one  of  you  —  if  you  trust  in  me; 

If  not,  strike  home,  —  my  life  is  compromised, 

And  I  would  rather  fall  by  freemen's  hands 

Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 

As  delegate  of  tyrants;  such  I  am  not, 

And  never  have  been  —  read  it  iu  our  annals; 

I  can  appeal  to  my  past  government 

In  many  lands  and  cities ;  they  can  tell  you 

If  I  were  an  oppressor,  or  a  man 

Feeling  and  thinking  (or  my  fellow-men. 

Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senate  sought, 

A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  disen'd  out 

To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign's  picture; 

A  popular  scourge,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 

A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "the  Forty,'' 

A  sceptic  of  all  measures  which  had  not 

The  sanction  of  "The  Ten,"  a  council-fawner, 

A  tool,  a  fool,  a  poppet,  —  tbey  bad  ne'er 

Foster'd  the  wretch  who  stung  me.  What  I  suffer 

Has  reach'd  me  through  my  pity  for  the  people; 

That  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 

Will  one  day  learn :  meantime,  I  do  devote, 

Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life  ~« 

My  present  power,  such  as  it  is,  not  that 

Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  who  has  been  great 

Before  he  was  degraded  to  a  Doge, 

And  still  bas  individual  means  and  mind ; 

I  stake  my  fame  (and  I  had  fame)  my  breath 

(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh)  — 

My  heart  —  my  hope  —  my  soul  —  upon  Uiis  cast ! 

Such  as  I  am,  I  offer  me  to  you 

And  to  your  chiefs ;  accept  me  or  reject  me, 

A  prince  who  fain  would  be  a  citizen 

Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

Cal,  Long  live  Falicro!  —  Venice  shall  be  free ! 

Coiiirp.  Long  live  Faliero! 

Bert,  Comrades!  did  I  well? 
Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause? 

Dope.  This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
For  exultation.  Am  I  one  of  you? 

CaL  Ay,  and  the  first  amongst  us,  as  thou  hast  been 
Of  Venice  —  be  our  general  and  chief. 

Dot^e.  Chief!  —  General!  —  I  was  general  at  Zara, 
And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Venice; 
I  cannot  stoop  —  that  is.  I  am  not  fit 
To  lead  a  band  of—  patriots :  when  I  lay 
Aside  tho  dignities  which  I  have  borne, 
'Tis  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 
Mate  to  my  fellows  ~  but  now  to  the  point: 
Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  pbtn  *- 
'Tis  bold,  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it. 
And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 


358 


MARIKO  FAIilBRO,. 


ACT  m. 


CaL  B'cn  wIicd  thou  wilt  —  is  it  not  so,  my  friends? 
I  haTc  disposed  all  for  a  sadden  blow; 
When  shall  it  be  then? 

Doffe,  At  sunrise. 

Bertram,  So  soon? 

Dpfjie,  So  soon?  — so  lato  ^  each  hour  acoumnlates 
Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 
Since  1  have  mingled  witii  you;  know  you  not 
The  Conneil,  and  **The  Ten?"  the  spies,  the  eyes 
Of  the  patricians  dubious  of  their  slaves. 
And  now  more  dubious  of  the  prince  they  haTO  made  one? 
I  tell  you  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 
Full  to  the  Hydra's  heart  —  its  heads  will  follow. 

CaL  With  all  my  soul  and  sword  I  yield  assent: 
Our  companies  are  ready,  sixty  each, 
And  all  now  under  arms  by  Israel's  order; 
Each  at  their  different  place  of  rendezvous, 
And  vigilant,  expectant  of  some  blow; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post! 
And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal? 

Doge.  When  you  liear  / 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Mark's,  which  may  not  be 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge, 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince) 
March  on  Saint  Mark's! 

Bert.  And  there?  — 

Doge,  By  different  routes 
Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a  sepairate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  way  let  your  ory  be  of  war 
A nd  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  dawn 
Discern'd  before  the  port;  form  round  the  palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  ont  in  arms 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house. 
Many  and  martial;  while  the  bell  tolls  on. 
Shout  ye,  "Saint  Mark !  —  the  foe  is  on  our  waters !" 

CaL  I  see  it  now  —  but  on,  my  noble  lord. 

Doge,  All  the  patricians  flocking  to  the  Council 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron-saint's  proud  tower) 
Will  then  be  gathered  in  unto  the  harvest. 
And  we  will  reap  them  with  the  sword  for  sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  then,' 
'Twill  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single. 
When  the  majority  arc  put  to  rest. 

CaL  Would  that  the  hour  were  come !  we  will  not  scotch, 
But  kill. 

Bertram,  Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardon,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I  ask'd 
Before  Bcrtuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims  —  must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter? 

Col,  All  who  encounter  me  and  mine,  be  sure, 
The  mercy  they  have  shown,  I  show. 

Consp,  All!  all! 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  pity?  when 
Have  they  c*er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign 'd  it? 

Bert,  Bertram, 


This  false  cooipMsion  ik  a  folly,  and 

Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  eaose! 

Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 

Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenge 

The  fallen?  and  bow  distinguish  now  the  ianoeent 

From  out  the  guilty?  alt  their  acts  are  erne  — 

A  single  emanation  from  one  body. 

Together  knit  for  our  oppression !  'Tts 

Much  that  we  let  their  diildren  Kve;  I  donbl 

If  all  of  these  even  should  be  set  apart; 

The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 

From  out  the  tiger's  litter,  but  wlm  e'er 

Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 

Unless  to  perish  by  their^fangs?  However, 

I  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  counsel; 

Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 

Doge.  Ask  me  not— tempt  me  not  with  siicii  a  question- 
Decide  yourselves. 

Bert  You  know  their  private  virtues 
Far  better  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  fonloppreaaion. 
Have  made  them  deadly ;  if  there  be  amongst  Aem 
One  who  deserves  to  be  repeafd,  pronounce. 

Doge,  Doifino's  father  was  my  fnend,  and  Lando 
Fouglit  by  my  side,  and  Marc  Ck>rnaro  shared 
My  Genoese  embassy;  I  saved  the  life 
Of  Ycniero  —  shall  I  save  it  twice? 
Would  that  I  could  save  them  and  Yeniee  also! 
All  these  men,  or  their  fathers,  were  my  fKeodn 
Tilt  they  became  my  subjects ;  then  fell  from  me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o'erblowB  flower^ 
And  left  me  a  lone  blighted  thorny  stalk. 
Which,  in  its  solitude,  can  shelter  nothing; 
So,  as  they  let  me  wither,  let  them  perisli! 

CaL  They  cannot  co->exist  with  Venice'  freedom! 

Doge,  Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  oar  mutual  masi 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant 
What  fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  life. 
To  human  ties,  and  all  that's  good  and  dear. 
Lurks  in  the  present  institutes  of  Venice: 
AH  these  men  were  my  friends ;  I  loved  them,  tbey 
Requited  honourably  my  regards; 
Wc  served  and  fought;  we  smiled  and  wept  in  conocrt; 
We  revell'd  or  we  sorrow'd  side  by  side; 
We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage; 
We  grew  in  years  and  honours  fairly,  till 
Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 
Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  and  then  fioevreB! 
Farewell  all  social  memory!  all  thoughts 
In  common!  and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old  friemlships. 
When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actions. 
Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  otber. 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beh<rids  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  century  on  his  brother's  brow> 
And  sees  a  hundred  beings,  now  in  earth, 
Flit  round  them  whispering  of  the  days  gone  by. 
And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band,  * 

Which  once  were  one  and  many,  stiU  retain 


ACT  ni. 


MARINO  FALfBRO. 


359 


A  brcatb  to  sigh  for  tbelki,  a  tongVke  to  Speak 
Of  deeds  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  marble  *^ 
Oimet  Oinie!  — and  nmstl  do  this  deed? 

BerL  My  lord,  yon  are  maoh  moved:  it  is  not  now 
That  such  things  must  be  dwelt  apon. 

Doffe,  Tour  patience 
A  moment  -—  I  recede  not:  mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government  [me  — 

From  the  hour  that  made  me  Doge,  the  Dope  they  made 
Farewell  the  past!  I  died  to  all  that  had  been, 
Or  rather  they  to  me:  no  friends,  no  kindness. 
No  privacy  of  life  *-  all  were  cut  off: 
They  came  not  near  me,  suchapprdtfch  gave  umbrage; 
Tbey  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law; 
They  thwarted  me,  'twas  the  statcfs  policy; 
They  baffled  me,  'twas  a  patrician's  duty ; 
They  wrong*d  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the  state; 
They  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion; 
So  that  I  was  a  stave  to  my  own  subjects; 
So  that  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friends; 
Begirt  with  spies  fbr  guards  —  with  robes  ibr  power  — 
With  pomp  for  freedom  —  gaolers  for  a  council  — 
Inquisitors  for  friends  —  and  hell  for  life! 
I  had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 
And  iJuit  they  poison'd !  My  pure  household-gods 
Were  shivcr'd  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  their  shrine 
Sate  grinning  Ribaldry  and  sneering  Scorn. 

Bert.  You  have  been  deeply  wrong*d,and  now  shall  be 
Nobly  avenged  before  another  night. 

Do^e.  I  had  borne  all  —  it  hurt  me^  but  1  bdre  it  ^ 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness  —  until  this  last  lOUd  Insult, 

Not  only  unredress'd,  but  sanctioned;  then, 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  feelings  from  me  — 
The  feelings  which  they  crush'd  for  me,  long,  long  . 

Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  ihisc  allegiance! 

Bvcn  in  that  very  hour  and  vow  they  abjured 

Their  friend  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  boys  make 

Phiylbings,  to  do  their  pleasure  and  be  broken  I 

I  from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 

la  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 

Brooding  with  him  In  mutual  hate  and  fear; 

They  dreading  lie  should  snatch  the  tyranny 

Prom  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrants. 

To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  private  life, 

Nor  claim  to  tics  they  have  cut  off  from  others; 

As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 

Amenable,  1  look  on  them  —  as  such 

Let  them  be  dealt  upon. 
CmL  And  now  to  action ! 

Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 

The  htit  niglit  of  mere  words :  I'd  fain  be  doing ! 

Ssiot  Mark's  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me  wakeftil! 
BerL  Disperse  then  to  your  posts ;  be  firm  arid  vigilant ; 

Think  on  the  wrongs  we  bear,  Uie  rights  we  daim. 
day  and  night  shall  be  (he  hist  of  peril ! 
'atch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march.    I  go 

Id  join  my  band;  let  each  be  prompt  to  marshal 
separate  charge :  the  Doge  will  now  return 
the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 
>  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory ! 


Of/.  Doge,  wfaien  I  greet  you  next,  my  homage  to  you 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword ! 

Do^e.  No;  let  him  be  reserved  unto  the  last, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  prey, 
Till  nobler  game  is  quarried ;  his  olTence 
Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy ;  he  could  not  — 
He  dared  not  in  more  lionourablc  days 
Have  risk'd  it!  I  have  merged  all  private  wrath 
Against  him,  in  tlic  thought  of  our  great  purpose 
A  slave  insults  me  —  1  require  his  punishment 
From  his  proud  master's  hands;  if  he  refuse  it. 
The  oficnce  grows  bis,  and  let  him  answer  it 

Cal.  Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I  would  repay  him  as  he  merits;  may  It 

Doge,  You  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I  the  bead ; 
Yon  would  but  smite  the  scholar,  I  the  master; 
You  would  but  punish  Steno,  1  the  seuatCi 
I  cannot  pause  on  individual  liate^ 
In  the  absorbing,  sweeping,  whole  revenge, 
Which,  like  the  sheeted  fire  from  heaven,  OMist  blast 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fell  of  yore, 
Where  the  Dead  Sea  hath  quench'd  two  cities'  ashes. 

Bert,  Away,  then,  to  your  posts!  IbiitreBiBiB 
A  moment  to  accompany  the  Doge 
To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been  upon  the  soont^  and  thenee  I  hasten 
To  where  my  allotted  band  is  under  arteflt 

CaL  Farewell,  then,  until  dawn  I 

Bert  Success  go  with  you ! 

Conep.  We  will  not  fail  —  away !  My  lord,  flifeweH ! 
CTbt  GoBspiratoTA  taMt  Uw  limit  Mid  Itkiii,  Btil. 
Tucoio,  wid  retire*  headed  by  Paiur  UAi.miABO. 
The  DooK  sod  Ukabl  Bearuccio  remain. 

Bert  We  have  them  in  the  toil  —  it  cannot  fail! 
Now  thou'rt  indeed  a  sovereign,  and  wilt  make 
A  name  immortal  greater  than  the  greatest : 
Free  eitiaeos  have  struck  at  kings  ere  now^ 
CsBsars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hnnda 
Have  crush'd  dictators,  as  the  popular  steel 
Has  reach'd  patricians;  but  until  tliis  hoar» 
What  prince  has  plotted  for  his  people's  freedom? 
Or  risk'd  a  life  to  liberate  his  subjects? 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  they  conspire 
Against  the  people,  to  abuse  thejr  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow-nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet, 
Notffht,  the  never-gorged  Leviathan! 
Now,  my  lord,  to  our  enterprise ;  'tis  great, 
And  greater  the  reward;  why  stand  you  rapt? 
A  moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience! 

Dope,  And  is  it  then  decided?  must  they  die? 

Bert  Who? 

Doffe.  My  own  friends  by  blood  and  courtesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days  —  the  senator^? 

Bert  You  pass*d  their  sentence,  and  if  is  a  just  one. 


360 


MARINO  FALIBBO. 


ACT  lit 


Dog^,  Ay,  so  k  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  ymc; 
Yon  are  a  patriot,  a  plebekn  Graochos  — 
Tlie  rebel's  oracle  —  the  people's  tribane  — 
I  blame  y oa  not,  you  act  in  your  vocation ; 
They  smote  yon,  and  oppress'dyou,  and  despised  you; 
So  they  have  me:  but  you  ne'er  spake  with  them; 
Yon  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their  salt ; 
Yon  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lipsf 
You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  wept. 
Nor  held  a  revel  in  their  company; 

^Ne'er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  daim'd  their  smile 
In  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted. 
Nor  wore  them  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I  hav^ : 
These  hairs  of  mine  are  gray,  and  so  are  theirs, 
The  elders  of  the  council;  I  remember 
When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 
As  we  went  forth  to  take  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  Mahometan : 
And  can  I  see  them  dabbled  o'er  with  blood? 
Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide. 

Bert,  Doge!  Doge!  this  vacillation  is  unworthy 
A  child;  if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood, 
Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose,  nor 
Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.  By  heavens!  I'd  rather 
Forego  even  now,  or  foil  in  our  intent. 
Than  see  the  man  I  venerate  subside 

.  From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weakness! 
You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 
Your  own  and  that  of  others ;  can  yon  shrink  then 
From  a  few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vampires, 
Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drain 'diVom  millions? 
Doge,  Bear  with  mel  Step  by  step,  and  blow  on  blow, 
I  will  divide  with  you;  think  not  I  waver: 
Ah!  no;  itisthec«r<at»<;yofall 
Which  I  must  do  doth  make  me  tremble  thus. 
But  let  these  last  and  lingering  thoughts  have  way, 
To  which  you  only  and  theNlght  are  conscious, 
And  both  regardless;  when  the  hour  arrives, 
'Tis  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the  blow, 
Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces. 
And  hew  the  highest  genealogie  trees 
Down  to  the  earth,  strew'd  with  their  bleeding  fruit, 
And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness: 
ThU  will  X  —  must  I  —  have  I  sworn  to  do. 
Nor  aught  can  tarn  me  from  my  destiny; 


But  still  I  quiver  to  behold  what  I 

Must  be,  and  think  what  I  have  been !  Bear  witli  me. 

Bert,  Re-man  your  breast;  1  feel  no  such  remone^ 
I  understand  it  not :  why  should  you  cliange? 
You  acted,  and  you  act  on  your  free  will. 

Dope,  Ay,  there  it  is  —  you  feel  not,  nor  do  I» 
Else  I  should  stab  thee  on  the  spot,  to  save 
A  thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder; 
You  feel  not  — you  go  to  this  butcher-work 
As  if  these  high  -born  men  were  steers  for  shambles! 
When  all  is  over,  you'll  be  free  and  merry. 
And  calmly  wash  those  hands  incarnadine; 
But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  ail  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be, 
Shall  see,  and  feel  —  oh  God !  oh  God !  'tis  true. 
And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
''My  own  free  will  and  act;"  and  yet  you  err. 
For  I  will  do  this !  Doubt  not  —  fear  not ;  I 
Will  be  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice ! 
And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  my  free  will, 
Nor  my  own  feelings  —  both  compel  me  back ; 
But  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around, 
And,  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles, 
Must  I  abhor  and  do.  Away!  Away! 
Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 
To  gather  the  retainers  of  our  house. 
Doubt  not.  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  wake  all  Venice, 
Except  her  slaughtered  senate:  ere  the  sun 
Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic,  there 
Shall  be  a  voice  of  weeping,  which  shall  drown 
The  roar  of  waters  in  the  cry  of  blood ! 
I  am  resolved  —  come  on. 

Bert,  With  ail  my  soul! 
Keep  a  firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  dealt  to  thee, 
And  that  this  sacrifice  will  be  succeeded 
By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city:  a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have  felt  the  strange  compunction  which  hath  wrung  yon 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  tlie  people! 
Trust  me,  such  were  a  pity  more  misplaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno.  (jars 

Doge,  'Mian,  thou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which 
Ail  nature  from  my  heart    Hence  to  our  task!     CKscui. 


ACT      IV. 


SCENE  I. 

Paluco  of  the  Patrician  Lioni.     Lioni  laying  aaide  the  nia«1c  and  cloak 
which  the  Venetian  Nobles  wore  Inj^ttblic,  attended  by  a  Domestic 

JUoni.  I  will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this  revel. 
The  gayest  we  have  held  for  many  moons^ 


And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  it  cheer'd  me  not; 
There  came  a  heaviness  across  my  heart. 
Which  in  the  lightest  movement  of  the  dance. 
Though  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  in  hand  united 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  opprcss'd  me, 
And  through  my  spirit  chilfd  my  blood,  until 


ACT  IT. 


MABINO  FALTSRa 


361 


A  damp  like  death  rose  o^er  my  brow;  I  stnyve 
To  laugh  the  thought  away,  but 't  would  aot  be; 
Through  all  the  music  rioging  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sonn^ng  as  distinct  and  olear^ 
Though  low  and  fiur,  as  e'er  the  Adrian  waTe 
Rose  o'er  the  city's  murmur  in  the  night. 
Dashing  against  the  outward  Udo's  bulwark; 
So  that  I  left  the  festiyal  before 
It  reached  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pfilow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  f6rgetfulness« 
Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  within  my  chamber. 

Anionio,  Yes,  my  lord: 
Command  yon  no  refreshment? 

JUonu  Nought,  save  sleep, 
Which  will  not  be  commanded.  Let  me  hope  it, 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious ;  I  will  try 

Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits:  'tis 

A  goodly  night;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 

From  the  Levant  hath  crept  into  its  cave, 

And  the  broad  moon  has  brigliten'd.  What  a  stillness! 

CGoei  to  OB  open  lattice. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left, 
Where  the  tall  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls, 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  gailcHes 
Adauling  mass  of  artificial  light. 
Which  show'd  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were. 
There  Age  essaying  to  recall  the  past, 
After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  the  sad  labour  of  the  toilet,  and 
Fall  many  a  glance  at  the  too  Ihithftil  mirror, 
Prank'd  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament. 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  folschood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  show,  yet  hide. 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fool'd. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  saoh 
Tain  adjuncts,  lavish'd  its  true  bloom,  and  health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
OCflush'd  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
hs  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  pleasure, 
And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streaiAs 
Oo  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  not 
Ebve  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine  — 
The  garlands,  the  rose-odours,  and  the  flowers  — 
The  sparkling  eyes  and  flashing  ornaments  — 
The  white  arms  and  tlie  raven  hair  —  the  braids 
And  bracelets;  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled ;  the  thin  robes 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixt  our  gaze  and  heaven; 
The  many-twrnkling  feet  so  small  and  sylph- like, 
Snggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  &ir  forms  which  terminate  so  well  -^ 
AH  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene, 
Its  felse  and  true  enchantments  —  art  and  nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch'd  pilgrim's 


On  Arab  sands  the  fhlse  nurage,  which  offers 

A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 

Are  gone.  —  Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters  — 

Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sight 

Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass ; 

And  the  great  element,  which  ia  to  space 

What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 

Soften'd  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring ; 

The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 

Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 

Of  those  tail  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces, 

Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 

Frau^t  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles, 

Like  altars  ranged  along  ftie  broad  canal, 

Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 

Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 

Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 

Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics. 

Which  point  in  Sgjrpf  s  plains  to  times  that  hare 

No  other  record.  All  is  gentle:  nought 

Stirs  rudely ;  but,  congenial  with  the  night, 

Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit 

The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 

Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress, 

And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 

That  he  is  not  unheard ;  while  her  young  hand, 

Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part. 

So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 

The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice. 

To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 

Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ;  —  the  dash 

Pliosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 

Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas^ 

And  the  responsive  voioes  of  the  choir 

Of  boatmen  answering  baok  with  v^se  for  verse; 

Some  dusky  shadow  chequering  the  Rialto; 

Some  glimmering  palace- roof^  or  tapering  spire. 

Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 

The  ocean-oorn  and  earth-commanding  city. — 

How  sweet  and  soothii^  is  this  hour  of  calm! 

I  thank  thee,  Night!  for  thou  hast  chased  away 

Those  horrid  bodements  wliioh,  amidst  the  throng, 

I  could  not  dissipate:  and  with  the  blessing 

Of  thy  benign  and  quiet  influence. 

Now  will  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

Is  almost  wronging  such  a  night  as  this  — 

Ik  knoclclng  U  heard  ft-om  witliotft 

Hark!  what  is  that?  or  who  at  such  a  moment? 
Enter  Amtomio. 

Antomo,  Hy  lord,  a  man  without,  oo  nigent  business. 
Implores  to  be  admitted. 

lAoni  Is  be  a  stranger? 

Antonio,  His  face  is  muffled  in  his  doak,  but  both 
His  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me; 
I  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem'd  reluctant 
Tb  trust,  save  to  yourself;  Aiost  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

Lionu  'Tis  a  strange  hoar,  and  a  suspicious  bearing ! 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :  'tis  not  in 
Their  houses  noUe  men  are  struck  at;  stilly 

83* 


362 


MARINO  FALIKRO. 


ACrn. 


Althoagh  I  Icnow  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  'twUJ  be  wise  to  use  some  oaatioo. 
Admit  him,  and  retire ;  but  call  up  quickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without.  — 
Who  can  this  man  be  ? 

Exit  Antonio,  and  retnrn«  with  Bkktcam  maflad. 

Bertram,  My  good  Lord  Lioni, 
I  ha?e  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou  —  dismiss 
This  menial  hence;  I  would  be  private  with  yon. 

Ztont.  It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram  ^  go,  Antonio. 

CBxk  AnlMle. 

Now,  stranger,  wluit  would  you  at  auofa  an  hour? 

Bertram  (diiooTerioK  Mmseif).  A  boon,  my  nobJe  patron; 
you  have  granted 
Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertram;  add 
This  one,  and  make  him  liappy, 

JJimu  Thou  hast  known  me 
From  boyhood,  ever  ready  to  aatist  thee 
In  all  fair  objects  of  advancemeat,  which 
Beseem  one  of  thy  station ;  I  would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour. 
Thy  bearing,  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  give  me  to  suspect  this  viait 
Hath  some  mysterious  import  ~  but  say  on  — 
Wliat  has  occurred?  some  rash  and  sudden  broil? 
A  cup  too  much,  a  scuffle,  and  a  stab?  -^ 
Mere  things  of  every  day;  so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  gvaraoteo  thy  safety; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  Arlcnds 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance. 
Are  tilings  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

Bertram,  My  lord,  I  thank  you;  but  — 

Lionu  But  what?  You  have  not 
Raised  a  rash' band  against  one  of  our  order? 
If  so,  withdraw  and  fly,  and  own  it  not ; 
I  would  not  slay  —  but  then  I  must  not  save  thcc! 
He  who  has  shod  patrician  blood  — 

Bertram,  I  come 
To  save  patrician  blood,  and  not  to  shed  it! 
And  thereunto  I  must  be  speedy,  for 
Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a  life :  since  Time 
Has  changed  his  slow  scythe  for  thetwo*edged  sword. 
And  is  about  to  take,  instead  of  sand, 
The  dust  from  sepulchres  to  fill  his  hoar-glass ! 
Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow ! 

Lioni,  Wherefore  not  ? 
What  means  this  menace? 

Bertram.  Do  not  seek  its  meaning. 
But  do  as  I  implore  thee;  —  stir  not  forth, 
Whate'cr  be  stirring;  though  the  roar  of  erowda  — 
The  cry  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes  — 
The  groans  of  men  —  the  clash  of  arms  —  the  sound 
Of  roHing  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  bell. 
Peal  in  one  wide  alarum  I  —  Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin 's  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I  return! 

ZtVmt.  Again,  what  does  this  mean? 

Bertram.  Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not;  but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven  --  by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  £eilbers,  and  thy  hope 


To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behlitd 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee  — 
By  all  thou  hast  of  Meat  in  hope  or  meoMU-y  — 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  here  or  hereafter  — 
By  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me. 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good. 
Remain  within  —  trust  to  thy  household-goda 
And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thoa  dost 
As  I  now  counsel  —  but  if  not,  thoQ  ml  lostl 

Zi<mt.  I  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wottder; 
Surely  tiiou  ravesti  what  have  I  to  dread! 
Who  are  my  foes?  or  if  there  be  such,  why 
Art  <Aqv  leagued  with  them?  —  thauf  or  if  so  leagued, 
Why  comest  thou  to  tell  me  at  thia  hour. 
And  not  before? 

Bertram.  I  cannot  answer  this. 
Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning-? 

lAonL  I  was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle  throats. 
The  cause  of  which  I  know  uot:  at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  sh^l  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent 

Bertram,  Say  not  so! 
Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  forth  ? 

Lioni,  I  am ;  nor  is  there  aught  which  shall  inipedeaie! 

Bertram,  Then  Heaven  have  merc^  on  thy  aonl !  — 
Farewell!  [goh^ 

Lvmt  Stay — there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own  safety 
Which  makes  me  eaJl  thee  back ;  we  must  not  part  thus: 
Bertram,  I  have  known  thee  long. 

Bertrum,  From  ohildhood,  signor. 
You  have  been  my  protector :  in  the  days 
Of  reckless  infancy,  wlien  rank  forgets. 
Or,  rather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  cold  prerogative,  we  played  together; 
Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  oft; 
My  father  was  your  fother's  client,  I 
His  son's  scarce  less  than  foster-brother ;  years 
Saw  us  together  —  happy,  heart-^full  hours !  — 
Oh  God !  the  difference  'twixt  those  hours  and  this ! 

Lioiii  Bertram,  'tis  thou  who  hast  forgotten  them. 

Bertram.  Nor  now,  nor  ever ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
I  would  hare  saved  you:  when  to  manhood  9  growth 
We  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state. 
As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 
Was  left  unto  the  labours  of  the  humble, 
SLill  you  forsook  mo  not;  and  if  my  fortunes 
Have  not  been  towering,  'twas  no  fault  of  hhti 
Who  oft-tknes  rescued  and  supported  me 
When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance 
Which  bear  away  the  weaker:  noUe  blood 
Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  tliiae 
Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 
Would  that  thy  fellow-senators  were  like  thee ! 

Lwm\  Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against  the  senate! 

Bertram,  Nothing. 

Lionu  I  know  that  there  are  angry  spirits 
And  turbulent  mutterers  of  stifled  treason 
Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night; 
Disbanded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians. 
And  desperate  libertines  wlio  brawl  in  taverns; 


I 


icr  i¥. 


MAIUKO  PALl£RO. 


363 


TKrahcrdestaotwHbsvcb:  'tUtnie»ofi«(o 
I  have  lost  sight  of  thee,  bat  Uioa  wcrt  wo&t 
To  lead  a  temperate  iife,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  ebeerful  aapeet 
What  hath  come  to  thee?  io  thy  hollow  eye  '^ 
And  hocless  cheek^.and  thine  unquiet  motions. 
Sorrow  and  shame  and  consoienoe  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

Bertram.  Rather  shame  and  sorrow  %ht 
On  the  aeoarsed  tyranny  which  rides 
The  yery  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
JIadden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  the  plagnc 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life !    [Bertram  ; 

Ia^,  Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with  thec>. 
Th»  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts ; 
Some  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with.disafieetion; 
But  thou  must  not  be  lost  so;  thou  W0rt  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  thee  to: 
Confess  —  confide  in  me  —  thou  knowst  my  nature  — 
What  is  it  thou  and  thine  are  bound  to  do» 
Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 
Of  him  who  was  a  friend  unto  thy  father. 
So  that  our  good-will  is  a  heritage 
We  should  bequeath  to  our  posterity 
Such  as  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented ; 
I  ay,  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 
Should  deemthoe  dangerous,  and  keep  the  house 
Like  a  sick  girl? 

Bertrmm.  Nay,  question  me  no  furtlicr: 
I  must  be  gone. — 

JUonL  And  I  be  mnrder'd  I  —  say. 
Was  it  not  thus  thou  saidst,  my  gentle  Bertram?  [der?  — 

Bertram,  Who  talks  of  murder?  what  said  i  of  mur- 
Tis  &lse!  I  did  not  utter  such  a  word. 

Ltom.  Thou  didst  not;  but  from  out  thy  wolfish  eye, 
So  changed  from  what  I  knew  it,  there  glares  forth 
The  gladiator.  If  my  life 's  thine  object. 
Take  it  —  I  am  unarmed  —  and  then  away  t 
I  would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such  a  tenure 
As  the  capricious  mercy  of  such  things 
As  thou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy  taskwork. 

Bertram,  Sooner  than  spill  thy  blood,  I  peril  mine; 
Sooner  than  harm  a  hair  of  thine,  I  place 
In  jeopardy  a  thousand  heads,  and  some 
Vs  noble,  nay,  even  nobler  than  thine  own. 

Ltont.  Ay,  is  it  even  so?  Excuse  me,  Bertram; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 
Prom  such  exalted  hecatombs  —  who  are  they 
That  are  in  danger,  and  that  make  the  danger? 

Bertrams  Venice,  and  all  that  she  inherits,  are 
CHvided  like  a  house  against  itself, 
.Vnd  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow's  twilight ! 

Uani,  More  mysteries,  and  awful  ones!  But  now, 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin;  speak  once  out, 
And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious;  for  'tis  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark  too  — 
Fie,  Bertram !  that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee ! 
Bow  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear  .  . 
The  head  of  him  whose  heart  was  open  to  thee. 


Borne  by  thy  hand  before  the  shudd^ng  people? 

And  such  may  be  my  doom;  for  here  1  swear, 

VV  hate'cr  the  peril  or  the  penalty 

Of  thy  denunciation,  I  go  forth, 

Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 

The  consequence  of  all  which  led  thee  here! 

Bertram.  Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee?  minutes  fly. 
And  thou  art  lost!  —  thou  !  my  sole  benefiu^tor. 
The  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 
Through  every  change.  Yet,  make  me  not  a  traitor  I 
Let  me  save  thee  —  but  spare  my  honour ! 

JUenL  Where 
Can  lie  tlie  honour  in  a  league  of  murder? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state? 

Bertram,  A  league  is  still  a  compact,  and  more  binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for  law ; . 
And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poniard 
Within  the  breast  whioli  trusted  to  his  truth. 

jAnmu  And  trAo  will  strike  the  steel  to  mine? 

Bertram,  Not  I; 
I  could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
Save  this.  7%cm  must  not  die!  and  think  how  dear 
Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives. 
Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the  liberty    / 
Of  ftiture  generations,  not  to  be 
The  assassin  thou  miscailst  me;  ~  once,  onoe  more 
1  do  adjure  thee^  pass  not  o'er  thy  threshold ! 

IaowL  It  is  in  vain  —  this  moment  I  go  forth. 

Bertram.  Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my  friend ! 
I  will  disclose  —  eiisnare  —  betray  —  destroy  — 
Oh,  what  a  villain  I  become  for  thee  I 

Lioni,  Say,  rather  thy  friend's  saviour  and  the  state's!  — 
Speak  —  pause  not  — <  all  rewards,  all  pledges  for 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welfare;  wealth  such  as 
The  state  accords  her  worthiest  servants;  nay. 
Nobility  Itself  I  guarantee  tliee. 
So  that  thou  art  sincere  and  penitent. 

Bertram,  I  have  thought  again :  it  most  not  be  —  I 
love  thee  — 
Thou  knowest  it  —  that  I  stand  here  is  the  proof. 
Not  least  though  last;  but  having  done  my  duty 
By  thee,  I  now  must  do  it  by  my  country  I 
Fbrewell !  —  we  oteet  no  more  in  life!  £EU*ewell ! 

JJani,  What,  ho !  Antonio  —  Pedro  —  to  the  door  I 
See  that  none  pass  —  arrest  this  man  I  — 

Enter  Amtonid  and  other  armed  Domevtlct^  wlio  mIm  BitSTiua. 

JUoni  (condDaea).  Take  care 
He  hath  no  harm ;  bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak ; 
And  man  the  gondola  with  four  oars  —  quick  - 

[Exit  Antoafo. 

Wc  will  unto  Giovanni  Gradenigo's, 

And  send  for  Marc  Cornaro:  —  fear  not,  Bertram; 

This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety. 

No  less  than  for  the  general  weal, 

Bertram,  Where  wouldst  thou 
Bear  me  a  prisoner? 

lAoni.  Firstly,  to  "The  Ten;" 
Next  to  the  Doge. 

Bertram.  To  the  Doge? 


364 


MARINO  FALIBRO. 


ACT  I?. 


Lioni,  Asiuredly; 
Is  he  not  chief  of  the  state? 

Bertram.  Perhaps  at  sanrise  — 

£aow\  What  mean  you?  —  but  we'll  know  anon* 

Bertram.  Art  sure? 

lAoni,  Sure  as  all  gentle  means  can  make;  and  if 
They  feil,  you  know  «The  Ten"  and  their  tribunal, 
And  that  Saint  Mark's  has  dungeons ,  and  the  dnngcoos 
A  rack. 

Bertram,  Apply  to  it  before  the  dawn 
Now  hastening  into  heaven.  ~  One  more  such  word. 
And  you  shall  perish  pieoemeaJ^  by  the  death 
Ye  think  to  doom  to  me. 

Re-oiter  Amtonio. 

Antonio.  The  bark  is  ready, 
My  lord,  and«ll  prepared. 

Liimi.  Look  to  the  prisoner. 
Bertram,  I'll  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico's,  sage  Gradenigo.  CBjMnc 

SCENE  n. 

The  Dnctl  Palace  —  th«  Dofj^'i  ApartmoiL 

The  DooB  Kod  hit  nephew  Bmtuooio  Fauemo. 

Dope.  Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in  muster? 

B,  Pal.  They  arc  array'd,  and  eager  for  the  signal. 
Within  our  palace-preoinots  at  San  Polo. 
I  come  for  your  last  orders. 

Doge.  It  had  been 
As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  together 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers  —  but  it  is  too  late. 

B.  Fal.  Methinks,  my  lord,  'tis  better  as  it  is; 
A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 
Had  waked  suspicion;  and,  though  fierce  and  trusty, 
The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 
And  quick  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintained 
The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 
A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

boge.  True;  but  when  once  the  siipial  has  been  given, 
Theee  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise: 
These  city-slaves  have  all  their  private  bias, 
Their  prejudice  againtt  or  for  this  noble. 
Which  may  induce  them  to  o'erdo  or  spare 
Where  mercy  may  be  madness ;  the  fierce  peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  county  of  Val  di  Marino, 
Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Distinguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes; 
Alike  to  them  Maroello  or  Cornaro, 
A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari ; 
They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names, 
Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate: 
A  chief  in  armour  is  their  sueerain. 
And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

B.Fai.  We  are  enough; 
And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  Ihe  senate  I  will  answer. 

Doge.  Well, 
The  die  is  thrown ;  but  for  a  warlike  service. 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasants; 


They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  <if  Hubs 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents. 
And  cowered  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
These  oitiaens  all  lions,  like  their  standard; 
But  if  there's  much  to  do,  you'll  wish,  with  me, 
A  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

B.  Fal.  Thus  thinking,  I  must  marvel  you  rcsoWed 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

Doge.  Such  blows 
Must  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.   When 
I  had  o'ermaster'd  the  weak  false  remorse 
Which  yeam'd  about  my  heart,  too  fondly  yielding 
A  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 
I  was  most  fledn  to  strike;  and,  firstly,  that 
I  might  not  yield  again  to  such  emotions; 
And,  secondly,  because  of  a|l  these  men. 
Save  Israel  and  Philip  Calendaro, 
I  know  not  well  the  courage  or  the  ftiith : 
To-day  might  find  'mongst  them  a  traitor  to  us. 
As  yesterday  a  thousand  to  the  senate ; 
Bnt  once  in,with  their  hilts  hot  in  their  hands. 
They  must  on  for  their  own  sakes ;  one  stroke  struck, 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  first-born  Gain, 
Which  ever  lurks  somewhere  in  human  hearts. 
Though  circumstance  may  keep  it  in  abeyance, 
Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves;  the  sight 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  thirst  of  more, 
As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel ; 
And  you  will  find  a  harder  task  to  quell 
Than  urge  them  when  they  have  commenced;  but  Hll 
That  moment,  a  mere  voice,  a  straw,  a  shadow 
Are  capable  of  turning  tliem  aside.  — 
Haw  goes  the  night? 

B.  FaL  Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

Doge.  Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the  bell. 
Are  the  men  posted? 

B.FaL  By  this  time  they  are; 
But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 
They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in  person. 

Doge.  'TIS  well.  —  Will  the  morn  never  put  to  rest 
These  stars  which  twinkle  yet  o'er  all  the  heavens? 
I  am  settled  and  bound  up,  and  being  so. 
The  very  efibrt  which  it  costs  me  to 
Resolve  to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with  ^^ 
Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady.  I  have  wept. 
And  treml>led  at  the  tliought  of  this  dread  duty; 
But  now  I  have  put  down  all  idle  passion. 
And  look  the  growing  tempest  in  the  fiice, 
As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral-galley: 
Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman?)  it  hath  been 
A  greater  struggle  to  me,  than  when  nations 
Beheld  their  fate  merged  in  the  approaching  fight. 
Where  I  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 
Thousands  were  sure  to  perish  —  Yes,  to  spill 
The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 
Of  a  few  bloated  despots  needed  more 
To  steel  me  to  a  purpose  such  as  made 
Timoleon  immortal,  than  to  face 
The  toils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 

B.  FaL  It  gladdens  me  to  see  your  former  wisdom 


4CT  !▼« 


MAUNO  FALIBRO. 


365 


Subdue  the  ftiriei  wbich  io  vrtung  jreu  ere 
You  were  decided. 

Dag9,  It  was  ever  thus 
With  me;  the  hour  of  agfi^stioii  came 
In  the  first  glimmerings  of  a  purpose,  when 
Pasnon  had  too  much  room  to  sway ;  but  in 
The  boor  of  action  I  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  Jay  around  me:  this 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I  am,  and  trusted 
To  the  subduing  power  which  I  preserved 
Over  my  mood,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent 
But  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a  virtue  by  reflection. 
And  not  an  impoJse  of  mere  anger;  though 
The  hws  sleep,  justice  wakes,  and  injured  souls 
Oft  do  a  public  right  with  private  wrong, 
And  justify  their  deeds  unto  tfiemsdves.  — 
Methinks  the  day  breaks  —  is  it  not  so?  look. 
Thine  eyes  are  clear  with  youth;  —  the  air  puts  on 
A.  morning-freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me, 
The  sea  looks  grayer  through  the  lattice. 

B.  PaL  True, 
The  mom  is  dappling  in  the  sky. 

D9g€,  Away,  then! 
See  that  they  strike  without  delay,  and  with 
The  first  toll  from  St.  Mark's,  march  on  the  palace 
With  all  our  house's  strength !  here  1  will  meet  you  — 
The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 
In  separate  columns  at  the  self-  same  moment  <— 
fie  sore  you  post  yourself  by  the  great  gate, 
I  would  not  trust  **The  Ten"  except  to  us  — 
The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may 
Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued  with  us. 
Remember  that  the  cry  is  still  '<Saint  Mark ! 
The  Genoese  arc  come  —  ho !  to  the  rescue ! 
Saint  Mark  and  liberty !  '*  —  Now  —  now  to  action ! 

B.FoL  Farewell  then,  noble  unde!  we  will  meet 
la  fireedom  and  true  sovereignty,  or  never  I 

Dcp€,  Come  hither,  my  Bortuccio  -^  one  embrace  — 
Speed,  for  the  day  grows  broader  —  Send  me  soon 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound  —  sound 
The  storm-bell  from  Saint  Mark's !      dixit  Bcrtncci*  FaU«ro 

Dag€.  (loiu).  He  is  gone. 
And  on  each  footstep  moves  a  life.  —  'Tis  done. 
Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  poors  the  vial. 
Even  as  the  eagle  overlooks  his  prey, 
And,  for  a  moment  poised  in  middle  air. 
Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings. 
Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak.  —  Thou  day  )- 
That  slowly  walkst  the  waters  I  march  —  march  on  — 
I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  sec 
That  no  stroke  errs.  And  you,  ye  blue  sea-waves  1 
I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too. 
With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore. 
While  that  of  Venice  flow'd  too,  but  victorious : 
ICow  thou  must  wear  an  unmix'd  crimson;  no 
'  Rarbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 
I  Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine, 
But  friead  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slauglitcr. 


And  have  I  lived  to  fboraoore  years  fbr  thisf 

I,  who  was  named  Preserver  of  the  City? 

I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  flung 

Into  the  air,  and  cries  fhNn  tens  of  thousands 

Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  me  blessings. 

And  fhme  and  length  of  days  —  to  see  this  day? 

But  this  day,  black  wHhin  the  calendar, 

Shall  besuoceededby  a  bright  millennium. 

Doge  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 

To  vanquish  empures  and  refuse  their  crown; 

I  will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 

Renew  its  freedom  —  but  oh !  by  what  means  ? 

The  noble  end  must  justify  them  —  What 

Are  a  iew  drops  of  human  blood  ?  'tis  felse. 

The  blood  of  tyrants  is  not  human ;  they, 

Like  to  incarnate  Molochs,  feed  on  ours. 

Until  'tis  time  to  give  them  to  the  tombs 

Which  they  have  made  so  populous.  --  Oh  world! 

Oh  men !  what  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs. 

That  we  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime? 

And  slay  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  gate, 

When  a  few  years  would  make  the  sword  superfluous? 

And  I,  upon  the  verge  of  the  unknown  realm. 

Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  ?  — 

I  must  not  ponder  thus,  (a  p«aie.)  Hark!  was  there  not 

A  murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 

The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison  ? 

What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise! 

It  cannot  be  —  the  signal  hath  not  rung  — 

Why  pauses  it?  My  nephew's  messenger 

Should  be  upon  his  way  to  roe,  and  be 

Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 

Upon  its  ponderous  hinge  the  steep  tower-portal. 

Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell. 

Which  never  knells  but  for  a  princely  death, 

Or  for  a  state  in  peril,  pealing  forth 

Tremendous  bodcments;  let  it  do  its  office. 

And  be  this  peal  its  aw  fullest  and  last! 

Sound  still  the  strong  tower  rock !  —  What !  sil^t  still .' 

I  would  go  forth,  but  that  my  post  is  here. 

To  be  the  centre  of  reninion  to 

The  oft  discordant  dements  which  form 

Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  compact 

The  wavering  of  the  weak,  in  case  of  conllict; 

For  if  they  should  do  battle,  'twill  be  here. 

Within  the  palace,  that  the  strife  will  thicken; 

Then  here  must  be  my  station  as  becomes 

The  master-mover.  —  Hark !  he  comes  —  he  comes. 

My  nephew,  brave  Bcrtucclo's  messenger.  — 

What  tidings?  Is  he  marching?  Hath  he  sped?-— 

They  here!  ~  all's  lost  —  yet  will  I  make  an  efifort 

Enter  a  Sioror  or  Tm  Nicrt,  T«Ith  Gaards. 

Sign,  of  the  NighL  Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason : 

Doge,  Me! 
Thy  prince,  of  treason  ?  —  Who  are  they  that  dare 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order? 

iSSryn.  of  the  Night  Uhowins  faia  ord«r). 

Behold  my  order  from  the  assembled  Ten. 

Doge.  And  where  are  they,  and  why  assembled  ?  no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 


366 


MARINO  FALiBK^. 


Acrnr. 


Preside  there,  and  that  daty  's  mine:  on  thiae 
I  charge  thee,  gfive  ine  way,  or  marshal  me 
To  the  couaeil-obamiior. 

Si^,  of  the  Niffht.  Thtkel  it  may  not  be; 
Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Couneil, 
But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  SaTionr's. 

Doge,  You  dare  to  disobey  me^then  ? 

Sign,  of  the  Night  I  serve 
The  state,  and  needs  mast  serve  it  faithfully; 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it 

Doge.  And  till  that  warrant  has  my  sipiature 
It  is  illcga],  and,  as  now  applied, 
Rebellious  —  Hast  thou  weighed  well  thy  life's  worth, 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  lawless  function? 

Sign,  of  the  Night,  'Tis  not  my  office  to  reply,  butact  — 
I  am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person. 
And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

Doge  (uide).    I  must  gain  time  —  So  that  the  storm- 
bell  sound, 
All  may  be  well  yet.  —  Kinsman,  speed  —  speed  — 

speed  I  — 
Our  fate  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  vanquished !  be  they  prince  and  people, 
Or  slaves  and  senate  —        CTbe  great  beii  of  Mot  if«v^«i  toUs. 
Lo!  it  sounds --it  tolls! 

Doge  {lond).  Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night!  and  yon,  ye 
hirelings,  ' 

Who  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear. 
It  is  your  knell  —  Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal! 
Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives? 

Sign,  of  the  Night.  Confusion ! 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door  —  all's  lost 
Unless  that  fearful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 
The  officer  hath  miss'd  his  path  or  purpose, 
Or  met  some  unforeseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 
Ansel  mo,  with  thy  company  proceed 
Straight  to  the  tower;  the  rest  remain  with  me. 

Cfixit  •  p«rt  of  the  Gvard. 

Doge.  Wretch!  if  thou  wooldst  have  thy  vile  life>  im- 
plore it ; 
It  IS  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Ay,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  forth; 
They  never  shall  return. 

Sign,  of  the  Night.  So  let  it  be ! 
They  die  then  in  tlieir  duty,  as  will  L 

Doge,  Fool!  the  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 
Than  thou  and  thy  base  myrmidons  —  live  on, 
So  thou  provokest  not  peril  by  resistance. 
And  learn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 
To  gaze  upon  the  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 

SRgn.  of  the  Night.  And  learn  thou  to  be  captive  —  It 

hatll  ceased,  [The  beU  ceases  to  .toll. 

The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 
The  bloodhound-mob  on  their  patrician  prey  — 
The  knell  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  the  senate's ! 

Doge  (alter  a  pause).  All's  Silent,  and  all's  lost ! 

Sign,  of  the  Night  Now,  Doge,  denounce  mc' 
As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Have  I  not  done  my  duty? 

Doge.  Peace,  thou  thing ! 
Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  earu'd  the  price 


Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  theo  will  reward  thee» 
But  thou  wert  sent  to  watch,  and  not  to  prate. 
As  thou  saidst  even  now  —  then  do  thine  office^ 
Bat  let  it  be  in  silenee,  as  behoves  thee. 
Since,  though  tliy  prisoner,  [  am  thy  priooe. 

Sign,  of  the  Night  I  did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  retped 
Due  to  your  rank:  in  this  I  shall  obey  yod. 

Doge  (aiide).  There  now  is  nothing  left  me  save  to  die; 
And  yet  bow  near  success  I  I  would  have  feUen, 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
To  miss  it  thus! 

Bntcr  otber  Siokors  op  trb  Niqrt  with  BuTirccio  Paubbo  priMwer 

Second  Sigjun;  We  took  him  in  the  act 
Of  issuing  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order, 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  begun  to  sound. 

First  Signor,  Are  all  the  passes 
Which  lead  up  to  the  palace  well  secured? 

Second  Signor,  They  are  —  besides,  it  matters  not; 
the  chiefs 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  even  now  on  trial  — 
Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 

B.FaL  Unde! 

Doge,  It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune; 
The  glory  hatli  departed  from  our  house. 

B.  FaL  Who  would  have  deem'd  it  ?  ~-  Ah !  one  bm- 
ment  sooner! 

Doge,  That  moment  would  have  changed  the  &ce  of 
ages; 
7%t>  gives  us  to  eternity  —  We'll  meet  it 
Aamen  whose  triumph  is  not  in  sueeess. 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all. 
Equal  to  every  fortune.  Droop  not,  'tis 
But  a  brief  passage  —  I  would  go  alone. 
Yet  If  tbey  send  us,  as  'tis  like,  together, 
Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves. 

B,  Fal.  I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

Firet  Signor,  Lords,  our  orders 
Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  chambers. 
Until  the  council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

Doge.  Our  trial!  will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Kvcn  to  the  last?  but  let  them  deal  upon  us. 
As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 
'Tis  but  a  game  of  mutual  homicides, 
Who  have  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and  they 
Have  won  with  false  dice.  —  Who  hath  been  our  Judas! 

First  Signor.  I  am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 

B.  Fal.  Vl\  answer  for  thee  —  'tis  a  certain  Bertram, 
Even  now  deposing  to  the  secret  Giunta. 

Doge»  Bertram,  the  Bergamask!  Witli  what  vile  tooh 
We  operate  to  slay  or  savcl  This  creature. 
Black  with  a  double  treason,  now  will  earn 
Rewards  and  honours,  and  be  stamp'd  in  story  * 

With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol;  which  gabbled 
Till  Rome  awoke  and  bad  an  annual  triumph. 
While  Manlius,  who  hurl'd  down  the  Gauls,  waa  cast  j 
From  the  Tarpcian.  * 

Farst  Signor.  He  aspired  to  treason,  j 

And  sought  to  rule  the  state. 


ACT  ▼. 


HAHINO  FALIBRO. 


367 


And  songlit  but  to  reform  what  he  reviyed  — 
But  this  is  idle  —  Coue,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

Ar«t  Signor.  Noble  Bertnccio,  wo  must  now 
yoa 
IbIo  an  inner  cbamber. 

B,  FmL  Farewell,  uncle! 


If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I  know  not. 
Bat  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 

Dope.  Yes,  and  our  spirits,  whieli  shall  yet  go  forth, 
And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  idogg'd,  bath  iaird  in! 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Who  would  have  hurl'd  them  from  their  guilty  thrones. 
And  such  examples  will  find  heirs,  though  distant 


A    C    T      V. 


SCENE  I. 

The  HiII  or  the  Coancil  of  Ten  MiemUed  with  the  additioMi  Senator^ 
«lio^  OB  the  trials  of  the  Conspirators  for  the  treason  ofM^RiNO  Fsliiiio, 
eaoipoied  what  was  called  the  Gionta.  —  Goards,  Ofllcers,  etc  etc.  — 
IsBAai,  Bbbtvccio  and  CAUUoafto  aa  Priaonora.  -^  Bsktaam,  Liom  and 
Witnesses. 


The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  BniMTKXiM. 

BenimUnde.  There  now  rests,  after  suoh  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 
Bat  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law :  a  grievous  task 
To  those  who  hear,  and  those  who  speak.  Alas! 
That  it  sliould  ihll  to  me !  and  that  my  days 
Of  office  should  be  stigmatised  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
The  earth  as  being  the  Christian  bulwark  'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank ; 
A  city  which  has  opcn'd  India's  wealth 
To  Europe;  the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwtielming  AtCila ;  the  ocean's  queen ; 
Proud  Genoa's  prouder  rival!  'Tis  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a  city,  these  lost  men 
Have  risk'd  and  forfeited  their  worthless  lives  — 
So  let  them  die  the  death. 

Arrf.  We  are  prepared; 
Tour  racks  have  done  that  for  us.  Let  us  die. 

Bemnt,  If  ye  have  that  to  say  which  would  obtain 
Abatement  of  your  punishment,  the  Gionta 
Will  hear  you ;  if  you  have  aught  to  confess, 
Kow  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

BerL  We  stand  to  hear,  and  not  to  speak. 

Benmt,  Your  crimes 
Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices, 
And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  them; 
Tet  we  would  licar  from  your  own  lips  complete 
Avowal  of  your  treason :  on  the  Yerge 
Of  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven  — 
■ay,  then,  what  was  your  motive? 

Bert.  Justice! 


Bemnt.  What  your  object? 

Bert  Freedom! 

Betiint,  You  are  brief,  sir. 

Bert.  So  my  life  grows:  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

Bemnt  Perhaps  you  think  by  this  blunt  brevity 
To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sentence? 

Bert  Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and,  believe  me, 
I  shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

Benmt.  Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  tribunal  ? 

Bert  Go,  ask  your  racks  whatthey  have  wrung  from  us, 
Or  place  us  there  again;  we  have  still  some  blood  left, 
And  some  slight  sense  of  pain  in  these  wreneli'd  limbs: 
But  this  ye  dare  not  do ;  for  if  we  die  there  -- 
And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend  ' 
Upon  your  engines,  gorged  with  pangs  already  — 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle  with  which 
You  would  appal  your  slaves  to  further  slavery ! 
Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 
Nor  affirmation  truth,  if  nature's  sense 
Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a  lie, 
For  a  sliort  respite  —  must  we  bear  or  die? 

Bemnt  Say,  who  were  your  accomplices? 

Bert  The  Senate  1 

Benint  What  do  yon  mean? 

Bert  Ask  of  the  suffering  people, 
Whom  your  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to  crime. 

Benmt  You  know  the  Doge? 

Bert  I  served  with  him  at  Zara 
In  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your  way 
To  present  office;  we  exposed  our  lives, 
While  you  but  haasardcd  the  lives  of  others, 
Alike  by  accusation  or  defence; 
And,  for  the  rest,  all  Venice  knows  her  Doge, 
Through  his  great  actions,  and  the  senate's  insults ! 

Benmt,  You  have  held  conference  with  him? 

Bert,  I  am  weary  — 
Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  tortures : 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

Bemnt  It  is  coming. — 
And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 
Have  you  to  say  why  you  should  not  be  doom'd? 

C«/.  I  never  was  a  man  of  many  words. 
And  now  have  few  left  worth  tlie  utteraaoe. 


368 


MARINO   FALIBRO. 


ACT  T 


Benint,  A  further  application  of  yon  engine 
May  change  your  tone. 

CaL  Mosttrae,itte;i//doao; 
A  former  application  did  so;  bat 
It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did — 

Benmt,  What  then? 

Cal,  Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 
Stand  good  in  law  ? 

Benint,  Assuredly. 

Cal.  Whoe'er 
The  culprit  be  whom  I  accuse  of  treason? 

Benint.  Without  doubt,  he  will  be  brought  up  to  fiial. 

CaL  And  on  this  testimony  would  he  perish? 

Benint,  So  your  confession  be  detail'd  and  full, 
He  will  stand  here  in  peril  of  his  life. 

CaL  Then  look  well  to  thy  proud  self,  President! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  tliat  thou,  and  only  thou,  shalt  be 
The  traitor  I  denounce  upon  that  rack, 
If  I  be  stretch'd  there  for  the  second  time. 

One  of  the  Giunta,    Lord  President,  'twere  best  to 
proceed  to  judgment ; 
There  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from  these  men. 

Benint,  Unhappy  men !  prepare  for  instant  death. 
The  nature  of  your  crime  —  our  law  —  and  peril 
The  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour's  respite  — 
Guards!  lead  them  forth,  and  upon  the  balcony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thursday, 
The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls. 
Let  them  be  justified:  and  leave  exposed 
Their  wavering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judgment, 
To  the  fiill  view  of  the  assembled  people!  •*- 
And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  their  sinils ! 

The  Gimta.  Amen! 

Bert.  Signors,  farewell!  we  shall  not  all  again 
Meet  in  one  place. 

Benint.  And  lest  they  should  essay 
To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude  — 
Guards !  let  their  mouths  be  gagg'd,  even  in  the  act 
Of  execution. —  Lead  them  hence! 

CaL  What!  must  we 
Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend, 
Nor  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor? 

BenhU.  A  priest  is  waiting  in  the  antechamber; 
But,  for  your  friends,  such  interviews  would  be 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  yon. 

CaL  1  knew  that  we  were  gagg'd  in  life ;  at  least 
All  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their  lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts;  but  still  I  deem'd 
That,  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying, 
Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us ;  but  since — 

Bert  Even  let  them  have  their  way,  brave  Calendaro ! 
What  matter  a  few  syllables  ?  let's  die 
Without  the  slightest  show  of  favour  from  them; 
So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 
To  heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 
To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 
Spoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words ! 
They  tremble  at  our  voices  — -  nay,  they  dread 
Our  very  silence — let  them  live  in  fear!  — 


Leave  them  unto  their  thoughtg,  and  let  wb  bow 
Address  oar  own  above !  -^  Lead  on;  we  are  ready. 

CaL  Israel,  hadst  tiiou  but  hearkened  unto  me. 
It  had  not  now  been  thus ;  and  yon  pale  viUain, 
The  coward  Bertram,  would— 

BerL  Peaoe,  Calendaro ! 
What  boots  it  now  to  ponder  upon  diis  ? 

Bertram.  Alas!  I  fain  you  died  in  peaoe  with  me: 
I  did  not  seek  thia  task ;  'twas  forced  upon  me: 
Say,  yon  forgive  me,  though  I  never  can 
Retrieve  my  own  forgiveness  —  frown  not  thiu  I 

Bert.  I  die  and  pardon  thee ! 

CaL  (ipicUnc«t  him)  I  die  and  scorn  thee! 

CExeilBt  ISIUKL  fiSBTVCCIO  Uld  PRIUP  CAUDDtaO 

Oaardx,  etc. 

Benmt  Now  that  these  cruninals  have  been  dLspoaedoC 
'Tis  time  that  we  proceed  to  pass  our  sentence 
Upon  the  greatest  traitor  upon  record 
In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero ! 
The  proofs  and  process  are  complete;  the  time 
And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure :  shall 
He  now  be  called  in  to  receive  the  award? 

The  Giunta.  Ay,  ay. 

Benint  Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  oounciL 

One  of  the  Giunta.  And  the  rest. 
When  shall  they  be  brought  up? 

Benint  When  all  the  chiefs 
Have  been  disposed  of.  Some  have  fled  to  Chiozsa; 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them. 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  Tcrra-firma, 
As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  will  escape  to  utter  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treasons  'gainst  the  senate. 

Enter  the  Dogs  u  Prisoner,  with  Ouarda,  etc 

BenhU.  Doge—  for  such  sti|l  you  are,  and  by  the  law 
Must  be  oonsider'd,  till  the  hour  sliall  oome 
When  you  must  doff  the  ducal  bonnet  from 
Tliat  head,  which  could  not  wear  a  crown  more  noble 
Than  empires  can  confer,  in  quiet  honour, 
But  it  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 
Who  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quendi  in  blood 
A  city's  glory  — we  have  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  fall  length, 
By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 
Which  have  appear 'd  against  you;  and  more  ample 
Ne'er  rear'd  their  sanguinary  shadows  to 
Confront  a  traitor.  What  have  you  to  say 
In  your  defence? 

Do^e.  What  shall  I  say  to  ye, 
Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  ? 
You  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

Benint,  Your  chief  accomplices 
Having  confess'd,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

Do^e,  And  who  be  they  ? 

Benint.  In  number  many ;  but 
The  first  now  stands  before  you  in  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo,  -~  would  you  question  him  ? 


ACT  V. 


5UR1N0  FALIBRO. 


dQ9 


Benha*  And  two  otiiers,  Israel  BertacciOt 
And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  l^og^X 

Doffe.  And  where  are  they  ? 

BeiuHi.  Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 
Answering  to  Heaven  for  nhat  they  did  on  earth. 

2>o^e.  Ah!  tlie  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone? 
And  the  quick  Cassins  of  the  arsenal  ? — 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

Benint.  Think  of  your  own; 
It  b  approaching.  You  decline  to  plead,  then? 

Doge,  1  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognise  your  legal  power  to  try  me : 
Show  me  the  law! 

%nt]it.  On  great  emergences, 
Tlic  laif^ust  be  remodelFd  or  amended : 
Oar  falwnrs  had  not  fixM  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 
The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 
In  pure  forgetfulncss ;  they  could  not  render 
That  penal,  which  had  neither  name  nor  thought 
In  their  great  bosoms:  who  would  have  foreseen 
That  nature  could  be  filed  to  sudi  a  crime 
As  sons  'gainst  sires,  and  princes  'gainst  their  realms? 
Your  nn  hath  made  us  make  a  law  which  will 
Become  a  precedent  'gainst  such  hanght  traitors, 
'As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny; 
Notcren  contented- with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  convert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword ! 
Was  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye? 
What's  nobler  than  the  signory  of  Venice? 

Doge.  The  signory  of  Venice!  You  betray'd  me— - 
You,  -  fouy  who  sit  there,  tndtors  as  ye  are! 
From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 
And  my  superiority  in  action, 
Vou  drew  me  from  my  honourable  toib 
In  distant  lands — on  flood — in  field — in  cities  -^^ 
Yov  singled  me  out  like  a  victim  to 
Stand  crown'd,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  altar 
Where  yon  alone  could  minister.  I  knew  not— 
I  sought  not —  wish'd  not — dreamM  not  the  election. 
Which  reach'd  me  first  at  Rome,  and  I  obey  *d ; 
But  round  on  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 
You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  Journey  to  the  capital,  curtail'd 
And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke :  all  tliis  I  bore,  and  would 
Have  borne,  until  my  very  hearth  was  stain'd 
By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry, 
And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you  — 
Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal !  — 

BenmL  (tacemipdiift  him)  Michel  Steno 
Is  here  in  virtue  of  his  office,  as 
One  of  the  Forty ;  "The  Ten"  having  craved 
A  Ginnta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  jnilgment  in  a  trial  arduous 
And  novel  as  the  present:  he  was  set 
Free  firom  the  penalfy  pronounced  upon  him, 


Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  Jaw, 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  daim 
No  punishment  Of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates  I 

Doge.  Hit  punishmbnt!  I'd  rather  see  him  thetB, 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death. 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 
Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  justice 
Decreed  as  sentence !  Base  as  was  his  crime, 
'Twas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

Benint,  And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Doge  of  Venice, 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years 
And  honours  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance? 

Doge.  A  spark  creates  the  flame;  'tis  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already :  you  oppress'd  the  prince  and  people; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  fail'd  in  both: 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourish'd  ages  after. 
And  mine  to  Gelon  and  to  Thrasybulus :  — 
Failing,  I  know  tlie  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death  —  the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.  Pause  not; 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  none; 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  mighty  hazard, 
And  being  lost,  take  what  I  would  have  taken! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs ; 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  It, 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 

Benint.  Ypu  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal? 

Doge.  I  confess  to  have  fail'd: 
Fortune  is  female;  from  my  youth  her  favours 
Were  not  withheld ;  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 

Benint  You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity  ? 

Doge.  Noble  Venetians  I  stir  me  not  with  questions. 
I  am  resign'd  to  the  worst ;  but  in  me  still 
Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days. 
And  am  not  over>patient  Pray  you,  spare  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing. 
Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 
And  please  your  enemies — a  host  already : 
'Tis  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo; 
But  walls  have  ears  —  nay,  more,  they  have  tongues;  and  if 
There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'erleap  them. 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me. 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil ; 
The  secret  were  too  migh^  for  your  souls : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  yon  escape, 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope, 
24 


370 


MARINO  FALIBRO. 


ACT  ?. 


To  make  it  fSlmous;  for  true  wbrdi  arc  tkihpSj 
And  dying  men's  are  tilings  which  long  outlive. 
And  oftentimes  avenge  them;  bury  mine^ 
If  ye  would  fain  survive  me:  take  this  counsel. 
And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath. 
Let  me  die  calmly ;  you  may  grant  me  this;  — 
I  deny  nothing  —  defend  nothing  —  nothing 
I  aiik  of  you,  but  sflenOi  for  myself. 
And  sentence  from  the  court! 

Benmt,  This  full  admission 
Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth. 

Dope,  The  torture!  you  have  put  me  there  already. 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge;  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may :  these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron ;  but 
There's  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your  enginea. 

Enter  an  OrricBiu 

Officer,  Noble  Venetians!  Duchess  Faliero 
Requests  admission  to  the  Giunta'a  presence. 

BtininU  Say,  conscript  fathers,  shall  she  be  admitted  ? 

One  of  the  Giunta.  She  may  have  revelations  of  im- 
Unto  the  state,  to  justify  compliance  [portance 

With  her  request 

BeninU  Is  this  the  general  will? 

AIL  It  is. 

Doge,  Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice! 
Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 
Wliat  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames! 
But  such  blasphemers  'gainst  all  honour,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 
Now,  villain  Steno  1  if  this  woman  foil, 
I'll  pardon'thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape, 
And  my  own  violent  death,  and  thy  vile  life. 

The  DircHBss  entert. 

BeninU  lAdy!  thisjust  tribunal  has  resolveil, 
Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A  patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  virtues : 
But  you  turn  pale  —  ho !  there,  look  to  the  lady ! 
Place  a  chair  instantly. 

Aug,  A  moment's  faintness  — * 
'Tis  past;  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my  prince,  and  of  my  husband. 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

BeninU  Your  pleasure,  lady? 

Ang,  Strange  rumours,  but  most  true,  if  all  I  hear 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach'd  me,  and  I  come 
To  know  the  worst,  even  at  the  worst;  forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bearing. 
Is  it  —  I  cannot  speak  —  I  cannot  shape 
The  question  —  but  you  answer  it  ere  spoken. 
With  eyes  averted  and  with  gloomy  brows  — 
Oh  God!  this  is  the  silence  of  the  grave!         [repetition 

BeninU  (after  a  panse)  iSpare  us,  and  spare  thyself  the 
Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable 
Duty  to  Heaven  and  men! 


Ang,  Yet  speak;  I  eaouot  — 
I  cannot  —  no  —  even  how  believe  tliesc  things. 
Is  A«  condemn 'd? 

BeninU  Alas! 

Ang,  And  was  he  guilty  ? 

BeninU  Lady!  the  natural  distraction  of 
Thy  thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the  qoesdoa 
Merit  forgiveness ;  else  a  doubt  fikt;  this 
Against  a  just  and  paramount  tribunal 
Were  deep  offence.  But  question  even  the  Doge, 
And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofsi  believe  him 
Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

Ang.  Is  it  so? 
My  lord  —  my  sovereign  —  my  poor  father's  friend  — 
The  mighty  in  the  field,  the  sage  in  couboi] ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man !  ^-  Thou  art  silent!     ^ 

BeninU  He  hath  already  own'd  to  his  own  fwlty 
Nor,  as  thou  seost>  doth  he  deny  it  now. 

Ang,  Ay,  but  he  must  not  die  1  Spare  his  few  years. 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  out  down  to  daysl 
One  day  of  baftled  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

BeninU  His  doom  must  be  fulfiU'd  without  remissioa 
Of  time  or  penalty  —  'tis  a  decree. 

Ang,  He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  be  mercy. 

BeninU  Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 

Ang,  Alas!  signor, 
He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel;  who 
Upon  the  earth  would  live  were  all  judged  justly  ? 

Benmt,  His  punishment  is  safety  to  the  state. 

Ang,  He  was  a  subject,  and  hath  served  the  state; 
He  was  your  general,  and  bath  saved  the  state; 
He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  ruled  the  state.       [state. 

One  of  the  Council,  He  is  a  traitor,  and  betrayed  the 

Ang,  And,  but  for  him,  there  now  had  been  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy;  and  you  who  sit 
There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deliverer. 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  Moslem  oar. 
Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters !     [would  die 

One  of  the  Council,  No,  lady,  there  are  others  who 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery ! 

Ang,  Ifthereareso 
Within  these  walls,  thou  art  not  of  the  number: 
The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen! 
IstJicrenoliopc? 

BeninU  Lady,  it  cannot  be.  [be  so; 

Ang,  (tnming  to  the  Doge)  Then  die,  Faliero !  since  it  must 
But  with  the  spirit  of  my  father's  friend. 
Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a  great  offence, 
Half-canccird  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 
1  would  have  sued  to  them  —  have  pray'd  to  them  — 
Have  begg'd  as  famish'd  roeudlcants  for  bread  — 
Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answer *d  as  they  answer  ~ 
Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine, 
And  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Had  not  announced  the  heartless  wrath  within. 
Then,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom! 

Doge.  1  have  lived  too  long  not  to  know  how  to  die! 
Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 
Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 


iCT  T. 


HARINO  FALIERO. 


371 


or  seamen  to  the  swge:  I  woald  not  take 
A  life  eternal,  granted  at  the  bands 
Of  wretches,  from  whose  monstrous  villanies 
I  sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations ! 

91  SUno,  Doge, 
A  word  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady. 
Whom  I  have  grievously  offended.  Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part, 
Coald  cancel  the  inexorable  past! 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  fiirewell,  and  in  peace:  with  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you, 
And  give,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

Anff,  Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venice, 
I  speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 
Inform  the  ribald  Steno,  that  his  words 
Ne'er  weighed  in  mind  with  Loredano's  daughter 
Further  than  to  create  a  moment's  pity 
For  such  as  he  is:  would  that  others  had 
Despised  him  as  I  pity!  I  prefer 
Ky  honour  to  A  thousand  lives,  coald  such 
Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 
A  single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 
Which  nothing  human  can  impugn  —  the  sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  called 
A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 
To  me  the  scorner's  words  were  as  the  wind 
Uato  the  rock :  but  as  there  are  ^  alas ! 
Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  such  things 
light  as  the  whirlwind  on  the  waters;  souls 
To  whom  dishonour's  shadow  is  a  substance 
More  terrible  than  death  here  and  hereafter; 
Mco  whose  vice  is  to  start  at  vice's  scoffing, 
And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishments 
Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 
Their  hopes  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  tiie  eagle 
Of  her  high  aiery ;  let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a  lesson 
To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a  higher  order.  Insects 
Ibve  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now;  a  shaft 
1'  the  heel  o'erthrew  tlie  bravest  of  the  brave; 
A  wife's  dishonour  was  the  bane  of  Troy ; 
A  wife^s  dishonour  unking'd  Rome  for  ever; 
Aa  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clusiimif 
And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perish'd  for  a  time; 
An  obscene  gesture  cost  Caligula 
His  life,  while  earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties; 
A  virgin's  wrong  made  Spain  a  Moorish  province; 
And  Steno's  lie,  ooueh'd  in  two  worthless  lines, 
Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A  senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years. 
Discrown 'd  a  prince,  cut  off  his  orownless  head, 
And  forged  new  fetters  for  a  groaning  people ! 
Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 
Who  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 
VH  so  please  him  —  'twere  a  pride  fit  for  him ! 
But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 
Him,  who,  whate'er  he  now  is,  was  a  hero, 
By  the  intrasion  of  his  very  prayers ; 


Nothing  of  gotod  can  come  from  suoh  a  source. 
Nor  would  we  ^qght  with  him,  nor  now,  nor  ever: 
We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 
Of  human  baseness.  Pardon  is  for  men. 
And  not  for  reptiles  —  we  have  none  for  Steno, 
And  no  resentment;  things  like  him  must  sting, 
And  higher  beings  suffer ;  'tis  the  charter 
Of  life.  The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder's  fang 
May  have  the  crawler  crush'd,  but  feels  no  anger : 
'Twas  the  worm's  nature;  and  some  men  are  worms 
In  soul,  more  than  the  living  things  of  tombsl 

2>o^«  (to  Bdi&iteDde).  Signor,  complete  that  which  you 
deem  your  duty. 

BetmU,  Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty. 
We  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw; 
'Twill  move  her  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it 

An^,  I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure  It; 
For  'tis  a  part  of  mine  —  I  will  not  quit. 
Except  by  force,  my  husband's  side.  ^—  Proceed ! 
Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sigh,  or  tear; 
Though  my  heart  burst,  it  sliall  be  silent.  —  Speak  1 
I  have  that  within  which  shall  o'ermaster  all. 

Benint  Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 
Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 
And  some  time  General  of  the  Fleet  and  Army, 
Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 
Entrusted  by  the  state  with  high  employments, 
Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence . 
Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs. 
And  by  thine  own  confession^  of  the  guilt 
Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 
Until  this  trial  —  the  decree  is  death. 
Thy  goods  are  eonfiscate  unto  the  state, 
Thy  name  Is  msed  from  out  her  records,  save 
Upon  a  public  day  of  thanksgiving 
For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance. 
When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars 
With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes. 
And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subjeot 
Of  grateful  noASseS  for  Heaven's  grace  in  snatching 
Our  lives  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 
The  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be  painted. 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  deatli-black  veil 
Flung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath,  — 
<*This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
"Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

Doff0,  «His  crimes?" 
But  let  it  be  so:  —  it  will  be  in  vain. 
The  veil  which  blackens  o'er  this  blighted  name^ 
And  hides,  or  ^eems  to  liide,  these  lineaments. 
Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand  portraits 
Which  glitter  round  it  in  their  pictured  trappings — 
Your  delegated  slaves  —  the  people's  tyrants ! 
''Decapitated  for  his  crimes !"  —  What  oruncs  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts. 
So  that  the  contemplator  might  approve, 
Or  at  the  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired. 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause  -« it  is  your  history. 

Benint,  Time  must  reply  to  that;  our  sons  will  judge 


372 


MARINO  FALlBRa 


ACT  f. 


Their  fathers' judgment,  which  I  now  pronoance. 
As  Dog^e,  clad  in  Uie  ducal  robes  and  cap, 
Thou  shaJt  be  led  hence  to  the  Giant's  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  oar  princes  are  invested; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off;  and  Heaven  have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul  1 

DogB,  Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentencet 

Benint,  It  is. 

Doge,  I  can  endure  it  —  And  the  time?  [God; 

Bettint  Must  be  immediate.  —  Make  thy  peace  with 
Within  an  hour  thou  roust  be  in  his  presence. 

Dope.  I  am  already;  and  my  blood  will  rise 
To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it  — 
Are  alt  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

Benint,  They  are; 
And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure^ 
Except  two  thousand  ducats  —  these  dispose  of.    pands 

Doffe.  That's  harsh  —  I  would  have  fain  reserved  the 
Near  to  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence  the  Count-bishop  ofCeneda, 
In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs, 
To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city-spoil, 
My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 
Between  my  consort  and  m}  kinsmen. 

Benint,  These 
Lie  under  the  state's  ban ;  their  chief,  thy  nephew, 
In  peril  of  bis  own  life;  but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present  If 
Thou  will'st  a  state  unto  thy  widow 'd  prinoest. 
Fear  not,  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 

Ang,  Signors, 
1  share  not  in  your  spoil !  From  henoelbrtfa,  know 
I  am  devoted  unto  God  alone. 
And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 

Doge,  Come! 
The  hour  may  be  a  hard  one,  but  twill  end. 
Have  I  aught  else  to  undergo  save  death? 

Benint  You  have  noughtto  do,  except  confess  and  die. 
The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  barc^ 
And  both  await  without  ^-  But,  above  all, 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people;  they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 
But  these  are  closed:  the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 
The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 
Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom, 
And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

Doge,  The  Doge! 

Benint,  Tes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shalt  die 
A  sovereign ;  till  the  moment  which  precedes 
The  separation  of  that  head  and  trunk, 
That  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors;  not  so  we. 
Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.  Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 
The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolfs;  but  thou  shnlt  fhll 
As  falls  the  lion  by  the  hunters,  girt 
By  those  who  feel  a  proud  compassion  for  thee, 
A  nd  mourn  even  tho  inevitable  death 


Provoked  by  thy  wild  wr«th  and  regal  fierceness. 

Now  we  remit  thee  to  thy  preparation : 

Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 

Thy  guides  unto  the  phice  where  first  we  were 

United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 

Thy  senate;  and  must  now  be  parted  from  thee 

As  such  for  ever  on  the  self-same  spot  — 

Guards!  form  the  Doge's  escort  to  his  chamber.    [Rxcwt 

SCBNB  n. 

Tbe  Doge's  Aparuncnt 
The  DovB  aa  priaoner,  and  the  UocRua  attcndtiig  bim. 

Doge,  Now,  that  the  priest  is  gone,  'twere  useless  all 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes; 
But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  partir^  fVom  tbee^ 
And  I  will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand. 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour, 
Still  foiling  —  I  have  done  with  Time. 

Ang,  Alas! 
And  I  have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscions  cause ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union. 
Which  thou,  compliant  with  my  father's  wish. 
Didst  promise  at  hie  death,  thou  hast  seal'd  thine  own. 

Doge,  Not  so:  there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  itself  some  great  reverse; 
The  mar>'el  is,  it  came  not  until  now  — 
And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

Ang.  How  foretold  you? 

Doge,  Long  years  ago  —  so  long,  they  are  a  doubt 
In  memory,  and  yet  they  live  in  annals : 
When  I  was  in  my  youth,  and  served  the  senate 
And  signory  as  podcsta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
Convey'd  tbe  Host  aroused  my  rash  young  anger. 
By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 
To  my  reproof;  I  raised  my  hand  and  smote  him, 
Until  he  rcci'cl  beneath  his  holy  burthen ; 
And  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  towards  heaven. 
Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen  fWMn  him. 
He  tum'd  to  me,  and  said,  ''The  hour  will  oomc 
When  he  thou  hast  o'erthrown  shall  overthrow  thee: 
The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house. 
The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul. 
And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind 
A  madness  of  the  heart  shall  seise  upon  thee^ 
Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 
In  other  men,  or  mellow  Into  virtues ; 
And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads. 
Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless;  honours  shall 
But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction, 
And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death. 
But  not  such  death  as  fits  an   aged  man." 
Thus  saying,  he  pass'd  on.  —  That  hour  is  come 

Ang,  And  with  this  warning  conldst  thou  not  lianre^ 
To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone  [strives "! 

By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done? 

Doge,  I  own  tbe  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  macfa         ^ 
Thatlremember'dthesfiamidtheaMae  ^ 


ACT  T. 


MARINO  FALIBRa 


373 


Of  life,  as  if  they  ibrni'd  a  speetral  Ydee, 

Wbkb  tbook  me  in  a  rapcrnataral  dream; 

And  I  repented;  but 'twas  not  forme 

To  poll  in  resolution :  wliat  must  be 

I  could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear.  Nay,  more, 

Tboa  canst  not  liaTe  forgot^what  all  remember, 

That  on  my  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 

On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 

Unwonted  density  went  on  before 

The  Bueentaur  like  the  oohiranar  cloud 

Wbieb  usher'd  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 

The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembark'd  us 

Between  the  pillars  of  Saint  Mark's,  where  'tis 

The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 

Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 

The  Riva  della  Paglia,  as  the  wont  is,  — 

So  that  all  Venice  shudder'd  at  the  omen. 

Aug,  Ah!  little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Sach  tilings. 

Ihfe.  And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 
The  thought  tliat  these  things  arc  the  work  of  Fate; 
For  I  would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 
Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  destiny, 
Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  to  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust, 
And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'er-ruling  power ;  they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable  —  they  could  not  be 
Tictors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquer'd  for  them! 

Ang,  Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspirations 
Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 
Brea  with  these  wretches  take  tliy  flight  to  heaven. 

Doge,  I  am  at  peace:  the  peace  of  certainty 
That  a  sure  hour  will  come,  when  their  sons*  sons, 
And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters. 
And  all  which  makes  them  eminent  and  bright, 
Shall  be  a  desolation  and  a  curse, 
A  hissing  and  a  scoff  unto  the  nations, 
A  Carthage,  and  a  Tyre,  an  Ocean-Babel ! 

Amg.    Speak  not  thus  now;  the  surge  of  passion  still 
Sweeps  o*er  thee  to  the  last;  thou  dost  deceive 
Thyself  and  canst  not  injure  them  —  be  calmer. 

Doge.  1  stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
lato  eternity,  and  I  behold  — 
Ay,  palpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  last  time  —  the  days  which  I  denounce 
Unto  all  time  aigainst  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  are  indwellcrs. 

Gunrd  (coming  fonrard).  Doge  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  highness. 

Doge.  Then  farewell,  Angiolina!  —  one  embrace  — 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fond  but  fatal  husband  —  love  my  memory  — 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  still  living. 
But  thoa  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now, 
h'eeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest 
Jfesides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 
l»k»ry,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fiime,  and  name, 
Whidi  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Rveo  o'er  tlie  grave,  I  Iavc  nothing  left,  not  even 
fA  JHtle  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem. 


No,  not  cooogh  to  extract  an  epitaph 

From  ostentatious  kinsmen;  in  one  hour 

I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life, 

And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thy  heart. 

The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oft 

With  unimpair'd  but  not  a  clamorous  grief 

Still  keep  —  Thou  turnst  so  pale  —  Alas !  she  faints. 

She  hath  no  breath,  no  pulse!  Guards !  lend  your  aid  — 

I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet  'tis  better. 

Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a  pang. 

When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 

I  shall  be  with  the  Eternal.  —  Call  her  women  — 

One  look !  —  how  cold  her  hand !  as  cold  as  mine 

Shall  be  ere  she  recovers.  —  Gently  tend  her, 

And  take  my  last  thanks.  —  I  am  ready  now. 

[The  Attendanu  ofAitoiouNA  enter  and  inrroand 
their  mistress,  who  has  ftinted.  —  £xeiiDt  th« 
DoGB,  Guards,  etc  etc 

SCENE   III. 

The  Court  of  the  daealPalaee:  the  ooter  gates  arc  khat  against  the  people^ 
—  The  Doox  enters  in  his  dacal  robes,  in  procession  with  the  Conncii  of 
Ten  and  other  Patridans,  attended  by  the  Gaards ,  till  they  arrive  at  the 
top  or  the  "Gianet  Staircase*  (where  the  DofEes  took  theoathe);  the 
Execntfoner  is  stationed  there  with  his  sword.  On  arriTtnfi,  «  Chief  •f 
the  Ten  tak»s  off  the  dacal  cap  trom  the  Doge's  head. 

Doge.  So,  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 
I  am  again  Marino  Faliero: 
'Tis  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 
Here  was  I  orown'd,  and  here,  bear  witness,  Heaven ! 
With  how  much  more  contentment  I  resign 
That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble. 
Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

One  of  the  Ten.  Thou  tremblest,  Faliero! 

Doge.  'Tis  with  age,  then. 

Benint.  Faliero !  hast  thou  aught  further  to  commend. 
Compatible  with  justice,  to  the  senate? 

Doge.  I  would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  merry, 
My  consort  to  their  justice;  for  methinks 
My  death,  and  auch  a  death,  might  settle  all- 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

Benint.  They  shall  be  cared  for; 
Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime. 

Doge.  Unheard-of!  ay,  there's  not  a  history 
But  flhows  a  thousand  crown'd  conspirators 
Against  the  people;  but  to  set  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

Benint.  And  who  are  they  who  fell  in  such  a  cause? 

Doge,  The  King  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of  Venice  — 
Agis  and  Faliero! 

Benint.  Hast  thou  more 
To  utter  or  to  do? 

Doge.  May  I  speak? 

Bommt.  Thoumayst; 
But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

Doge.  I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 
Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 
Ye  elements,  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 
Upon  you !  Ye  blue  waves,  which  liore  my  baimer ! 
Ye  winds,  whieb  flntier'd  o'er  as  if  you  hwed  it. 


374 


MARINO  FALIBRO. 


ACT  T, 


And  fiird  my  swellinj^  sails  as  thay  were  wafted 

To  many  a  triumph !  Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thoo  foreign  earth. 

Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a  woimd! 

Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  bat 

Reck  up  to  Heaven  1  Ye  skies,  which  will  receive  it  I 

Thou  sun !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou ! 

Who  kindlest  and  who  qnenchest  suns!  —  Attest! 

1  am  not  innocent  —  but  are  these  guiltless? 

I  perish,  but  not  unayenged ;  far  ages 

Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be. 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  dose,  the  doom 

Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  for  ever!  —  Yes,  the  hoars 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 

Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield, 

Unto  a  bastard  -  Attila,  without 

Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 

As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 

Shall  pour  in  sacrifice.  —  She  shall  be  bought 

And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 

Who  shall  despise  her!  —  She  shall  stoop  to  be 

A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 

In  lien  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates. 

Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people! 

Then,  when  the  Hebrew's  in  thy  palaces, 

The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his! 

When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 

In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shamefoi  need 

Make  their  nobitity  a  plea  for  pity! 

Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreek 

Of  their  great  fathers'  heritage  shall  fawn 

Round  a  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vice-gercnt, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sovereign. 

Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or  sprung 

From  an  adulteress  boastftil  of  her  guilt 

With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 

To  the  third  spurious  generation ;  —  when 

Thy  sons  arc  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquished  by  the  viators, 

Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice. 

And  scorn'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 

As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 

Defy  all  codes  to  Image  or  to  name  them ; 

Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom, 

AH  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 

Entail'd  on  thy  less  virtuous  daughters  grown 

A  wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution;  — 

When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  thee, 

Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief 

Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er; 

But  in  its  stead  coarse  lusts  of  habitude. 

Prurient  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdness, 

Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art;  — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when  . 

Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure. 

Youth  withont  honour,  age  without  respect. 


Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  tense  of  woe 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  darest  i 
Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts. 
Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony. 
Amidst  thy  many' murders,  think  of  mme/ 
Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes ! 
Gehenna  of  the  waters  I  thou  sea  -  Sodom ! 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent -seed! 

CHcr«  the  Dook  tonu,  and  addreuM  Ui«  1 

Slave,  do  thine  office; 

Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe!  Strike  as  I  would 

Have  struck  those  tyrants !  Strike  deep  as  my  corse! 

Strike  —  and  but  once! 

[The  DoGB  throws  himself  apon  his  knees,  and  as  ^ 
KaecaCioDcr  raises  his  sword  the  scene  doses. 

SCENE  IV.    . 

The  Plana  and  Plauetta  of  Saint  If  ark's.  —  Hie  People  in  erswdi 
gathered  roond  the  grated  galM  of  ibe  dnoal  Palace,  which  are  shot. 

First  Citizen,  I  have  gain'd  the  gate,  and  can  discera 
the  Ten, 
Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 

Second  Citizen,  I  cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost 
How  is  it  ?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight  [cflfort 

Is  thus  prohibited  unto  the  people, 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars.  [they  strip 

FirH  GtUen,  One  has  approached  the  Doge,  and  now 
The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head  —  and  now 
He  raises  his  keen  eyes  to  heaven.  I  see 
Them  glitter,  and  his  lips  move — Hush !  hush !  —  No— 
'Twas  but  a  murmur  —  Curse  upon  the  distance! 
His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 
Swells  up  like  mutter'd  thunder;  would  we  could 
But  gather  a  sole  sentence! 

Second  Citizen,  Hush !  wc  perhaps  may  catch  the  souw^ 

Fint  Citizen,  'Tisvain, 
I  cannot  hear  him.  —  How  his  hoary  hair 
Streams  on  the  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave ! 
Now  —  now  —  he  kneels  -~  and  now  they  form  a  cirda 
Round  him  and  all  is  hidden  —  but  I  see 
The  lifted  sword  in  air  —  Ah !  hark !  it  falls! 

[The  people  nam 

mrd  Citizen,   Tlien  they  have  murder'd  him  wl 

would  have  freed  us.  [eve 

Fourth  Citizen,  He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  eolsmoi 

Fifth  Citizen.  \ViseIy  they  did  to  keep  their  porta 

barrU 

Would  we  bad  known  the  woark  they  were  preparing 

Ere  we  were  summon'd  here;  we  would  have  brought 

Weapons,  and  forced  them ! 

Sixth  Citizen,  Are  you  sure  he*s  dead  ?  [we  her 

First  Citizen,  I  saw  the  sword  fall  —  Lo!  what  hai 

LBnter  on  the  Balcony  of  tba  Palace  whidi  fronts  Sali&t  ll«! 
Plaee  a  Cbibv  or  tm  tin,  wUh  a  bloody  iword.  H*.wai 
it  thrice  before  the  People,  and  exclaim^ 

"Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  Traitor ! 

[The  gates  are  opened ;    the  popalace  rash  in  towards  I 
"Giant's  Stslrease,"  where  the  execution  has  uken 
The  foremost  of  them  ezdafans  to  those  behind : 

The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  ^'Giant's  Steps!** 

LTkAcwtahiftI 


375 


CAIN, 


A     MYSTERY. 

Now  Uie  Serpent  was  more  sabtli  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which  the  Lord  God  had  made.  ~-  Gbn.  Ill,  1 


TO 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 

THIS  MYSTERY  OF  CAIN 

18     INSCKIBSD     BT     RM     OBLIOBD     PEIBND,     AND     raiTRPVL     SKMTAIIT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  follonin^  scenes  are  entitled  "a  Mystery,"  in  con- 
t>rmify  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas  upon 
similar  snbjecta,  whicli  were  styled  Mysteries,  or  Mo- 
ralities. The  author  has  by  no  means  taken  the  same 
liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  common  formerly, 
as  may  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious  enough  to  refer  to 
(hose  very  profiane  productions,  whether  in  English, 
Freocb,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  The  author  has  endeavoured 
to  preserre  the  language  adapted  to  his  characters ;  and 
where  it  is  (and  this  is  but  rarely)  taken  from  actual 
Seriphtref  he  has  made  as  little  alteration,  even  of  words, 
as  the  rhythm  would  permit  The  reader  will  recollect 
that  the  book  of  Genesis  docs  not  state  that  Eve  was 
tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  ''the Serpent; "and  that  only 
because  he  was  ''the  most  subtil  of  all  the  beasts  of  the 
field."  Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins  and  the 
Fathers  may  have  put  upon  this,  I  must  take  the  words 
as  I  find  them,  and  reply  witii  Bishop  Watson  upon  si- 
■liar  occasions,  when  the  Fathers  were  quoted  to  him, 
as  Moderator  in  the  Schools  of  Cambridge,  "Behold  the 
Book !" — holding  up  the  Scripture.  It  is  to  be  recollected 
,lhat  my  present  subject -has  nothing  to  do  with  the  New 
TttUmeni,  to  which  no  reference  can  be  here  made  with- 
wt  anachronism.  With  tlie  poems  upon  similar  topics  I 
hive  not  be^n  recently  familiar.  Since  I  was  twenty,  I 
have  never  read  Milton ;  but  I  had  read  him  30  frequently 
before,  that  this  may  make  little  difference.  Gesncr's 
"Death  of  Abel"  I  have  never  read  since  I  was  eight  years 
of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of  my  re- 
faOeetion  is  delight;  but  of  the  contents  I  remember 
Ifftly  that  Cain's  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and  Abers 
thirza. — In  the  followmg  pages  I  have  called  them  Adah 
tad  ZiDah,  the  earliest  female  names  which  occur  in  Ge- 
1  Bests;  they  were  tiiose  of  Lamech's  wives:  those  of  Cain 
;l»dAbel  are  not  called  by  their  names.  Whether,  then, 
•eoincideiiGe  of  subject  may  have  caused  the  same  in  ex* 
IftessioD,  I  koowsothingy  and  oare  as  little. 


The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (wliat  few 
choose  to  recollect,)  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  future 
state  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the  Old 
Testament  For  a  reason  for  this  extraordinary  omission 
he  may  consult  "Warburton's  Divine  Legation;"  whe- 
ther satisfactory  or  not ,  no  better  has  yet  been  assigned. 
I  have  therefore  supposed  it  new  to  Cain,  without,  I  hope 
any  perversion  of  Holy  Writ 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  difficult 
for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a  Clergyman  upon  the  same 
subjects;  but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  restrain  him 
within  the  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 

If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of  the 
Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has  not 
the  most  distant  a)lu.«ion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind ,  but 
merely  to  the  Serpent  in  bis  serpeatine  capacity. 

Note.  —  The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that 
the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  before  the 
creation  of  man.  Tbis  speculation ,  derived  from  the 
different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  unknown 
animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary  to  the  Mosaic 
account,  but  rather  confirms  it;  as  no  human  bones 
have  yet  been  discovered  in  those  strata,  although  those 
of  many  known  animals  are  found  near  the  remains  of 
tlie  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Lucifer,  that  the  pre- 
adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  rational  beings  much 
more  intelligent  than  man,  and  proportionably  powerful 
to  the  mammoth,  is,  of  course,  a  poetical  fiction  to  help 
him  to  make  out  his  case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "Tramelogedia"  of  Al- 
fieri,  called  "Abele"  —  I  have  never  read  that  nor  any 
other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer,  except 
his  Life. 


376 


CAIN. 

DKAMATIS   PERSON*. 

MBN. 

WOMEN. 

Adam. 

Cain. 

Eve. 

Abel. 

Adah. 

SPIRITS. 

ZlIXAH« 

Anoel  of  the  Lord. 

Lucifer. 

I 


An  I 


A    C    T      I. 


SCENE  I. 

The  Lud  wIthoDt  Paradise  —  Time,  Surlw. 

Adam,  Etr,  Gjiin,  Abbl,  Adah,  Zillar,  offertnc  a  Mcriflct. 

Adam,  God,  the  Eternal!  Infinite  I  All- Wise! 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a  word  —  all  hail! 
Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail ! 

Eve,  God!  who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separate 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never  — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament  —  all  hail ! 

Abel,  God!  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth  —  ocean  —  air  —  and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds  which  these  illuminate, 
Or  sfiadow,  madest  beings  to  ei\joy  them. 
And  love  both  them  and  thee  —  all  hail !  all  hail! 

Adah,  God,  the  Eternal!  Parent  of  all  things! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings, 
To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee  -^ 
Let  me  love  thee  and  them :  —  All  hail !  all  hail ! 

2^Uah,  Oh,  God  I  who  loving,  making,  blessing  oil, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  serpent  to  creep  in. 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  from  further  evil :  —  Hail !  all  hail !         [silent  ? 

Adam,  Son  Cain  ,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thou 

Cain,  Why  should  I  speak  f 

Adam,  To  pray. 

Cam*  Have  ye  not  pray 'd  ? 

Adam,  We  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly :  I 
Have  heard  you. 

Adam,  So  will  God^  I  trust. 

AheL  Amen! 

Adam,  But  thou,  my  eldest-born,  art  silent  still. 

Cam,  'Tis  better  I  should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so? 

Cain,  I  have  nought  to  ask. 

Adam*  Nor  aught  to  thank  for  ? 

Cain,  No. 

Adam,  Dost  thou  not  live? 

Cain,,  Must  I  not  die  f 

Eve.  Alas! 
The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fell. 

Adam.  And  we  must  gather  it  again. 
Oh,  Godl  why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  knowledge? 


Cain,  And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of  lifc? 
Te  might  have  then  defied  him. 

Adam,  Oh!  my  son, 
Blaspheme  not:  these  are  serpent's  words. 

Cain.  Why  not? 
The  snake  spoke  truth :  it  wai  the  tree  of  knowledge ; 
It  wai  the  tree  of  life:  —  knowledge  is  good. 
And  life  is  good ;  and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 

Eve.  My  hoy  I  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke  in  sin. 
Before  thy  birth :  let  mc  not  see  rencw'd 
My  misery  in  thine.  I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  oflspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy  *d  his  parents. 
Content  thee  with  what  it.  Had  we  been  so. 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented.  —  Oh,  my  son ! 

Adam,  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  henoe. 
Bach  to  his  task  of  toil  —  not  heavy,  though 
Needful:  the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labour. 

Eve,  Cain,  my  son. 
Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resign'd. 
And  do  as  he  doth.  CBxeaM  Adm  wu  B«% 

Zf7/aA.  Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother? 

AheL  Wliy  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse 
The  eternal  anger? 

Adah,  My  beloved  Cain, 
Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me? 

Cain,  No,  Adah!  no; 
I  fiiin  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I'm  sick  at  heart;  but  it  will  pass: 
Precede  me,  brother  —  I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind; 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met: 
ril  follow  you  anon. 

Adah,  If  not,  I  will 
Return  to  seek  you  here. 

AheL  The  peace  of  God 
Be  on  your  spirit,  brother! 

Cain  (loiaa).  And  this  is 
Life !  —  Toil !  and  wherefore  should  I  toil?  —  because  ^ 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden.  i 

What  had  /done  In  this?  —  I  was  unborn : 
I  sought  not  to  be  born ;  nor  love  the  state  J 

To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.  Why  did  be 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman?  or,  ^ 


[KzeniU  AbH,  Zillah,  and  km 


\CT  I. 


CAIN. 


377 


TiddiD^,  why  saffer?  What  was  there  in  this? 

The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him? 

If  ooty  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  ^ew, 

The  fairest  in  the  centre?  They  have  but 

One  answer  to  all  questions,  **'twas  kU  will, 

And  he  18  good."  How  know  I  that?  Because 

He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow  ? 

I  judge  but  by  the  fruits  —  and  they  are  bitter  — 

Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 

Whom  haye  we  here?  —  A  shape  like  to  the  angels, 

Tet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect 

Of  spiritual  essence :  why  do  I  quake? 

Why  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits. 

Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swtrds 

Before  the  gates  roimd  which  I  linger  oft. 

In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  those 

Gardens  which  are  my  just  inhcAtanoe, 

Ere  the  night  closea  o'er  the  inhibited  walls 

And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 

The  cherubim-defended  battlements? 

If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-arm'd  angels, 

Why  should  I  quail  fl-om  him  who  now  approaches? 

Tct  he  seems  mightier  far  ttian  they,  nor  less 

Bftnteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 

As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be :  sorrow  seems 

Half  of  his  immortality.  And  is  it 

So?  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity? 

He  oomcth. 

Enter  Li'ctriiR 
iMcfer,  Mortal! 
dm.  Spirit,  who  art  thou? 
Lacker.  Master  of  spirits. 
Cm,  And  being  so,  canst  thou  ' 
Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust? 
Lmnfer^  I  know  the  thoughts 
Of  dust,  and  feel  fbr  it,  and  with  you. 

Cm.  How! 
Ton  know  my  thoughts? 

iMeiftr,  They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 
>- Worthy  of  thoughts;  —  'tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  yon. 

Cm,  What  immortal  part? 
this  has  not  been  reveal'd :  tlie  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly. 
While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste. 
Was  pluck'd  too  soon ;  and  all  the  fruit  is  death ! 
Lmetfer,  They  have  deceived  thee;  thou  shalt  live. 
Cmm.  I  live. 
Bat  live  to  die:  and,  living,  see  nothing 
fo  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  clinging, 
A  loathsome  and  yet  all  invincible 
lastinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
^lespise  myself^  yet  cannot  overcome  — > 
And  so  I  live.  Would  I  had  never  lived! 
■    Irndfer.  Thou  II vest,  and  must  live  for  ever:  think  not 
[the  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov'ring,  is 
pxistence  —  it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
HO  less  than  thou  art  now. 
I    Cim.  VoUst!  and  why 
JKomore? 


Lucifer.  It  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cain.  And  ye? 

iMcxfer,  Are  everlasting. 

dm.  Are  ye  happy? 

Lucifer.  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy? 

Lucifer.  No:  art  thou? 

Cain.  How  should  I  be  so?  Look  on  me! 

Lucifer.  Poor  clay! 
And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched!  Thou!  [thou? 

CaiTL  I  am;  —  and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what  art 

Lucifer.  One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art 

Cain.  Ah! 
Thoulookstahnostagod;  and  — 

Lucifer.  I  am  none: 
And  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  I  am.  He  conqner'd;  let  him  reign ! 

Cain.  Who? 

Lucifer.  Thy  sire's  Maker,  and  the  earth's. 

Cain.  And  heaven's. 
And  all  that  in  them  is.  So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing;  and  so  my  fother  saith.  [pain 

Lucifer.  They  say  ~  what  they  must  sing  and  say,  on 
Of  being  that  which  I  am  —  and  thou  art  — 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that? 

Lucifer.  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality  — 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  fhce,  and  tell  him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  1  If  be  has  made, 
As  he  saith  —  which  I  know  not,  nor  believe  — 
But,  if  he  made  us  —  be  cannot  unmake: 
We  are  immortal !  —  nay,  he'd  have  us  so,  / 

That  he  may  torture :  ~  let  him !  He  is  great  —   ^ 
But,  in  his  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  confiict!  Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil;  and  what  else  hath  he  made?  But  let  htm 
Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne. 
Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 
Less  burthensome  to  his  immense  existence 
And  unpartldpated  solitude ! 
Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb:  he  is  a  lone  ( 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant !  I 

Could  he  but  crush  himself,  'twere  the  best  boon 
He  ever  granted :  but  let  him  reign  on. 
And  multiply  himself  in  misery! 
Spirits  and  men,  at  least  we  sympathise; 
And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs, 
Innumerable,  more  endurable, 
By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all  — 
With  all !  But  He  I  so  wretched  in  his  height, 
So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 
Create,  and  re-create  —  [swum 

Cam.  Thou  speakst  io  me  of  things  which  long  have 
In  visions  through  my  thought:  1  never  ooold 
Reooncile  what  I  saw  with  what  I  heard. 
My  &ther  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees:  I  see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherabim, 
84« 


378 


CAIN. 


ACT  L 


Wliich  shot  them  out,  and  me :  I  feel  the  weight 

Of  daily  toil,  and  coostant  thought;  I  look 

Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 

Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 

Could  master  all  things : —  but  I  thought  alone; 

This  misery  was  mine,  —  My  fhther  is 

Tamed  down ;  my  mother  has  foigot  the  mind 

Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 

Of  an  eternal  curse;  my  brother  is 

A  watehing  shepherd-boy,  who  offers  op 

The  firatiiags  of  the  0ock  to  him  who  luds 

The  eairth  yielid  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 

My  sister  Zillah  ainga  an  earlier  hymn 

Than  the  birds'  matins ;  and  my  Adah,  my 

Own  and  beloved,  she  too  understands  not 

The  mind  which  overwhelms  me ;  never  till 

Now  met  I  aiu^h^  to  aya^iatiiiae  with  me. 

'Tis  well — I  rather  would  consort  with  spirits.        [soul 

Lucifer.  And,  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by  thine  own 
For  such  companionahip,  I  would  not  now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am :  a  serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  oharm  ye,  as  before. 

Csin.  Ah  I  didst  tAoK  tempt  my  mother? 

Lucifer,  I  tempt  none. 
Save  with  the  troth:  was  not  tiietoee,tiM  tree 
Of  knowledge?  and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ?  Did  /bid  her  pluok  them  not? 
Did  /plant  thv^  prohibited  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  ourkms 
By  their  own  innooonoe  ?  i  would  have  made  ye 
Gods;  andevenHewho^thnislyie  forth,  so- thrust  ye 
Because  '^ye  should  not  eat  the  flraits  of  Kfe, 
And  become  gods  as  we.''  Were  those  his  words?'  [them 

Cain,  They  were,  asl  havehcapd  from  these  who  heard 
In  thunder. 

Lucifer,  Then  who  was. the  demon?  He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge? 

Cain,  Would  they  had  snatch'd  both 
The  fruits,  or  neither! 

Lucifer,  One  is  yours  already. 
The  other  may  be  still. 

Cain,  How  so? 

Luci/er^  By  being 
Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.  Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  wUI  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things — 'tis  made 
To  sway. 

CctJt.  But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents? 

Lucifer.  I? 
Poor  clay  I  whatshouldltemptthemfor,  orhow? 

Cain,  They  say  tiie  serpent  was  a  spirit* 

Lud/er,  Who 
Saith  that?  It  is  not  written  so  on  Ugh: 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  IhrMsify, 
Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
His  own  low  feiltng.  The  snake  was  the  snake — 
No  more ;  and  yetnot  less  than  those  he  tempted, 
In  nature  being  earth  atoo— morr  in  wisdom. 


Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fetal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Thinkst  thou  I'd  take  the  shape  of  things  that  die? 

Cain,  But  the  thing  )iad  a  demon^ 

Lucifer,  He  but  woke  one 
In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  serpent :  ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.  When  thousand  ages 
Have  rotf  d  o'er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your  seed's. 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  feble,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  soon%  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him  trho  made  thingstet  to  bend 
Before  his  sullen,  sole  eternity; 
But  we,  who  see  the  truths  must  speak  it  Thy 
Fond  parents  listen'd  toil  creeping  thing, 
AndfelL  For  what  should  spirits  tempt  them?  What 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 
Space — hut  1  speak  to  thee  of  what  thou  knowst  not, 
With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

Cain,  But  thou  canst  not 
Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  I  would  not  know. 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

Luctfer,  And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

Cain.  Be  it  proved! 

Lucifer,  Dar'st  thou  look  on  Death  ? 

Cain,  Ho  has  not  yet 
Been  seen. 

Lucifer,  But  must  be  undergone. 

Cain,  Myfether 
Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he's  named;  and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earthy 
And  sighs  a  prayer;  and  Adah  looks  on  me. 
And  speaks  not. 

Lucifer,  And  thou? 

Cain,  Thoughts  unspeakable 
Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems. 
Inevitable.  Could  I  wrestle  with  him  ? 
I  wrestled  with  the  lion,  when  a  boy. 
In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

Lucifer.  It  has  no  shape;  but  will  absorb  all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-bom  being. 

Cain,  Ahl 
I  tiiought  it  was  a  being:  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a  bdng? 

Lucifer,  Ask  the  Destroyer. 

Cain,  Whom? 

Lucifer,  The  Maker  —  call  him 
Which  name  thou  wilt;  he  makes  but  to  destroy, 

Cain.  I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I  heard 
Of  death :  although  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
Yet  it  seems  horrible.  I  have  look*d  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  liim ; 
And,  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  £den,  chequer 'd 
By  the  fer-ilashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords. 


kCT  t 


CAIN. 


379 


I  watch'd  for  what  I  thought  his  comiAg;  for 

With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 

What  'twas  which  shook  as  all  —  bat  notliing  name. 

And  then  I  torn'd  my  weary  eyes  from  off 

Oor  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 

Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azare, 

Which  are  so  beaatiliil :  shall  they,  too,  die? 

Lucifer.  Perhaps  <-but  long  oatlive  botbthineandthee. 

Cfoi.  I'm  glad  of  that;  I  would  not  have  them  die, 
They  are  so  lovely.  What  is  death?  I  fear, 
I  ieely  it  is  a  dreadful  thing;  but  what, 
I  cannot  compass:  'tis  denounced  against  us, 
Both  tbeoi  wlio  sinn'd  and  sinn'd  not,  as  an  ill  — 
WhaliU? 

huifer.  To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

Cmu  But  shall  I  know  it  ? 

Lucifer,  As  I  know  not  death^^ 
1  cannot  answer. 

Ckia.  Were  I  quiet  earthr 
That  were  no  evil:  would  1  ne'er  bad  been 
Aoght  else  but  dust! 

Lucifer,  That  is  a  grov'ling  wish. 
Less  than  thy  fiitber's,  for  he  wish'd  to  know. 

Crniu  But  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  be  npt 
The  life-tree? 

Uunfer.  He  was  binder'd. 

Ckta.  Deadly  error! 
Not  to  snatch  first  that  Anit:  —  but  ere  he  pluekM 
The  knowledge^  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Ahs!  I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is, 
And  yet  I  fear  it  —  fear  I  know  not  what! 

Lacker,  And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing:  see 
What  is  true  knowledge. 

C€itu  Wilt  thou  teach  nie  all  ? 

Uutfer,  Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

Cua.  Name  it 

LHcifer,  That 
Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  mc  —  thy  Lord. 

CmtL  Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 

Liutfer,  No. 

Gnu.  His  equal? 

Uuxfer,  No;  —  I  have  nought  in  common  with  him ! 
Hot  would :  I  would  be  aught  above  --  beneath  — 
Aoght  save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.  I  dwell  apart;  but  I  am  great:  — 
tfany  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall  —  be  thou  amongst  the  first 

CaitL,  I  never 
As  yet  have  bow'd  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  1  would  join  with  him  in  saorifiee:  — 
Why  should  1  bow  to  thee  ? 

Jjuifer,  Hast  thou  ne'er  bow'd 
To  him? 

Com.  Have  I  not  said  it?  —  need  I  say  it  ? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  tliat? 

Lmeifcr,  He  who  bows  not  to  him  baa  bow'd  to  me ! 

Cm.  But  I  will  bend  to  neither. 

Lmetfcr.  Ne'er  the  less 
Thoa  art  my  worshipper:  not  worshipping 
Wm  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 


Cmn.  And  what  is  that? 

Lucifer.  Thou'lt  know  here  —  and  hereafter. 

Cain,  Let  me  but 
Bo  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Lueifeir,  Follow 
Where  1  will  lead  thee. 

CdtTi.  But  I  must  retire 
To  till  the  earth  —  for  I  had  promised  -^ 

Lucifer.  What? 

Cain,  To  cull  some  first  fruits, 

Lucifer.  Why? 

Com.  To  offer  up 
With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

Luqfer,  Saidst  thou  not 
Thou  ne'er  badst  bent  to  hioa  who  made  thee? 

Cain.  Tes  — 
But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me; 
The  offering  is  more  his  than  mine  —  and  Adah  — 

Lucifer,  \l'hy  dost  thou  hesitate  ? 

Cain.  She  is  my  sister, 
Born  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb;  and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise;  and 
Rather  than  see  her  weep,!  would,  raethinks, 
Bear  all  and  -—  worship  aught 

Lucifer.  Then  follow  me! 

Cain.  I  wilL 

Enter  Adah. 

Adah,  My  brother,  1  have  come  for  thee; 
ft  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy  —  and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.  Thou  hast  labour'd  not 
This  morn;  but  I  have  done  thy  task :  tfaeftvits 
Arc  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens : 
Come  away. 

Cain,  Seest  thou  not? 

Adah.  I  sec  an  angel; 
We  have  seen  many :  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest?  —  he  is  welcome. 

Cum.  But  he  is  not  like 
The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah,  Are  there,  then,  others? 
But  he  Is  welcome,  as  they  were ;  they  deign'd 
,  To  be  our  guests  —  will  he? 

Cain  (to  Lacifer).  Wilt  thou  ? 

Lucifer,  I  ask 
Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain,  I  must  away  with  him. 

Adah.  AndieaTCus? 

Cain.  Ay. 

Adah^  And  met 

Cain.  Beloved  Adah ! 

Adah,  Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer,  No,  she  must  not 

Adah.  Who 
Art  thou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  heart? 

Cain,  He  is  a  god. 

Adah,  How  knowst  thou? 

Cain.  He  speaks  like 
A  god. 

Adah,  So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 


380 


CAIN. 


ACT  L 


-  was  not  the  tree  Uiat 


Lueiftr,  Thoo  errest,  Adah  I 
Of  knowledge? 

Adah,  Ay  —  to  our  eternal  sorrow.  [not : 

Lucifer,  And  yet  that  g:rief  is  knowledge  —  so  he  lied 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  'twas  with  truth; 
And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

Adah,  But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gathered 
Evil  on  ill :  expulsion  from  our  home, 
And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness; 
Remorse  of  that  which it^as,  and  hope  of  that 
Which  cometh  not.  Cain !  walk  not  with  this  spirit. 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  mc  —  I 
Love  thee. 

Lucifer,  More  than  thy  mother  and  thy  sire? 

Adah,  I  do.  Is  that  a  sin,  too? 

Lucifer,  No,  not  yet; 
It  one  day  will  be  in  your  oliildren. 

AdAh.  What! 
Mast  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Bnoch? 

Lucifer.  Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain ! 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God!  v  / 

Shall  they  not  love  and  bring  forth  things  tliat  love      Y 
Out  of  their  love?  have  (hey  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom?  was  not  he,  their  father. 
Born  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hoar 
With  me?  did  we  not  love  each  other?  and. 
In  multiplying  our  being,  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them  ?  —  And  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain !  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit;  he  is  not  of  ours. 

Lucifer,  The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my  making. 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you  *-  whatever 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality. 

Adah.  What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself?  Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue?  —  if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of— 

Lucifer,  Higher  things  than  ye  arc  slaves:  and  higher 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation 
In  hymns  and  harpings,  and  self-seeking  prayers 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah,  Omnipotence 
Must  be  all  goodness. 

Lucifer,  Was  it  so  in  Eden?  [fairer 

Adah,  Fiend!  tempt  me  not  with  beauty;  thou  art 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

Lucifer,  As  true. 
Ask  Eve,  your  mother ;  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Ofgood  and  evil? 

Adah,  Oh,  my  mother!  thoa 
Hast  pluck 'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself;  thou  at  the  least  hast  past ' 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits; 
But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  £den» 


Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  asscunc 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  witli  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  carious  thoughts  —  as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  by  the  snake,  In  thy  most  flushed 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which  stands  before  me;  I  cannot  abhor  him ; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him :  in  his  eye 
Tliere  is  a  fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his;  my  heart 
Beats  quick;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near. 
Nearer  and  nearer :  Cain  —  Cain  —  saye  me  from  him! 
Cain,  What  dreads  my  Adah  ?  This  is  no  ill  spirit 
Adah,  He  is  not  God  —  nor  God's ;  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs ;  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Caiju  But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still  — 
The  archangels. 
Lucifer, .  And  still  loftier  than  the  archangels. 
Adah,  Ay  —  but  not  blessed. 
Lucifer,  If  the  blessedness 
Consists  in  slavery  —  no. 

Adah.  1  have  heard  it  said. 
The  seraphs  love  most  —  chernbim  hnow  mo«f — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub  —  since  he  loves  not. 

Lucifer,  And  if  the  higher  knowledge  qnew^hcs  love, 
What  must  he  be  you  cannot  love  whep  known? 
Since  the  all-knowing  ohembim  love  least. 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  bat  ignorance: 
That  tliey  are  not  compatible,  the  doom . 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 
Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge  --  nnee  tliere  is 
No  other  choice:  your  sire  hath  chosen  already; 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 
Adah,  Oh,  Cain!  choose  love. 
Cain.  For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not  —  it  was 
Born  With  me  —  but  I  love  nought  else. 
Adah.  Our  parents?  [tree 

Cain.  Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatch'd  from  the 
That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise? 

Adah.  We  were  not  born  then  —■  and  if  we  had  beei^ 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  oar  children,  Cain  ? 

Cain.  My  little  Enoch  and  his  lisping  sister ! 
Could  I  but  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 
Forget  —  but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 
Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations !  never 
Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 
Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 
In  the  same  hour!  They  pluck'd  the  tree  of  science 
And  sin  —  and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow. 
Begot  me  —  thee  »  and  all  the  few  that  arc. 
And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  tnnnmerable 
Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 
To  inherit  agonies  aocamnlated 
By  ages !  —  And  /must  be  sire  of  sooh  things! 
TUy  beauty  and  thy  love  —  my  love  and  joy, 
The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hoor. 
All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other. 
But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 
Of  sin  and  pain  —  or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow. 


ACT  L 


CAIN, 


381 


Interchcck  'd  with  an  iutant  of  bHef  plearare,        [ledge 
To  Death  —  tbevoknown!  Metbinks  the  tree  of  know- 
Hath  not  fulfiU'd  its  promise:  If  they  sino'd, 
At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things  that  are 
Of  knowledge  —  and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  they  know  ?  —  that  they  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fraits  to  teach  os  that? 

Adah.  I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 
Wert  happy  — 

Com.  Be  thoa  happy  then  alone  — 
I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  happiness. 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Admk,  Alone  I  could  not, 
Nor  would  be  happy :  but  with  those  around  us, 
I  think  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death, 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow  —  if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  couIdsC  not 
Alone,  thou  sayst,  be  happy  ? 

Adah.  Alone!  Oli,  my  God! 
Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good? 
To  me  9iy  solitude  seems  An;  unless 
When  I  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother,    • 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

iMcifor,  Yet  tliy  God  is  alone;  and  is  he  happy  ? 
Lonely  and  good? 

Adah,  He  is  not  so;  he  hath 
The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 
And  thus  becomes  so  in  difiusing  joy : 
What  else  can  j  oy  be  but  the  spreading  joy  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from  Eden ; 
Or  of  his  first-born  son;  ask  your  own  heart; 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

AdMh»  Alas!  no;  and  you  — 
Are  yon  of  heayen ! 

Lucifer.  If  I  am  not,  inquire 
The  canse  of  this  all-spreading  happiness, 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-great  and  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things;  it  is 
His  sccnret,  and  he  kcepfi  it.  We  must  bear. 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  yain, 
His  seraphs  say ;  but  it  is  worth  the  trial, 
Since  better  may  not  be  without:  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  morn. 

Admh.  It  is  a  beautiful  star;  I  love  it  for 
Itsbeaaty. 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  adore? 

Aduh.  Our  father 
Adores  the  Invisible  only* 

Luctfer.  Bat  the  i^mbols 
Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible ;  and  yon  bright  star 
b  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven, 

Admk.  Our&ther 
Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  iiimself 
Who  made  him  and  our  motlier. 

Lmeifer.  Hast  (JUk  seen  him? 


Aduh.  Tes  —  in  his  works. 

Lucifer.  But  in  his  being? 

Adah.  No  — 
Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee  — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming;  as  the  silent  sunny  noon. 
All  light,  they  look  upon  us ;  but  thou  seemst 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumbered  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  .would  be  suns; 
So  beautiful,  unnumber'd,  and  endearing, 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them, 
They  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seemst  unhappy;  do  not  make  us  so, 
And  I  will  weep  for  thee. 

Lucifer.  Alas !  those  tears ! 
Conldst  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed  — 

Adah.  By  me? 

Lucifer.  By  alt. 

Adah.  What  all? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions  — 
The  myriad  myriads  —  the  ail-ptfopled  earth  — 
The  unpeopled  earth  —  and  the  o'er-peopled  hell. 
Of  which  tliy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

Adah.  Oh  Cain, 
This  spirit  curscth  us* 

Cain.  Let  him  say  on; 
Him  will  I  follow. 

Adah.  Whither? 

Lucifer.  To  a  place 
Whence  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour, 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.  How  can  that  be? 

Lucifer.  Did  not  your  Maker  make 
Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days  \ 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work, 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  bath  made  in  many. 
Or  hath  destroyed  in  few? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he 
In  sooth  return  within  an  hour  ? 

Lucifer,  Hesliall. 
With  us  acts  arc  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour, 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity  : 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement  — 
But  that's  a  mystery.  Cain,  come  on  with  me.* 

Adah.  Will  he  return? 

Lucifer,  Ay,  woman !  he  alone 
Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  sliall  return,  save  One)  ~  shall  come  back  to  thee 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this:  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

Adah.  Where  dwcUcst thou?  [Where are 

Lucifer.  Throughout  all  space.  Where  should  I  dwell  ? 
Thy  God  or  Gods  —  there  am  I;  all  things  are 
Divided  with  me;  life  and  deatfi  —  and  time  — 
Eternity  —  and  heaven  and  earth  —  and  that 


382 


CAIN. 


ACT  U. 


Which  is  Dot  heayen  nor  earth,  hot  peopled  with 
Those  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both  — 
These  are  my  realms !  So  that  I  do  divide 
ISs,  aod  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
HU.  If  I  were  not  that  which  I  have  said. 
Could  I  stand  here?  His  angels  are  within 
Yoor  vision. 

Adah,  So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 


Imafer.  Cain!  thoa  hast haaid. 

If  thoo  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 

That  thirst :  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fhitts 

Which  shall  deprive  tliee  of  a  single  good 

The  conqueror  has  left  thee.  Follow  me. 

Caiiu  Spirit,  I  have  said  it  CBxAvt  Lmotw  «»d  Cur 

^<laA  (Mtowf,  exckimiaie).  Cain  1  my  brother!  Caia! 


ACT      II. 


SCENE  I. 

Th6  Abyu  of  Space. 

Cain,  I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not;  yet  I  fear 
To  sink. 

Lucifer.  Have  fhith  in  me,  and  thou  shaft  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 

Cain,  Can  I  do  so  witbont  impiety?  [llins 

Lucifer,  Believe — and  sink  not !  doubt  — •  and  perish  I 
Would  run  the  edict  of  the  oUicr  God, 
Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels;  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things. 
Which  knowiog  noujj^ht  beyond  their  shallow  senses, 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaimed  to  them 
In  their  abasement.  I  will  have  none  such : 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced,  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 
With  torture  of  my  dooming.  There  will  come 
An  hour,  when  toss'd  upon  some  water-drops, 
A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "Believe  in  me. 
And  walk  the  waters;"  and  the  man  shaU  walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe,  /will  not  say 
Believe  in  me,  as  a  conditional  creed 
To  save  thee;  but  0y  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I  will  show 
What  thou  dar'st  not  deny,  the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  ftiture  worlds. 

Cain,  Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art. 
Is  yon  ou^earth  ? 

Lucifer,  Dost  thou  not  recognise 
The  dust  which  form'd  your  fhther  ? 

Cain,  Can  it  be? 
Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether, 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 
Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night  ? 
Is  this  our  Paradise  ?  Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them? 

Lucifer,  Point  me  out  the  site 
Of  Paradise. 

Cam,  How  should  I?  As  we  move 
Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smalkr, 


y 


And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 
Oathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise : 
Methinks  they  both,  as  wc  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  Innnmeiablo  stars 
Which  are  around  us;  and,  as  we  move  oo. 
Increase  their  myriads. 

Luctfer,  And  if  there  should  be 
Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater  tilings,  and  they  themsdves  fut  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dvll  eaitb^ 
Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms, 
AU  livingv  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretched, 
What  wouldst  thou  think? 

Cain.  I  should  be  proud  of  thought 
Which  knew  such  things. 

Lucifer.  But  if  that  high  thought  were 
Link*d  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  tilings,  aspiring  to  such  things. 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  cbain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoomed  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  happy  — 

Cain,  Spirit!  I 
Know  nought  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life;  a  heritage  not  happy, 
Iflmayjudge  till  now.  But,  spirit!  if 
It  be,  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth), 
Here  let  me  die:  for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  mufder. 

Lucifer,  Thou  canst  not 
All  die  --  there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cstn.  The  Other 


AiT  IL 


CAIN. 


383 


Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  fattier,  when 
He  shot  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.  But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  »e  perish,  that 
I  maj  be  in  the  rest  as  angreis  are. 

Lucifer »  /am  angelic:  wontdst  thou  be  as  I  ava? 

Csfit.  I  know  not  what  thoa  art :  I  see  thj  power, 
Aad  see  thoa  showst  aae  things  beyond  mjr  power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  fhoullies. 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

iMciftr.  What  are  tfcey^  which  dwell 
So  hnmbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojoam 
With  worms  in  clay? 

Gm.  And  what  art  tbou^  who  dwellast 
So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  imnwrtality  —  and  yet 
Seemst  sorrowinl  ? 

iMeifer.  I  seem  that  whidi  I  am; 
And  therefore  do  I  ask  oi  thee,  if  tbon 
Wonltist  be  immortal? 

Ckm.  ThoahaAsmii,Iniiutbe 
Immortal  in  despite  of  me.  I  knew  not 
This  nntil  lately  —  bat  sinoe  h  most  be, 
Let  me,  or  happy,  or  nnhappy,  learo 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lueifer.  Thoa  didst  before  I  eame  opoA  thee. 

Cain,  How? 

iMdftr.  By  suffering. 

Cm.  And  most  torfnre  be  immortal  ? 

Lueifer.  We  and  thy  sons  wiH  try.    Bvt  now,  behold ! 
Is  it  not  glorious? 

Cn'M.  Oh,  thoa  bcaa«iM 
And  onimaginaMe  ether!  and 
Ye  multiplying  ntaases  of  inoreased 
And  still-inereasing  lights!  whiltareye?  what 
b  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable    * 
Ahr,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  T  hare  seen 
^Tbe  leayes  aloa^  the  Ihnpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  yoor  course  measured  for  ye  ?  Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revehry 
Through  an  aerial  nnlverse  of  endless 
Expansion,  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think, 
Intoxicated  with  eternity  ? 
Oh  God!  Oh  Gods!  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are! 
How  beautiful  ye' are!  howbeaofiftil 
Tonr  works,  ot  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 
Theynmybe!  Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 
(If  that  they  die>  or  know  ye  fai  your  might 
And  knowledge !  My  thoughts-are  not  in  this  hour 
UttworHiy  whet  (see.thongii  my  dust'is; 
Spirit!  let  me cx^re,  or  see  them  nearer. 

Lmt^er.  Art  thou  not  nearer?  look  back  to  thlnecarth ! 

Gim.  Where  is  it?  I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  asoat  innuuerable  lightft 

iMc^tr,  Look  there  I 

Csffsi.  loaAMytseeit 

iMtitfw,  Tet  it  sparkles  stilli 

Chm.  What  yonder? 

Lmeiftr.  Yea. 

Cmm,  And  wilt  tbov  tell  aM  so? 


W^hy,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-wonAs 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  tlie  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer,  Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Baeh  bright  and  sparkling,  —  what  dost  think  of  them? 

Ckfii.  That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere. 
And  through  the  night,  whicb  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight. 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course. 
Must  both  b^  guided. 

Lucifer,  But  by  whom  or  what? 

CSciif.  Show  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar'st  thou  behold? 

Cstii.  How  know  I  what 
I  dmre  behold  ?  ay  yet,  thoa  hast  shown  nought 
I  dare  not  gaae  on  fiirther.r 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me. 
Wooldst  thoa  behold  tilings  aiovtal  or  immortal  ? 

Cain,  Why,  what  are  things? 

Luc^er,  Baikputny:  butwhutdoth 
Sit  next  thy  heart? 

Cain.  The  things  I  see. 

Lucifer.  Bait  what 
i&fo  nearest  it? 

Qiin,  The  things  I  have  nol  s«MF, 
Nor  ever  shall  -^  the  mysteries  ef  dea^.  [died, 

Lucifer.  What,  if  I  show  fty  thtiie  things  Wlrtch^  have 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die? 

Cain,  Do  so. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then!  on  our  mighty  wings.  [us! 

Cain.  Ohi  how  wc  cleave  the  bhie  t  The  stars  fade  from 
The  earth !  where  is  my  earth?  let  me  look  on  it, 
For  I  was  made  of  it 

Lucifer.  'Tis  now  beyond  thee. 
Less  In  the  universe,  than  thou  in  it: 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it;  thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dkist ; 
'Tis  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.  Where  dost  thou  lead  me? 

Lucifer,  To  what  was  before  tbe^f 
The  phantasm  of  the  world;  of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck.   • 

Cmn.  What!  is  it  not  then  new? 

Lucifer.  No  more  than' llfs  is:  and  that  was  ere  tbou 
Or  /were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either:  ma  by  things  will  have 
No  end;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  00  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou;  and  mightier  things  have  be^n  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise;  tot  moments  only  and  the  spate 
H)Eive  been  and  must  be  all  unckangeahle. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay; 
But  thou  art  clay  —  aod'canst  bntcomprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  snehthon  shalt  behold. 

Cain.  Clay,  spirit !  What  thou  wilt,  I  can  survey. 

Lucifer.  Away, then! 

Cain.  But  the  llglits  fade  frbiti  me  fast. 
And  some  tin  now  grew  largely  a^  we  approach'd. 
And  #offrthe  look  of  worlds. 


384 


CAIN; 


ACT  & 


Lucifer.  Andsachthey-are, 

Cain.  And  Edens  io  them? 

Lucifer,  It  may  be. 

Cain.  And  men? 

Ludfer,  Yea,  or  thinf^  hij^her. 

Cain,  Ay?  and  serpents  too?  [oo  reptiles 

Lucifer,  Wouldst  thou  have  men  withoat  them?  must 
Breathe,  save  the  erect  ones? 

Cain,  How  the  lights  reoede  I 
Where  fly  we? 

Lucifer,  To  the  world  of  phantoms,  which 
Are  being^s  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

Cam,  But  it  grows  dark,  and  dark— the  stars  are  gone ! 

Luctfer,  And  yet  tboa  seest 

Cain.  'Tisafearfallight! 
No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  inmmierable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight,  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses;  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  tight, 
Seem'd  ftill  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show'd  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  and  floating  moons,  whidi  todc 
Like  them  the  features  of  feir  earth:  —  instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 

Ludfer,  But  distinct 
Thou  seekest  to  behold  deatti,  and  dead  things? 

Cain.  I  seek  it  not;  but  as  I  know  there  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  malies  him  and  me. 
And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once,  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

Lacker.  Behold! 

Cain.  'Tis  darkness. 

haeifar.  And  so  it  shall  be  ever;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates  I 

Coxa.  Enormous  vapours  roll 
Apart  — what's  this? 

Lucifer,  Enter! 

Cain,  Can  I  return?  [peopled? 

Luc^er.  Return !  be  sure:  how  else  should  death  be 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be, 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

Ctftn.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 
And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

Lucifer.  Advance! 

Cain.  And  thou! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not  —  without  me  thou 
Conldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.  On  I  on ! 

[They  dlMppear  throngfa  the  clondc 

SCENE  II. 

Hadct. 
Bnler  LucirBR  and  Cali. 

Cain.  How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim  worlds! 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopled 
Than  the  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 


So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 

Had  deem'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 

Of  some  all  unimaginable  heaven 

Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves. 

But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 

Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 

Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  life  to  dvrdl  on, 

Rather  than  tife  itself.  But  here,  all  is 

So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 

It  speaks  of  a  day  past 

Lucifer.  It  is  the  realm 
Of  death.  —  Wouldst  have  it  present  ? 

Ciffi.  Till  I  know 
That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  'tis  a  thing  — 
Oh  God !  I  dare  not  think  on't !  Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death  1 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that  being  life 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it  *- 
Even  for  the  innocent! 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  fetherf 

Cain.  Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth  ? 
Cursed  he  not  mc  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fniit  forbidden? 

Lucifer,  Thou  sayst  well : 
The  curse  is  mutual  'twixt  thy  sire  and  fliee  — 
But  for  thy  sons  and  brother! 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 
With  me,  their  sire  and  brother  I  What  else  is 
Bequeath'd  to  me?  I  leave  them  my  Inheritance. 
Oh  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  shadows  and  enormous  shapes. 
Some  felly  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy  —  what  are  ye? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.  Then  what  is  death? 

Lucifer,  What?  Hath  not  he  who  made  ye 
Said  'tis  another  life? 

Cain.  Till  now  he  hath 
Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shaD  die. 

Lucifer.  Perhaps 
He  one  day  will  unfold  that  ferther  secret 

Ctm.  Happy  the  day! 

Lucffer.  Yes,  happy !  when  unfolded 
Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  elogg'd 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 
All  to  be  animated  for  this  only ! 

Cain.  What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I  svo 
Floating  around  me  ?  —  they  wear  not  the  form 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  onenter'd  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  view'd  it 
In  Adam's,  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine. 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's,  nor  in  my  chiMrni^: 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  kmks  like  something,  which. 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first ; 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautifel,  and  feB 


ACT  n. 


CAIN. 


385 


Of  seeming  sCrengrth,  bat  <>f  inexplicable 
Shape;  for  1  never  saw  such.  They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man, 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  anght  that  is 
Now  breathing;  mighty  yet  and  beaatilnl 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

Lucifer,  Yet  they  lived. 

Coin.  Where? 

Lmeifer,  Where  .  . 

Tboulivest. 

CmfK,  When? 

LMcifer.  On  what  thou  caliest  earth 
They  did  inhabit 

Cm.  Adam  is  the  first 

iMeifer,  Of  thine,  I  grant  thee  —  but  too  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

dm.  And  what  are  they? 

Lucifer.  That  which 
Thoo  Shalt  be. 

Cmn.  But  what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  Living,  high, 
Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things. 
As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  oonid  e'er  have  been  in  Bden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be. 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son ;  —  and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  flesh. 

Ccm.  Ah  me!  and  did  Mff^ perish?  [thine. 

Luetfer.  Yes^  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fede  from 

Cum.  But  was  mine  theirs? 

Lucifer.  It  was. 

Cum.  But  not  as  now. 
It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

Ludfer.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Cuin.  And  wherefore  did  it  ftill? 
-   Lucifer,  Ask  Him  who  fells. 

Cum.  But  how? 

Luetfer.  By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 
Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements, 
Whicji  struck  a  worJd  to  chaos,  as  a  chaos 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a  world :  such  things. 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  frequent  in  eternity.  — 
Pus  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past 

Cum.  *Tis awful!  [once 

Luetfer.  And  true.  Behold  these  phantoms !  they  were 
Material  as  thou  art 

Csm.  And  must  I  be 
Liketliem? 

Lucifer.  Let  Him  who  made  thee  answer  that 
I  show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are. 
And  what  they  were  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Infcriory  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligenoe  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  fife»  and  what  ye  shall  have  —  death ;  the  rest 
Of  yocur  poor  attributes  19  such  as  suits 


Reptiles  engendered  out  of  the  subsiding 

Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush'd  Into  ^ 

A  «carcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 

Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness  — 

A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  fVom  which 

Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.    But  behold 

What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were; 

Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  tiH 

The  earth,  thy  task  —  I'll  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

Ckhi.  No :  I'll  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long? 

Cam.  Forever!  Since 
I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
I  rather  would  remain;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  has  shown  me  —  let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 

Lucifer.  It  cannot  be:  thou  now  beholdest  as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 

To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou  [pass'd  — 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  seest  have 
The  gates  of  death. 

Cam,  By  what  gate  have  we  entered 
Even  now? 

Lucifer.  Byminel  But ,  plighted  to  return. 
My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.  Gaze  on ; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

Cain.  And  these,  too;  can  (hey  ne'er  repass 
To  earth  again? 

Lucifer.  Tlieir  earth  is  gone  for  ever  — * 
So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  new  scarcely  hardened  surfiice  —  twas  — > 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  worid  it  wael 

Cam.  And  is. 
It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful  untdling. 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Ofdeath  and  life. 

Luctfer.  What  thy  world  is  thou  seest. 
But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

Cam.  And  those  enormous  creatures. 
Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass'd, 
Resemblinf^  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  terror ;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Bden,  with 
Eyes  flashings  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence  them. 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripped  of 
Their  bark  and  branches  —  what  were  they  I 

Lucifer.  That  which 
The  Mammoth  is  in  thy  world;  but  these  lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 

Cam.  But 
None  on  it? 

Lucifer.  No;  for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
25 


386 


CAIN. 


ACT  a 


With  tbem  woald  render  the  carse  on  it  useless  — - 
'T would  be  destroyed  so  early. 

dm.  But  why  war  I 

Lucifer.  You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden —  war  with  all  things, 
And  death  to  all  things^  and  disease  to  most  things, 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness;  these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidde  n  tree; 

Cain,  Butanioials  — 
Did  they  too  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die? 

Lucifer,  Your  Maker  told  ye,  theif  were  made  for  you, 
As  you  for  him.  —  You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  to  your  own  ?  Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

Cain,  Alas !  the  hopeless  wretches  I 
They  too  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  like  his  sons; 
Like  them,  too,  without  having  shared  the  apple; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  knowM$e! 
It  was  a  lying  tree  —  for  we  know  nothing. 
At  least  It  prwnited  knowledge  at  tike  price 
Of  death  —  but  knowledge  still :  but  what  knowt  man  ? 

Lucifer,  It  may  be  death  leads  to  the  At^il«#<  knowledge ; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  oertaio» 
At  least  leads  to  the  eure&t  science:  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

Cain.  These  dim  realmsl 
I  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

Lucifer,  Because 
Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wbollv  —  but  'tis  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

Cain,  We  knew  already 
That  there  was  death. 

Lucifer.  But  not  what  waB  beyond  it. 

Cain,  Nor  know  I  now. 

Lucifer.  Thou  knowst  that  there  is 
A  state,  and  many  states,  beyond  thine  own  - 
And  this  thou  knewest  not  this  morn. 

Cain,  But  all 
Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

Lucifer,  Be  content;  it  will 
Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

Cain,  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  banlcless 
And  boundless  and  of  an  ethereal  hue  — 
What  is  it? 

Lucifer.  There  is  still  some  such  on  earth. 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it  —  'tis  the  fantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain,  'Tis  like  another  world;  a  liquid  sun  • 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'ci 
Its  shining  surfiice? 

Lucifer.  Are  its  habitants, 
The  past  leviathans. 

Cain,  And  yon  immense 
Serpent,  which  rears  his  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  times  higher  than  the  haughtiest  oedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  ho  could  coil 


J 


Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  iook'd  on  — 
Is  he  not  of  tlie  kind  which  bask'd  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden? 

Lucifer.  Bve,  thy  mother,  best 
Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

Cain.  This  seems  too  terrible*  No  doubt  the  olhcr 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

X»ef/«r.  Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him?     - 

Cain.  Many  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so  caird). 
But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect. 

Lucifer.  Your  fother  saw  him  not? 

dm.  No:  'twas  my  mother 
Who  tempted  him  —  she  tempted  by  the  serpent 

Lucifer,  Good  man!  whene'er  thy  wife,  or  thy  sous' 
wives 
Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that's  new  or  strange, 
Be  sure  thou  seest  first  who  hath  tempted.<A«m. 

Cain.  Thy  precept  comes  too  late:  there  is  no  more 
For  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to. 

Lucifer.  But  there 
Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  to, 
And  man  tempt  woman :  —  let  thy  sons  look  to  it! 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one;  for  'tis  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense :  'tis  true^ 
'Twill  not  be  follow'd,  so  there's  little  lost 

dtn.  I  understand  not  this. 

Lucifer.  The  happier  thou!  — 
Thy  world  and  thr>u  arc  still  too  young!  Tboa  thiakcst 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unliappy :  is  it 
Not  so? 

dm.  For  crime  I  know  not;  butforpato, 
I  have  felt  much. 

Lucifer,  First-born  of  the  first  man ! 
Thy  present  state  of  sin  —  and  tliou  art  evil. 
Of  sorrow  —  and  thou  sufferest,  are  both  £dcn 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  mayst  be;  and  that  state  again. 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  Paradise 
To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  (act  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do.  — 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth ! 

dm.  And  wherefore  didst  thou 
Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this? 

Lucifer.  Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  ? 

dm.  Yes:  as  being 
The  road  to  happiness. 

Lucifer,  Iftruthbeso, 
Thou  hast  it 

Cain,  Then  my  father's  God  did  well 
When  he  prohibited  the  (atal  tree. 

Lucifer.  But  had  done  better  in  not  planting:  it 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ;  it  must  still  roll  on  the  samey 
A  part  of  all  things. 

dm.  Not  of  all  things.  No: 
I'll  not  believe  it  —  for  I  thirst  for  good.  [ctiI 

Lucifer,  And  who  and  what  doth  not?    Wk9  covets 
For  its  own  bitter  sake  ?  *-  None  —  nothing  I  His 
The  leaven  of  all  life  and  lifelessness. 


4cr  a 


4 


CAIN. 


387 


Cmn,  Within  those  ^lorioiur  orbs  which  we  behold 
Distaot  and  daisling',  and  innamerable» 
Ere  wc  came  down  into  this  phantom-realm, 
111  cannot  come ;  they  are  too  beantiftiL 

Lttcifer,  Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar. 

Gnu.  And  what  of  that? 
Distance  can  but  diminish  glory  -^  they 
When  nearer  mnst  be  more  ineffable. 

iMctftr,  Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beautiful, 
And  jndgeiheir  beauty  near* 

Cain.  I  have  done  this  — 
The  loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest 

lAteifer.  Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is  that, 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes  is  still 
More  l»cantlful  than  beauteous  things  remote? 

Cmin.  My  sister  Adah.  —  AIM  he  stars  of  heaven^ 
The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world  — 
The  hues  of  twilight  ^  the  sun's  gofgeons  coming  — 
ffis  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I  behold 
Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  him 
Along  that  western  paradlsoof  clouds  — 
The  fores t-sliade— the  green  bough  ~  the  bill's  voice — 
The  vesper-bird's,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love. 
And  mingles  with  the  song  of  eherubimy 
As  the  day  closes  over  Eden's  waHs;  — 
All  these  are  nothing  to  my  eyes  and  heart, 
Like  Adah's  face:  I  turn  from  earth  and  heaven 
To  gaze  on  it 

Lucifer.  'Tis  fair  as  frail  mortality, 
In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation 
4nd  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents. 
Can  make  its  ofbpring;  still  it  is  delusion. 

Cain.  You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 

Luerfer.  Mortal! 
My  brotherhood's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 

Cam.  Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  us. 

harifer.  It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
Bat  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 
Why  art  thou  wretched? 

Cain.  Why  do  I  exist? 
Why  art  ikon  wretched  ?  why  are  all  things  so? 
Cven  he  who  made  us  must  be  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy!  To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  joy, 
'  And  yet  my  sire  says  he's  omnipotent : 
Tiien  why  is  evil  —  he  being  good  ?  I  ask'd 
.  This  question  of  my  father ;  and  he  said, 
Because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 
'  To  good.  Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  out 
Its  deadly  opposite.  I  lately  saw 
A  lamb  atuog  by  a  reptile:  the  poor  suckling 
Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 
4nd  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam: 
My  fttlier  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
Tlie  wound;  and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
Tfic  aiother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 
Stood  lieiuag  its  reliving  limbs  with  joy. 


Behold,  my  son !  said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Springs  good! 

Lucifer.  What  didst  thou  answer  ? 

Cain,  Notliing;  for 
He  is  my  father:  but  I  thought,  tliat  'twere 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  stun§  at  all,  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispel  I'd  by  antidotes. 

Lucifen  But  as  thou  saidst 
Of  ail  beloved  things  tlKid  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  giveth  hers 
Unto  thy  children  — 

Cain.  Most  assuredly : 
What  should  I  be  without  her  ? 

Lucifer.  What  am  I? 

Cain.  Dost  tiiou  love  nothing? 

Lucifer.  What  does  thy  God  love  ? 

Cain*  All  things,  my  fatlier  says ;  but  I  confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  aU^tment  here. 

Lucifer.  And  therefore  thou  canst  not  see  if  1  love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
To  which  particular  things  must  melt  like  snows. 

Cain.  Snows!  what  are  they? 

Lucifer.  Be  happier  in  not  knowing 
What  thy  remoter  offspring  most  encounter; 
But  bask  beneatli  the  clime  which  knows  no  winter. 

Cain.  But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

Lucifer.  And  dost  thou  love  thtfeeiff 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  more 
What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable. 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  1  love  it.  ' 

Lucifer.  Thou  love8ftxi|f  because  'tis  beautiful, 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.  Cease  to  be  beautiful!  how  can  that  be? 

Loafer,  With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 
Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  (air: 
Not  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim  — 
But  very  &ir. 

Lucifer.  All  that  mnst  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I'm  sorry  for  it;  but 
Cannot  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  I  in  seeing  perish  such  a  woric 

Lucifer.  I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

Cain.  And  I  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 

Lucifer,  And  thy  brother — 
Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart? 

Cain,  Why  should  he  not? 

Lucifer,  Thy  father  loves  him  well —so  docs  thy  God. 

Cain.  And  so  do  I. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  well  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.  Meekly ! 

Lucifer.  He  is  the  second- born  of  flesh. 
And  is  his  mother's  fiivourite. 


388 


CAIN. 


Aci  a 


Cam,  Let  him  keep 
Her  favour,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 

Lucifer.  And  his  father's? 

Cain.  What  is  that 
1*0  me?  shonid  I  not  love  that  which  all  love? 

Lucifer.  And  the  Jehovah  —  the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paisdise  — 
He,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  I 
Ne'er  saw  him,  and  I  know  not  if  he  smiles. 

Lucifer.  But  you  have  seen  his  angels. 

Cam,  Rarely. 

Lucifer.  But 
Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother; 
His  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain,  So  be  they!  wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this? 

Ludfer,  Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 

Cain.  And  if 
I  haw  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  ,that  — -  (he  iwoaet,  n 

agitated)  —  Spirit! 

Here  we  are  in  thy  world ;  speak  not  of  mine. 

Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders ;  thou  hast  sliown  me  those 

Mighty  Pre- Adamites  who  walk'd  the  earth 

Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck ;  ihon  hast  pointed  out 

Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 

Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 

Infinity  of  life:  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 

Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name  [mucb  — 

Which  my  sire  brought  us— Death;  thou  hast  sliown  me 

But  not  all :  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 

In  his  especial  Paradise  —  or  ihmei 

Where  is  it? 

Lucifer,  Here,  and  o'er  BUwptkce, 

Cain.  But  ye 
Have  some  allotted  dwelling  —  as  all  things ; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element;  and  things  which  have. 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs-,  thou  sayst ; 
And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine  — 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together? 

Lucifer.  No,  we  reign 
Together,  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

Cain.  Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye  !  perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite. 
To  separate?  Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Y'cfur  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory  ? 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother? 

Cain.  We  are  brethren, 
And  so  we  shall  remain;  but,  were  It  not  so. 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  Immortality? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery  — 
For  what? 

Lucifer.  To  reign. 

Cain,  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 
Ye  are  both  eternal? 

Lucifer.  Yea! 


Cam.  And  what  I  have  seen, 
Yon  blue  immensity,  is  bofundiesa? 

Lucifer.  Ay. 

Cain.  And  cannot  ye  both  reiyn  then?  —  is  there  not 
Enough  ?  —  why  should  ye  differ? 

Lucifer,  We  &oM  reign. 

(^ain.  But  one  ofyou  makes  evil. 

Lucifer.  Which? 

Com.  Thou!  for 
If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou  not? 

Luctfer,  And  why  not  he  who  made?  I  made  ye  not* 
Ye  are  hie  creatures,  and  not  mine. 

Osm.  Then  leave  us 
Hie  creatures,  as  thou  sayst  we  are^  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  hi$  dwelling. 

Luctfer,  I  could  show  thee 
Both ;  but  the  time  will  come  thoa  shaft  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore. 

Cain,  And  why  not  now  ? 

Lucifer,  Thy  human  mind  bath  scarcely  grasp  to  gather 
The  little  I  have  shown  thee  Into  ealm 
And  clear  thought;  and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  mysteries!  the  two  Prineiples! 
And  gase  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones ! 
Dust  I  limit  thy  ambition,  for  to  see 
Btther  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish ! 

Cain.  And  let  me  perish,  so  I  see  them  I 

Lucifer.  There 
The  son  of  her  who  snatch 'd  the  apple  spake! 
But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  them ; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  state. 

Cain.  Ofdeath? 

Lucifer,  That  is  the  prelude. 

Cain  Then  I  dread  it  less. 
Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 

Lucifer.  And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy  world. 
Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

Catn.  And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  thcae  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me? 

Lucifer,  Didst  thou  not  require 
Knowledge?  And  have  I  not,  in  what  I  show'd. 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

Cain.  Alas!  Iseem 
Nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothing^ness; 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
'Twill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

Catn.  Haughty  spirit! 
Thou  speakst  it  proudly;  hut  thyself,  though  proud. 
Hast  a  superior. 

Lucifer.  No !  By  heaven,  which  He 
Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  with  him  —  Ko! 
I  have  a  victor  —  true;  but  no  superior. 
Homage  he  has  from  alt  —  but  none  from  me: 
I  battle  it  against  him,  as  I  battled 
In  highest  heaven.  Through  all  eternity. 
And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space, 


ACT  m. 


CAIN. 


389 


And  the  foiittity  of  endlestl  ag«8, 

AU,  all,  will  I  disptttcil  i^id  worid  by  worlds 

And  star  bj  star,  and  a^iverse  by  aniverse 

Shall  tremble  in  tbebafciDoe,  till  the  great 

Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease. 

Which  it  ne'er  sball«  till  he  or  I  be  qaencli'd ! 

And  what  can  quench  oar  immortality. 

Or  mntual  and  irrevocable  hate? 

He  as  a  conqaeror  will  call  the  oonqneir'd 

Enl;  but  what  will  be  the  ffood  be  gives  ? 

Were  I  tbe  victor,  ki$  works  would  be  deem'd 

The  only  evil  ones.  And  you,  ye  new 

And  searoe-born  mortals,  what  have  been  his  gifts 

To  you  already  in  your  little  world? 

CWm.  But  few;  and  some  oftbose  but  bitter. 

Luetfer.  Back 
With  me,  then,  to  tbine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 


Of  his  celestial  boons  to  ye  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence. 
And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver; 
But  if  be  gives  you  good  —  so  call  him ;  if 
Bvil  springs  from  Aim,  do  not  name  it  mme. 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount ;  and  judge 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 
On€  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given  — 
Your  reason :  —  let  it  not  be  over-sway'd 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling: 
Think  and  endure,  — •  and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom  —  where  the  outward  fails; 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  tbe  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  wltli  your  own. 

[They  diiappear 


ACT     m. 


SC£NS  I. 

The  Earth  near  Eden,  a:t  iu  Act  I- 

Enter  Ciin  and  Ai>ah. 

AtUih.  Hush!  tread  softly,  Cain. 

Com.  I  will;  but  wherefore ? 

Adahl  Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Ccin,  Cypress  1  'tis 
A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  monm'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows ;  wherefore  didst  thou  choose  it 
For  our  child's  canopy? 

Adah,  Because  its  branches 
Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cmn,  Ay,  the  last  — 
And  losgest;  but  no  matter  —  lead  me  to  him. 

[They  go  up  to  the  child. 

How  lovely  he  appears!  bis  little  cheeks. 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose-leaves  strewn  beneath  them, 

Admk.  And  bis  lips,  too, 
How  beautifully  parted!  No;  you  shall  not 
KJss  him,  at  least  not  now  :  he  will  awake  soon  — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over; 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
Tiselosed. 

Cm.  You  have  said  well;  I  will  contain 
My  fa<^rt  till  tlien.  He  smiles,  and  sleeps!  —  Sleep  on 
And  aaaile,  thou  little,  young  Inheritor 
4>f  a  world  scarce  less  young:  sleep  on,  and  smile! 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  tmioeent!  thm  hast  not  pluck'd  the  fruit  — 
Thott  koowst  not  thoa  art  naked  I  Must  the  time 


Come  thou  shalt  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown. 
Which  were  not  thine  nor  mine?  But  now  sleep  on ! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles. 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  bis  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  them; 
Half  open,  from  bcneatli  them  the  clear  blue 
Langhs  out,  although  in  shimber.  He  must  dream  - 
Of  what  ?  Of  Paradise !  —  Ay  I  dream  of  it. 
My  disinherited  boy  I  'Tis  but  a  dream ; 
For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fethers. 
Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy !    ^ 

Adah,  Dear  Cain!  Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past; 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise? 
Can  we  not  make  another  ? 

Cain,  Where? 

Adah,  Here,  or 
Where'er  thou  wilt:  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother. 
And  Zillah  —  our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ?  [her. 

Cain.  Yes  —  death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts  we  owe 

Adah,  Cain!   that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  thee 
Hath  sadden'd  thine  still  deeper.  I  had  hoped      [hence. 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  thou  sayst,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge;  but  I  see 
Thy  gruide  hath  done  thee  evil :  still  I  thank  him. 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain,  So  soon? 

AdAk,  'Tis  scarcely 


390 


CAIN. 


ACT  lU 


Two  hours  since  ye  departed:  two  hnp  boors 
To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun. 

Cain,  And  yet  I  have  approached  that  sua,  and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Shall  light;  and  worlds  he  never  lit:  methought 
Years  had  roH'd  o'er  my  absence. 

Adah.  Hardly  hours. 

Cain,  The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time. 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 
Pleasing  or  painful ;  little  or  almighty. 
I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings;  skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds; 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrowed  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity;  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.  Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing! 

Adah,  Wherefore  said  he  so? 
Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Cain.  No:  A0  contents  him 
With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are ; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again  —  fbr  what? 

Adah,  Thouknowst  — 
Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 
To  us  ?  they  sinii'd,  then  let  them  die ! 

Adah,  Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that  thought 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live ! 

Cain.  Why,  so  say  I  —  provided  that  one  victim 
Ikf  ight  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow. 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him.      ( day 

Ada%.  How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement  one 
May  not  redeem  our  race 7 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 
The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ?  what  atonement 
Were  there?  why,  we  are  innocent:  what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin  — 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge? 

Adah.  Alas!  thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain ;  thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain,  Then  leave  me! 

Adah,  Never, 
Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here? 

Adah.  Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Cam,  And  how  knew  he,  that  /would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt  offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator? 

Adah.  Surely /tis  well  done. 

Cwu  One  altar  may  suffice;  /have no  offering. 


Adah.  The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early>  beautifW 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers,  and  firahs; 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit 

Cain,  I  have  toii'd,  and  tilFd,  and  sweaten  in  thesan 
Aocordlng  to  the  eurse :  —  must  I  do  more? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat?  For  what  must  I  be  grateful? 
For  being  dust,  and  groveling  in  the  dust. 
Till  I  return  to  dust  ?  If  I  am  nothing  >- 
For  nothing  shallJ  be  an  hypocrite. 
And  seem  well  pleased  with  pain  ?  For  what  aboald  I 
Be  contrite?  for  my  fother's  sin,  already 
Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 
And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 
The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed? 
Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there^ 
The  germ  of  an  eternal  misery 
To  myriads  is  within  him !  better  'twere 
I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  'gainst 
The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to  ~ 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  I 
Touch  not  the  ohild  —  my  child !  ^hy  child !  Oh  Cain ! 

Cain,  Fear  not!  for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Whieh  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infiint 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

Adah.  Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech? 

Cain,  I  said, 
Twere  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeatli;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say  — 
'Twere  better  that  he  never  bad  been  bom. 

Adah.  Oh,  do  not  say  so !  Where  were  then  the  joys, 
The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing. 
And  loving  him?  Soft!  he  awakes.  Sweet  Enoch! 

[SbegocstodMcyU. 

Oh  Cain!  look  on  him;  see  how  full  of  life, 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy. 
How  like  to  me  —  how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  oil  alike;  is 't  not  so,  Cain? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  arc 
Reflected  in  each  other;  as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  they  are  yentle,  and 
When  thou  art  gentle.  Love  us,  then,  my  Cain! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakcs,  for  we  love  thee. 
Look  I  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arms. 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine. 
To  hail  his  lather;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing'd  with  joy.  Talk  not  of  pain ! 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent  I  Bless  him,  Cain! 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too. 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  boy ! 
If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
To  save  thee  frmn  the  serpent's  eurse! 

Adah.  It  shall. 
Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety.  1 


ACT  ni. 


CAIN. 


391 


CWm.  Of  that  I  doubt: 
Bttt  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 
Adah,  Our  brother  comes. 
Cum.  Thj  brother  AbeL 

Knter  Abil. 

AheL  Wdeome,Cain!  My  brother, 
The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee! 

GiiJi.  Abel, hail! 

AheL  Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast  been  wandering, 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  for 
Bejoad  our  wonted  range.  Was  ho  of  those 
We  hmTe  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our  father? 

Ckfx.  No. 

AheL  Why  then  commune  with  liim?  he  may  be 
A  foe  to  the  Most  Higli. 

Cstn.  And  friend  to  man. 
Has  the  Most  High  been  so  —  if  so  you  term  him? 

AheL  Term  Afni/ your  words  are  strange  to-day,  my 
My  sister  Adah  leave  us  for  a  while—  [brother. 

We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah,  Farewell,  ray  Cain ; 
But  first  embrace  thy  son.  May  his  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peaoe  and  holiness !  (Eih  A<tab,  i^lth  bor  child. 

AheL  Where  hast  thou  been? 

Gnu.  1  know  not 

AheL  Nor  what  ^hou  hast  seen? 

Cam.  The  dead, 
The  immortal ,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent. 
The  orerpowering  mysteries  of  space  — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are  — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  overwhelming  things. 
Sans,  moons,  and  earths,  upon  their  loud-yoiced  spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse:  leave  me,  Abel. 

AheL  Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light  — 
Thy  cheek  is  flush'd  with  an  unnatural  hue  — 
Thy  words  are  firaoght  with  an  unnatnral  sound  — 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

CWn.  It  means  —  I  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

AheL  Not  (ill  we  have  pray'd  and  sacrificed  together. 

Cain.  Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone  — 
Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 

AheL  Both  well,  I  h^pe. 

Grot.  Bat  thee  the  better:  I  care  not  for  that; 
Thoa  art  fitter  for  his  worship  than  I  am: 
Revere  him,  then  —  bat  let  it  be  alone— 
At  least  without  me. 

AheL  Brother,  I  should  ill 
Drserve  the  name  of  our  great  fother's  son, 
If  as  my  elder  I  revered  thee  not. 
And  IB  the  worship  of  our  God  call'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in 
Oor  priesthood  —  'tis  thy  place. 

Cm.  Bot  I  have  ne'er 
AsKrtedit 

AheL  The  more  my  grief;  I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now :  thy  soul  seems  labouring  in 
strong  delosson;  It  wili  calm  thee. 


Cmtu  No; 
Nothing  can  calm  me  more.  CMml  say  I  ?  Never 
Kii^w  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  still'd.  My  Abel,  leave  me  I 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 

AheL  Neither;  we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spam  me  not 

Otm.  If  it  must  be  so  —  well,  then, 
What  shall  I  do? 

AheL  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain,  Choose  for  me:  they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

AheL  Choose  thou! 

Cahu  Ihavecliosen. 

AheL  'Tis  the  highest, 
And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.  Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

dm.  Where  are  thine? 

AheL  Behold  them  here  — 
The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  andjTat  thereof— 
A  shepherd's  humble  offering. 

Cam,  I  have  no  flocks; 
I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil  — its  fruit : 

iHe  K>Uierf  ft-ulti. 

Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[Tbey  drew  tbeir  altars,  and  kindle  a  flame  opon  tbcin. 

AheL  My  brother,  as  the  cider,  offer  first 
Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

Cain.  No  —  I  am  new  to  this;  lead  tliou  the  way. 
And  I  will  follow  —  as  I  may. 

il&W  (kneeUnfc).   Oh  God! 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 

Within  oor  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us. 

And  spared,  despite  our  father's  sin,  to  make 

His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 

Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  temper'd  with 

The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 

Accord  a  pardon  like  a  paradise. 

Compared  with  oar  great  crimes:  —  Sole  Lord  of  light! 

Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity; 

Without  whom  all  were  evil  and  with  whom 

Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 

Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence  — 

Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfill'd  ~ 

Accept  from  oat  thy  humble  first  of  sheplierd's 

First  of  the  first-born  flocks  —  an  offering, 

In  itself  nothing  —  as  what  offering  can  be 

Aught  unto  thee?  —  but  yet  accept  it  for 

The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 

The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 

Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honour 

Of  thee,  and  of  thy  name,  for  evermore  I 

Cain  (xaDdipg  erect  daring  tbis  spceeb). 

Spirit !  whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thoa  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be  —  and,  if  good, 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from  evil ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth  1  and  God  in  heaven ! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works:  — 
If  thoa  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 


392 


CAIN. 


ACT  m 


Take  them!  If  thou  mast  be  iodaced  with  altars, 
And  soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee, 
if  thoa  lov'st  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which  smokes 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  thy  skies; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 
And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 
I  spread  them  on  now  oflers  in  the  iace 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffered  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours !  If  a  shrine  without  victim. 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour, 
Look  on  it!  and  for  him  who  dresseth  it. 
He  is  —  such  as  thou  mad'st  him;  and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling:  if  he's  evil, 
Strike  him !  thou  art  omnipotent,  and  mayst,  — 
For  what  can  he  oppose?  If  he  be  good. 
Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt !  since  all 
Rests  upon  thee ;  and  good  and  evil  seem 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will ; 
And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 
,  Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate;  which  thus  far  I  have  endured. 

The  Are  apoii  the  ftlur  of  Abkl  kindlea  into  a  colamn 
of  the  brighteit  flame,  aad  aieends  to  heaven ;  while 
a  whirlwind  throwi  down  the  altar  of  Cain,  and 
scatters  the  fruits  abroad  nx>on  the  earth. 

Abel  (kneeling).  Oh,  brother,  pray!  Jehovah's  wroth 
with  thee  1 

Cain.  Why  so? 

AheL  Thy  fruits  are  scattered  on  the  earth. 

Cttiiu  From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let  them  return; 
Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the  summer: 
Thy  burnt  flesh-ofi'ring  prospers  better;  see 
How  heaven  licks  up  the  flames,  when  thick  with  blood  1 

Abel,  Think  not  upon  my  oflTrings'  acceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain,  I  will  build  no  more  altars. 
Nor  suffer  any  — 

Abelirhinz^,  Cain!  what  meanest  thou? 

Cain,  To  cast  down  yon  vile  fiatt'rer  of  the  cloads^ 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  prayers  -> 
Thine  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids. 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroyed  in  blood. 

Abel  (opposing  him).  Tbou  shalt  not :  —  add  not  impiona 
works  to  impious 
Words !  let  that  altar  stand  —  'tis  ba)Iow'd  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah,  ^ 

In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims, 

Cain.  Hiif 
Ni  pleasure  I  what  was  his  high  pleasure  In 
The  fnmes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  w  hioh 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  ofltepring?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victlnui  underneath 


Thy  pious  knife?  Give  way!  this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  son,  to  shame  creation ! 

Abel.  Brother,  give  back!  thou  shalt  not  touch  my  altar 
With  violence:  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it. 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  'tis  thine, 

Cain,  Another  sacrifice!  Give  way,  or  else  \ 

That  sacrifice  may  be  —  .     I 

Abel.  What  meanest  thou? 

Cain,  Give  — 
Give  way !  tliy  God  loves  blood !  —  then  look  to  it:  — 
Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  f 

Abel,  In  his  great  name, 
I  stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Had  his  acceptance. 

Cain,  If  thou  lov'st  thyself; 
Stand  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 
Its  native  soil :  —  else  -^ 

Abel  (opposing  him).  I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life. 

Cain,  (striking  bim  on  the  temples,  with  a  brand,  which  he  saaiefaes 
from  the  altar) 

Then  take  tby  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 

Abel  (fkiia).  What  hast  thoa  done,  my  brother? 

Ckun.  Brotlier! 

Abei,  Oh,  God !  receive  thy  servant,  and 
Forgive  his  slayer,  fur  he  knew  not  what 
He  did.  — '  Cain,  give  me  —  give  me  thy  hand;  and  teO 
PoorZillah  - 

Cain  (after  a  niomcut'j  stupefaction). 

Ml/  hand!  'tis  all  red,  and  with  —  what? 

CA  long  pause.  >-  Looking  slowly  ronod. 

Where  am  I?  alone!  Where's  Abel?  where 

Cain !  Can  it  be  that  I  am  he?  My  brother. 

Awake!  —  why  liest  thou  so  on  the  green  earth? 

'Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber :  —  why  so  palet 

What  hast  tbou !  —  thou  wert  full  of  life  this  morn ! 

Abel!  Ipray  thee,  mock  me  not!  I  smote 

Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.  Ah,  why 

Wouldst  thou  oppose  me?  This  is  mockery; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me:  —  'twas  a  blow  — 

And  but  a  blow.  Stir  —  stir  —  nay,  only  stir!  [mc! 

Why,  so  —  that's  well!  —  thou  breath'st !  breathe  upoa 

Oh, God!  Oh, God! 

Abel  (very  fUnUy).  What's  he  who  speaks  of  God? 

Cain.  Thy  murderer. 

AbeL  Then  may  God  forgive  him !  Cain, 
Comfort  poor  Zillah :  —  she  has  but  one  brother 

Now.  [Abel  Aku 

Cain,  And  I  none!  —  Who  makes  me  brotherless? 
His  eyes  are  open !  then  he  is  not  dead ! 
Death  is  like  sleep;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too;  are  apart;  why  then  he  breathes ! 
And  yet  I  feel  it  not  —  His  heart!  —  his  heart! 
Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat?  ~  metliinks  —  No !  —  no! 
This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  round  me:  —  what  is  this?  —  'tis  wet; 

[Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  at  IL 

And  yet  there  are  no  dews !  'Tis  blood  —  my  blood  — 
My  brother's  and  my  own ;  and  shed  by  me ! 


ACT  m. 


CAIN. 


393 


Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life. 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh  ? 
But  he  can  not  be  dead!  —  Is  silence  death? 
No;  he  will  wake:  then  let  me  watch  by  him. 
Life  cannot  be  so  slight„as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  qaickly !  —  he  hath  spoken  to  me  since  — 
What  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  —  My  brother !  —  No ; 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.  Yet  —  yet  —  speak  to  me. 
Oh  \  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  Yoice, 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  I 

Eater  Zillab. 

Zmiak,  I  heard  a  heavy  sound:  what  can  it  be? 
Tis  Cain;  and  watching  by  my  husband.  What 
I>ost  thou  there,  brother?  Doth  he  sleep?  Oh !  heaven ! 
What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream ?  —  No !  no! 
It  is  not  blood;  for  who  would  shed  his  blood?       [not; 
Abel?   what's  this?  —  who  hath  done  this?  He  moves 
He  breathes  not:  and  bis  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness !  Ah !  cruel  Cain! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence?  Whatever  hath  assail'd  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  shouldst  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  him  and  aggression!  Father!  •—  Eve!  — 
Adah!  —  come  hither!  Beath  is  in  the  world  I 

CBzit  Zillah,  ealUug  on  her  pareoU. 

Cmi^  (aoiw).  And  who  hath  brought  him  there?  —  1  — 
who  abhor 
The  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison 'd  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
His  aspect  —  I  have  led  him  here,  and  given 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace. 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
1  am  awake  at  last  —  a  dreary  dream 
Had  madden'd  me;  —  but  he  shall  ne'er  awake! 

Enter  Adam,  Evb,  Adah,  ond  Zillak. 

Adam,  A  voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings  me  here.  — 
What  do  1  see?  —  'Tis  true!  —  My  son!  —  my  son! 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine!     [To  Eve. 

J&tf.  Oh!  speak  not  of  it  now:  the  serpent's  fangs 
Are  in  my  heart  My  best  beloved,  Abel! 
Jehovah !  this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me! 

Admm,  Who, 
Or  what  hath  done  this  deed?  —  speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
Wert  present:  was  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest? 

i^.  Ah!  aUvidljght 
Breaks  tbi'ough  as  from  a  thunder-oloud!  yon  brand. 
Massy  and  bloody !  snatch 'd  from  off  the  altar. 
And  blaek  with  smoke,  and  red  with  — 

Adam.  Speak,  my  son! 
Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are, 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adak.  Speak,  Cain !  and  say  it  was  not  thou! 

Eve.  It  was. 
I  tee  it  now  —  he  hangs  his  guilty  head, 


And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.  Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong  — 
Cain !  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent 

Ev0,  Hear,  Jehovah! 
May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  hini ! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate!  May  — 

Adah,  Hold! 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son  — 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother. 
And  my  betroth 'd. 

Eve,  He  hath  left  thee  no  brother  ^ 
Zillah  no  husband  —  me  no  son/  —  for  this 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us,  as  he  broke 
That  of  his  nature,  in  yon  —  Oh  death !  death! 
Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr'd  thee? 
W  hy  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

Adam,  Eve!  let  not  this, 
Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety ! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  iaithfrd  servants  to  his  holy  will.  [spirit 

Eve  (pointing  to  Cain),  ^s  will!  the  will  of  yon  incarnate 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  npon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.  May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him !  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  us 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother !  May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night  —  snakes  spring  up  in  his  path  — 
Earth's  fruits  be  ashes  in  his  mouth  --  the  leaves 
On  whidi  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew'd 
With  scorpions!  May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim! 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  death! 
May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  raging  lip ! 
May  every  element  shun  or  change  to  him ! 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with ! 
And  death  itself  wax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man ! 
Hence, fratricide!  henceforth  that  word  is  Com, 
Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind. 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet!  the  woods 
Deny  thee  shelter!  earth  a  home  I  the  dust 
A  grave  I  the  sun  his  light!  and  heaven  her  God! 

CBxit  Etc. 

Adam,  Cain!  get  thee  forth :  we  dwell  no  more  together. 
Depart!  and  leave  the  dead  to  me  —  I  am 
Henceforth  alone  —  we  never  must  meet  more. 

Adah*  Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father:  do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eye's  upon  his  head ! 

Adam,  I  curse  him  not:  his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
Come,  Zillah! 

SSiUah,  1  must  watch  my  husband's  corse. 

Adam,  We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
85* 


394 


CAIN. 


ACT  m 


Who  hath  provided  for  na  this  dread  oliee. 
Come,  Zillah ! 

Zitlah,  Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  ctoy, 
Aod  those  lips' once  so  warm  —  my  heart!  my  heart! 

[ExcnoC  Adun  uhI  Ziliali  wMping. 

Adah.  Cain!  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.  lam 
So  shall  our  cbildren  be.  I  will  bear  Enoch,  [ready, 

And  you  his  sister.  Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night.  —  Nay,  speak  to  me, 
To  me  —  thine  own* 

Cain,  Leave  me! 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee.  L^ear 

Cain,  And  wherefore  lingerest  tbon?   Dost  thoa  not 
To  dwell  with  one  who  bath  done  this  ? 

Adah,  I  fear 
Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotherless. 
I  must  not  speak  of  this  —  it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 

A  Volee  fk-om  within  excIainiB  : 

^  Cain!  Cain! 

Adah,  Hearst  thou  that  voice? 

Tlie  Voice  within* 

Cain!  Cain! 

Adah,  Itsoundeth  like  an  angel's  tone. 

Bnter  the  Angel  of  Che  Lord. 

Where  is  thy  brother  Abel? 

Cain,  Am  I  then 
My  brother's  keeper? 

AngeL  Cain!  what  hast  thou  done? 
The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries  out, 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord!  —  Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  open'd  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shalt  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength ;  a  fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth ! 

Adah,  This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
'  Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth. 
And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 
A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 
'Twill  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain,  Would  they  could !  but  who  arc  they 
Shall  slay  me?  where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
As  yet  unpeopled? 

AngeL  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 
And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son? 

Adah,  Angel  of  Light!  be  merciful,  nor  say, 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

AngeL  Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  secst  so  besmear'd  with  blood? 
The  fratricide  might  well  engender  parricides.  — 
But  it  shall  not  be  so  —  the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commaodcth  mc  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 


Who  slayeth  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeteice  shall  i 

Be  taken  on  his  head.  Come  hither  1 

Cain,  What 
Wouldst  thou  with  me? 

AngeL  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 
Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thoo  hast  done. 

Cain,  No,  let  me  die! 

AngeL  It  must  not  be. 

[The  Ad|[cI  mu  the  mark  on  Caia's  hMV. 

Cain.  It  burns 
My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it 
Is  there  more  ?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  may.  [womb, 

Angel.  Stern  hast  thoQ  been  and  stubborn  from  the 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till;  but  he 
Thou  slewst  was  gentle  as  the  flocks  he  tended. 

Cain.  After  the  fell  too  soon  was  1  begotten; 
Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  mourn'd  for  Eden. 
That  which  I  am,  I  am;  I  did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;  but  could  J 
With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  dust  — 
And  why  not  so?  let  him  return  to  day. 
And  I  lie  ghastly !  so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved ;  and  taken 
From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

AngeL  Who  shall  heal  murder?  what  is  done  is  done. 
Go  forth!  fulfil  thy  days!  and  be  thy  deeds 

Unlike  the  last !  [The  Angd  dlMppr«n. 

Adah,  He's  gone,  let  us  go  forth; 
I  hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

Cain.  Ah!  little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  for! 
And  I  who  have  shed  blood  cannot  shed  tears! 
But  the  four  rivers  would  not  cleanse  my  soul. 
Thinkst  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me? 

Adah.  If  I  thought  tliat  he  would  not,  I  would  — 

Cam  (interraptibg  her).  No, 

No  more  of  threats :  we  have  had  too  many,  of  them : 
Go  to  our  children ;  I  wilj  follow  thee. 

Adah,  I  will  not  leave  thcc  lonely  with  the  dead; 
Let  us  depart  together. 

Cain,  Oh!  thou  dead 
And  everlasting  witness !  whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven!  what  thou  ntno art, 
I  know  not!  but  Mthou  sccst  what  /am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul.  —  Farc%vcll! 
I  must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee,  drain'd 
The  same  breast,  clasp'd  thcc  often  to  my  own. 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thcc  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have  done 
For  me  —  compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave  — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  dug  that  grave?  Oh,  earth !  Oh,  earth! 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  render'd  to  mc,  I 
Give  thee  back  this.  —  Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[Adah  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  bodj-  of  Abii 

Adah,  A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot !  Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee. 


icT  in. 


CAIN. 


395 


laJbaeiiNwtiiotweep.  My^HBoeis 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  aod  not  to  shed  them ; 
Bnt  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me, 
Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain !  I  will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

Cmu  Eastward  from  Bden  will  we  take  oar  way; 
TU  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps. 

AdiA.  Lead!  thoo  shalt  be  my  guide,  and  may  onrGod 
Be  thine!  Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children* 


Cam.  And  U  who  lieth  there  was  childless.  I 
Have  dried  the  fountain  of  the  gentle  race, 
Which  might  have  graced  his  recent  marriage-couch. 
And  might  have  temper'd  this  stern  blood  of  mine. 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  oflspring! 
OAbel! 

Adah.  P^ce  be  with  him  I 

Cam.  But  with  ffi«/  [Excnnt 


EXTRACT  PROM  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


Though^aln'  abounds  in  beautiful  passages,  and  shows 
more  power,  perhaps,  than  any  of  the  author's  dramatical 
compositions,  we  regret  very  much  that  it  should  ever 
have  been  published.  It  will  give  very  great  scandal  and 
ofience  to  pious  persons  in  general,  and  may  be  the 
means  of  suggestingthc  most  painful  doubts  and  distress- 
ing perplexities  to  hundreds  of  minds  that  might  never 
otherwise  have  been  exposed  to  such  dangerous  disturb- 
ance. Lord  Byron  has  no  priestlike  cant  or  priestlikc 
reviling  to  apprehend  from  us.  We  do  not  charge  him  with 
being  either  a  disciple  or  an  apostle  of  Lucifer;  nor  do  we 
describe  his  poetry  as  a  mere  compound  of  blaspliemy 
and  obscenity.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  inclined  to  believe 
that  be  wishes  well  to  the  happiness  of  mankind,  and  are 
glad  to  testify  that  his  poems  abound  with  sentiments  of 
great  dignity  and  tenderness,  as  well  as  passages  of  infinite 

sublimity  and  beauty Philosophy  and  poetry  are  both 

very  good  things  in  their  way;  but,  in  our  opinion,  they 
do  not  go  very  well  together.  It  is  but  a  poor  and  pedantic 
sort  of  poetry  that  seeks  to  embody  nothing  bat  meta- 
physical subtleties  and  abstract  deductions  of  reason  — 
and  a  very  suspicious  philosophy  that  aims  at  establishing 
its  doctrines  by  appeals  to  the  passions  and  the  foncy. 
Though  such  arguments,  however,  are  worth  little  in  the 
sefaools,  it  does  not  follow  tiiat  their  effect  i»  inconsider- 
able in  the  world.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  mischief  of 
all  poetical  paradoxes,  that,  from  the  very  limits  and  end 
of  poetry,  which  deals  only  in  obvious  and  glancing  views, 
they  are  never  brought  to  the  fair  test  of  argument.  An 
allusion  to  a  doubtful  topic  will  often  pass  for  a  definitive 
oonclusion  on  it;  and,  clothed  in  beautiful  language, 
may  leave  the  most  pernicious  impressions  behind.  We 
therefore  think  that  poets  ought  fairly  to  be  confined  to 
the  established  creed  and  morality  of  their  country,  or 
to  the  aetual  pMsioaa  and  sentiments  of  mankind;  and 
that  poetical  dreamers  and  sophists  who  pretend  to  iheo- 
rifr  according  to  their  feverish  fancies,  without  a  warrant 
from  authority  or  reason,  ought  to  be  banished  the  com- 
amwealth  of  letters.  In  the  courts  of  morality,  poets  are 
OBexeeptionable  witnesses:  they  may  give  in  the  evi- 
dence, and  depose  to  facts  wliether  good  or  ill;  but  we 
to  their  arbitrary  and  self-pleasing  summing  up; 


they  are  suspected  Judges,  and  not  very  often  safe  ad- 
vocates, where  great  questions  are  concerned,  and  uni- 
versal principles  brought  to  issue. 

We  do  not  think,  indeed,  that  there  is  much  vigour  or 
poetical  propriety  in  any  of  the  characters  of  Lord  By- 
ron's Mystery.  Eve,  on  one  occasion,  and  one  only,  ex- 
presses herself  with  energy,  and  not  even  then  with  any 
great  depth  of  that  maternal  fueling  which  the  death  of 
her  favourite  son  was  likely  to  excite  in  her.  Adam  mo- 
ralises without  dignity.  Abel  is  as  dull  as  be  is  pious. 
Lucifer,  though  his  first  appearance  is  well  conceived,  is 
as  sententious  and  sarcastic  as  a  Scotch  metaphysician; 
and  the  gravamina  which  drive  Cain  into  impiety  are 
circumstances  which  could  only  produce  a  similar  effect 
on  a  weak  and  sluggish  mind,— the  necessity  of  exertion 
and  the  fear  of  death  I  Yet,  in  the  happiest  climate  of 
earth,  and  amid  the  early  vigour  of  nature,  it  would  be 
absurd  to  describe  (nor  has  Lord  Byron  so  described  it) 
the  toil  to  which  Cain  can  have  been  subject  as  excessive 
or  burdensome.  And  he  is  made  too  happy  in  his  love, 
too  extravagantly  fond  of  his  wife  and  his  child,  to  have 
much  leisure  for  those  gloomy  thoughts  which  belong  to 
disappointed  ambition  and  jaded  licentiousness.  Nor, 
though  there  are  some  passages  in  this  drama  of  no  com- 
mon power,  is  the  general  tone  of  its  poetry  so  excellent 
as  to  atone  for  these  imperfections  of  design.  The  dia- 
logue is  cold  and  constrained.  The  descriptions  are  like 
the  shadows  of  a  phantasmagoria ,  at  once  indistinct  and 
artificial.  Except  Adah,  there  is  no  person  in  whose  for- 
tunes we  are  interested ;  and  we  close  the  book  with  no 
distinct  or  clinging  recollection  of  any>  single  passage 
in  it,  and  with  the  general  impression  only  that  Lucifer 
has  said  much  and  done  little,  and  that  Cain  has  been 
unhappy  without  grounds  and  wicked  without  an  object. 
But  if,  as  a  poem,  Cain  is  little  qualified  to  add  to  Lord 
Byron's  reputation,  we  are  unfortunately  constrained  to 
observe  that  its  poetical  defects  are  the  very  smallest  of  its 
demerits.  It  is  not,  indeed ,  as  some  both  of  its  admirers 
and  its  enemies  appear  to  have  supposed,  a  durect  attack 
on  Scripture  and  on  the  authority  of  Moses.  The  ex- 
pressions of  Cain  and  Lucifer  are  not  more  offensive  to 
the  cars  of  piety  than  sach  discourses  most  necessarily 


396 


CAIN. 


be,  or  than  Milton,  without  offence,  has  irat  into  the 
mouths  of  beings  flimiiarly  situated.  And  though  the  in- 
tention is  evident  which  has  ledthe  Atheists  and  Jacobins 
(the  terms  are  oonvertible)  of  our  metropolis  to  circulate 
the  work  in  a  cheap  form  among  the  populace,  we  arenol 
ourseWes  of  opinion  that  it  possesses  much  power  of 
active  mischief,  or  that  many  persons  will  be  very  deeply 
or  lastingly  impressed  by  insinuations  which  lead  to  no 
practical  result,  and  difficulties  which  so  obviously  tran- 
scend the  range  of  human  experience. 


EXTRACT  FROM  CAMPBELL'S  MAGAZINE. 

'Cain,  a  Mystery,'  is  altogether  of  a  higher  order  than 
'Sardanapalus'  and  the  <Two  Foscari.'  Lord  Byron  has 
not ,  indeed ,  fhlfilled  our  expectations  of  a  gigantic 
picture  of  the  first  murderer;  for  there  is  scarcely  any 
passion,  except  the  immediate  agony  of  rage,  which 
brings  on  the  catastrophe;  and  Cain  himself  is  little  more 
than  the  subject  of  supernatural  agency.  This  piece  is 
essentially  nothing  but  a  vehide  for  striking  allusions  to 
the  mighty  abstractions  of  Death  and  Life,  Eternity  and 
Time;  for  vast  but  dim  descriptions  of  the  regions  of 
space,  and  for  daring  disputations  on  that  great  problem, 
the  origin  of  evil.  The  groundwork  of  the  arguments  on 
the  awful  subjects  handled  is  very  common-place;  but 
they  are  arrayed  in  great  majesty  of  language,  and  con- 
ducted with  a  frightful  audacity.  The  direct  attacks  on 
the  goodness  of  God  are  not,  perhaps,  taken  apart,  bolder, 


than  some  passages  of  JMQIton;  but  they  Inspire  quite  a 
different  sensation;  because,  in  thinking  of  FuadiK 
Lost,  we  never  regard  the  Deity,  or  Satan,  as  other  thu 
great  adverse  powers,  created  by  the  imagination  of  Ik 
poet  The  personal  identity  which  Milton  has  given  to 
his  spiritual  intelligence^  —  the  local  habitations  whidi 
he  has  assigned  them,  —  the  material  beauty  with  which 
he  has  invested  their  forms,  —  all  these  remove  the  idct 
of  impurity  from  their  discourses.  But  we  know  nothim 
of  Lord  Byron's  Lucifer,  except  his  speeches:  he  is  in- 
vented only  that  he  may  utter  them;  and  the  whole  ap- 
pears an  abstract  discussion,  held  for  its  own  sake,  oot 
maintained  in  order  to  serve  the  dramatic  consistencj  of 
the  persons.  He  has  made  no  attempt  to  imitate  Milton's 
plastic  power;  —  that  power  by  which  our  great  poet  has 
made  his  Heaven  and  Hell,  and  the  very  regions  of  space, 
sublime  realities,  palpable  to  the  imagination,  and  has 
traced  the  lineaments  of  his  angelic  messengers  with  (he 
precision  of  a  sculptor.  The  Lucifer  of  'Cain'  is  a  mere 
bodiless  abstraction,  —  the  shadow  of  a  dogma;  and  all 
the  scenery  over  which  he  presides  is  dim,  vague,  and 
seen  only  in  feint  outline.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  very  on- 
common  power  displayed,  even  in  this  shadowing  oat  of 
the  ethereal  journey  of  the  spirit  and  his  victim,  andm 
the  vast  sketch  of  the  world  of  phantasms  at  which  tbcj 
arrive:  but  they  are  utterly  unlike  the  massive  grandeon 
of  Milton's  creation.  Wc  are  for  from  imputing  intent- 
ional impiety  to  Lord  Byron  for  this  Mystery;  nor, 
though  its  language  occasionally  shocks,  do  we  appre- 
hend any  danger  will  arise  from  its  perusal.'* 


397 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH; 

A    MYSTERY, 

POUNDED    ON    THB    FOLLOWING    PASSAGE    IN    GENESIS,    CHAP.  TL  L  3.  ^ 

'And  it  came  to  pass*... that  the  sods  of  God  saw  the  daogbters  of  men  that  they  were  fair;  and  they  took  them  witcs 

of  all  which  they  chose." 


"And  iromaa  walling  for  her  demon- lover."  —  CoLniooi. 


DRAMATIS    PERSOIViE. 


ANGELS. 

Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael,  the  Archawjel 

MEN. 

Noah,  and  hit  Sons. 

IlUD. 


WOMEN. 


Anah. 
Aholibamah. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth.  —  Choras  of  Mortals. 


SCENE  I. 

A  woody  and  moancalnou  diatrict  new  Monnt  Ararat  —  Tfme, 


Enter  Amah  and  Aroubamar. 

Andk.  Our  father  sleeps:  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  lore  as  are  accnstom'd  to  descend 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat :  — 
How  my  heart  beats! 

AkoUhamah.  Let  us  proceed  apon 
Oar  invocation. 

Anmh,  But  the  stars  are  hidden. 
Itrcmhie. 

AkoL  So  do  I,  Irat  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah.  My  sister,  though 
I  love  Asazicl  more  than  —  oh>  too  much ! 
What  was  I  going  to  say?  my  heart  grows  impioas. 

AhoL  And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celcftml  natures?      ^ 

Anah,  Bat,  Aholibamaby 
I  love  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me: 
This  cannot  be  of  good;  and  though  1  know  not 
That  I  do  wrong,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right 

Ah^L  Then  wed  thee 
Vato  some  son  of  day,  and  toil  and  spin . 


There's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  long; 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

Anah.  I  should  have  loved 
Acaziel  not  less  were  he  mortal;  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.  I  can  not  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him. 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Leas  terrible;  but  yet  I  pity  him; 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  the  seraph. 
And  he  the  perishable. 

Ahol.  Rather  say, 
That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

Anah,  And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  so  loved  him, 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

AhoL  If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love. 
All  seraph  as  he  is,  I'd  spurn  him  from  me. 
But  to  our  invocation !  'Tis  the  hour, 

Anah.  Seraph! 

From  thy  sphere! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory : 

In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 

Albeit  thou  watchcst  with  "the  seven," 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 


398 


HEAYBN  AND  BARTR 


Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driyen, 
Yet  hear! 
Ob !  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear! 
And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee. 
Yet  think  that  thoo  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell,  —  and  never  be 
Sach  pangs  decreed  to  anght  save  me, 

The  bitterness  of  tears.  ^ 

Eternity  is  in  thine  years, 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes; 
With  me  thoo  canst  not  sympathise. 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thoo  most 
Acknolwledge  that  more  loving  dost 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 
Thoo  walkst  thy  many  worlds,  thoo  seest 

The  face  of  Him  who  made  tbee  great, 
As  He  hath  made  mc  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate: 
Yet,  Serapb  dear ! 
O  hear! 
For  thoo  hast  loved  me,  and  I  woold  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing. 
That  thou  forgetst  in  thine  eternity  [flowing 

Her  whose  heart  death  coold  not  keep  from  o'er- 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thoo  art! 
Great  is  their  jove  wlio  love  in  sin  and  fear ; 
And  such  I  feel  are  waging  in  my  heart 
A  war  unworthy :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph !  that  such  thoughts  appear, 
For  sorrow  is  our  element; 
Delight 
Ad  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight. 
Though  sometimes  with  our  visions  blent 
The  hour  is  near 
Which  tells  me  we  are  not  abandoned  quite.  -> 
Appear!  Appear!  - 
Seraph! 
My  own  Azaziel!  be  bat  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light 
AhoL  Samiasa! 

Whcresoc'er  ♦ 

Thoo  rulest  in  the  upper  air  — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispute  with  Him> 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire;  or  recalling, 
Some  wandering  star  which  shoots  through  the  abyss, 
Whose  tenants  dying,  while  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this; 
Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim. 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn  — 
Samiasa! 
I  call  tliee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not: 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot  \ 

Though  I  be  form'd  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams, 
Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 


With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.  There  is  a  ray 

In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 

I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long :  death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeath'd  us  —  but  my  heart 
Defies  it :  though  this  life  most  pass  away. 

Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 
Thou  art  immortal  —  so  am  I:  I  feel  — 

I  feel  my  Immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  fears,  and  peal, 

Like  the  eternal  thonders  of  the  deep. 
Into  my  ears  this  troth  —  "thoo  Itvest  for  ever !" 
Botifltbeinjoy 

I  know  not,  nor  would  know; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  almighty  giver 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 
But  thee  and  me  He  never  can  destroy ; 

Change  os  He  may,  but  not  o'er  whelm ;  we  are 

Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 

With  Him  if  He  will  war  with  us:  with  thee 
I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow; 

For  thou  bast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me. 

And  shall  /shrink  from  thine  eternity  ?  [rough, 

No!  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce  me  tbo- 

And  thoo  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 

Aroond  me  still !  and  I  will  smile 

And  curse  thee  not;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 
As  —  but  descend;  and  prove 
A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.  If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain! 

ATiah.  Sister!  sister!  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night 

AhoL  The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging 
As  though  they  bore  to-niorrow's  light 

Anah,  But  if  our  father  see  the  sight! 

AhoL  He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  onto  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

Anah,  They  come!  A«  comes!  —  Azasiel! 

AhoL  Haste 
To  meet  them!  Oh!  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast! 

Anah,  Lol.  they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 

Like  a  returning  sunset;  —  lo! 
On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 

A  mild  and  many-colour'd  l>ow. 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path, 
Now  shines !  and  now,  behold !  it  liath 
Return'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam. 

Which  the  Leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home. 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep. 

Subsides  soon  after  be  again  hath  dash'd 
Dovn,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep.      • 

AhoL  They  have  touch'd earth!  Samiasa! 

Anah,  MyAzasiell  [i 


HBAVBN  AND  BARTH. 


399 


SCBNE  It 

Enter  Irad  and  jApnrr. 

Ir^d,  DespoodDOt:  wherefore  wilt  fthon  wander  thns 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  ni|^ht, 
Aod  lift  thy  tearful  eye  anto  Qie  stars? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

Japket.  But  they  soothe  me  —  now 
Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Mcthinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Bfcometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Auah!  ♦ 

Irad,  But  she  loves  thee  not. 

J^phet  Alas! 

b-ad.  And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me  also. 

JapkeL  I  feel  for  thee  too, 

Irad,  Let  her  keep  her  pride, 
Mine  bath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn ; 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

JapkeL  Canst  thou 
Piod  joy  in  such  a  thought? 

had.  Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow. 
I  lof  ed  her  well ;  I  would  have  loved  her  better. 
Had  love  been  met  with  love:  as  *tis,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

JMpkaL  What  destinies? 

had*  I  have  some  cause  to  think 
Sbe  loves  another. 

Japhat,  Anali! 

had.  No;  her  sister. 

Jnphet  What  other? 

had.  That  I  know  not;  but  her  air, 
If  oot  ber  words,  tell  me  she  loves  another. 

Japhet,  Ay,  but  not  Anah :  she  but  loves  her  God. 

had.  Whatever  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not. 
What  can  it  profit  thee? 

JapktL  True,  nothing;  but 

IlOfC. 

had.  And  so  did  I. 

JapkeL  And  now  thou  lov'st  not. 
Or  tliinkst  thou  lov'st  not,  art  thou  happier? 

had.  Yes. 

JmpkeU  I  pity  thee. 

had,  Mc!  why? 

JapkeU  For  being  happy, 
Deprived  of  tliat  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.  I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper, 
Aod  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost,  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain  — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  dlscolour'd  trash. 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Oar  flocks  and  wilderness  afford.  —  Go,  Japhet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars  as  wolves  bowl  to  the  moon  — 
I  Hast  back  to  my  rest 

JapkeL  And  so  would  I 
Ifl  could  rest 

htid,  Thoa  wiJt  aot  to  onr  tents  then? 


JapkeL  No,  Irad;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  they  say  opens  from  the  internal  world 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so? 
What  wouldst  thou  there? 

JapkeL  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 
With  gloom  as  sad :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot. 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

Irad.  But 'tis  dangerous; 
Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors.— 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

JapkeL  Irad,  no;  believe  me 
I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.  But  evil  ihjngs  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 
As  not  being  of  them :  turn  thy  steps  aside, 
Or  let  mine  Be  with  tliine; 

JapkeL  No;  neither,  Irad; 
I  must  proceed  alone. 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee!  CKxit  Irad. 

Japkit  (jniwi).  Peace!  I  have  sought  it  where  it  should 
be  found. 
In  love  —  with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it; 
Aod,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart  — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit  —  listless  days, 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep  — 
Have  come  upon  me.  Peace  1  what  peace?  the  calm 
Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of 
The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 
The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs; 
Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 
Of  my  mind  overworn.  The  earth's  grown  wicked, 
And  many  signs  and  portents  have  prodaim'd 
A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom 
To  .perishable  beings.  Oh,  my  Anah! 
When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open  wide 
The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightcst  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements;  this  bosom,  which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainly, 
While  thine  —  Ob,  God !  at  least  remit  to  her 
Thy  wrath !  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing, 
As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench. 
Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.  My  Anah ! 
How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not; 
And  still  would  I  redeem  thee  —  see  thee  live 
When  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 
By  rock  or  shallow,  the  Leviathan, 
Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world. 
Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm.    LBxit  japiieL 

Enter  Noau  and  Sbm. 

Noak.  Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet? 

Sem.  He  went  forth, 
According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said;  but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tent,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly, 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat 

Noak.  What  doth  be  there?  It  is  an  evil  spot 


400 


HE/IVEN  AND  EARTH. 


Upon  au  earth  a!i  evil ;  for  thiog^s  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there:  he 
Still  loves  tliis  daughter  of  a  fiated  race, 
Although  he  coald  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him, 
And  that  she  doth  not  Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
•  Of  men !  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 
And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings!  Lead  the  way; 
He  must  be  sought  for  1 

Sem,  Go  not  forward,  father: 
I  wiU  seek  Japbet. 

Noah.  Do  not  fear  for  me : 
All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah  —  let  us  on. ' 

Sem.  To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters? 

Noah*  No;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

pSxcont  Koab  uid  Sem. 

SCENE  ni. 

Tbe  monnteins.  —  A  cavem,  and  the  rocki  of  CancMiM. 

Japhet  (so!m)  Ye  wilds,  that  looketernal;  and  thoQ cave, 
Which  seemst  unfathomable;  and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty ; 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them  —  ^es, 
Yc  look  eternal !  Yet,  in  a  few  days. 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurled 
Before  the  mass  of  waters ;  and  yon  cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world, 
Shall  have  its  depths  searched  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den  I 
And  man  —  Oh,  men!  my  fellow -beings!  Who 
Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 
Save  IT  Who  shall  be  left  to  weept  My  kinsmen, 
Alas !  what  am  I  better  than  ye  are, 
That  I  must  live  beyond  ye?  Where  shall  be 
The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 
Wliile  I  had  hope?  or  the  more  savage  haunts. 
Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  despair'd  for  her? 
And  can  it  be !  —  Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 
Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star. 
Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep? 
No  more  to  have  the  morning-sun  break  forth, 
And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 
From  its  tremendous  brow?  no  more  to  have 
Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  bead  at  even, 
Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 
No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 
For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 
Nearest  the  stars?  And  can  those  words  "mo  m9r9*' 
Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  as, 
And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 
By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding?  May 
He  preserve  Mem,  and  1  not  have  tbe  power 
To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daaghtera  from 
A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate^ 
Shall  'scape  to  save  bis  kind  to  be  prolong'dy 


To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 
Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  oose 
Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this  until 
The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 
Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  tb^monument, 
The  sole  and  undistinguish'd  sepulchre, 
Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life?  How  much 
Breath  will  be  stiird  at  once!  All-beauteous  world! 
So  young,  so  mark'd  out  for  destruction,  I 
With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day. 
And  night  by  night,  thy  nnmber'd  days  and  nights. 
I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 
Whose  love  had  made  meiove  thee  more;  bat  as 
A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 
Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a  feeling 
Suchas  — OhGodl  and  canst  thou —  [He 


A  raahlng  aovad  ttcm  the  ravcrn  f«  be^rd  and 
afterwards  a  Spirit 


thostt  of  hiaf  bKr  • 


Japhet  Intlienamc 
Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou? 

i^nrtY(ia«gfa«).  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

JapheL  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak ! 

iS^mtaaoshs).  Ha!  Ha! 

JapheL  By  (he  approaching  deluge!  by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean !  by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains ! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  seas! 
And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes! 
Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct. 
Yet  awful  thing  of  shadows,  speak  to  me ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh? 

S^rit  Why  weepst  thou? 

Japhet,  For  earth  and  all  her  chDdren, 

Sjpirit.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  [spirit  ^ 

Japhet.  How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a  worid, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb. 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life! 
How  the  earth  sleeps !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  1 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it?  What  is  here 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Born  ere  this  dying  world?  They  come  like  elouds! 

[Variotts  Spiriu  paw  fron  cbt  cavcfB. 

I^nrit,  Rejoice! 

Tbe  abhorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  theur  high  place. 

But  listen'd  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power. 

Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death!  ^ 

Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow,       [tkNi» 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sappii^  bmk 
Shall  they  drop  off.  Behold  their  last  to-morrow ! 

Earth  shall  be  ocean ! 
And  no  breath. 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot: 
Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 
Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  halh  died. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


401 


After  long^  looking  oVr  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  comcth  not : 
All  shall  be  void, 
Destroy'd! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorr'd 
Children  of  dnst  be  quench'd;  and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  left  but  the  unbroken  blue; 
And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain ; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain : 
All  meiged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 
And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 
Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 
Japhet  (coming  forward).    My  sirc ! 
Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire; 
Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 

From  day. 
Avaont !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste ! 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy ; 
Hence!  haste! 
Back  to  your  inner  caves ! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  yon  in  your  secret  place, 
And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roO'd  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  ail  space! 
^nrit.  Son  of  the  saved! 
When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  fhe  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent. 
Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy  ? — No ! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  woe  ^ 
Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 
The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears ! 
And  art  thou  not  asj^amed 

Thus  to  survive, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive? 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed^ 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Witiiont  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 
1^  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave. 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favoured  father, 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  earth's  grave? 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  fhe  base  and  blind? 

Mine 
Hateth  thine 
Af  of  a  different  order  in  tiie  sphere, 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heayen  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 
Bather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 


Go,  wretch !  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches  -*  live! 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  have  done, 
Envy  the  Giant-Patriarchs  then  no  more, 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one! 
Thyself  for  being  his  son ! 

Cboms  of  Spirita  iisaing  from  the  ciTern. 
Rejoice! 
No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 

With  prayer; 
No  more 
Shall  they  adore; 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 
Is  vice; 
We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos;  until  they, 
The  creatures  proud  pf  their  poor  clay. 
Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair ; 

WTiere  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother"; 
Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were, 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky : 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation. 
To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use; 
This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime. 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New  beings — years — diseases  —  sorrow — crime  — 
With  aU  companionship  of  hate  and  toil, —Until — 
Japhet  (interraptiDg  them).  The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream  ' 
Of  good  and  evil ;  and  redeem 

Unto  Himself  all  times,  all  things; 
And,  gather'd  under  his  abnighty  wings , 
AboUshhell! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 
Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise, 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  dp  well! 
Spirits.  And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous  spell  ? 
Japhet,  When  the  Redeemer  oometh;  first  in  pain, 

And  then  in  glory. 
S^firiU,  Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain. 
Till  earth  wax  hoary; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  In  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battie-plain ; 
26 


402 


HEAVBN  AND  £ARTH. 


I 


New  limes,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men ;  but  still 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms ; 
But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  overswecp  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hoars  the  glorious  Giants'  graves. 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Brethren,  rejoice! 
Mortal,  farewell! 
Hark !  hark !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell; 
The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings! 
The  clouds  have  nearly  fill'd  their  springs! 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken, 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows;  while  mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token  — 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 

We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear, 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threatening  sphere ; 
Tet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd; 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high, 

Yet  undisplay'd. 
Save  to  the  Spirits'  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl!  howl!  oh  Earth!    . 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth: 
.Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  overflow  I 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs;  and  flj^iells, 

The  little  shells  of  ocean's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspring  dwells  -* 
How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  (ruitless  yell, 
Uhanswer'd  save  by  the  encroaching  swell;  — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  bis  broad  wiQgs, 

The  wings  which  could  not  save :  •— 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brings 
Nought  to  bis  eye  beyond  the  deep,-  his  grave? 
Brethren,  rejoice! 
And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice  — 

All  die, 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Setli's  seed  ^ 

TheseedofSeth, 
Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain ; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters; 
Or,  floating  upward  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  Heaven  upbraid, 
Which  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  foir* 
It  is  decseed. 
All  die! 
And  to  the  universal  hunum  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly! 
But  still  rejoice! 
We  fell! 
They  fail! 


So  perish  all 
These  pet^  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  HeH ! 

Cl  be  Spirits  diu^pear,  •oarlBg  apwirdL 

Japhet  (sola*).  God  hath  proclaim'd  the  destiny  of  earth ; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it: 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 
The  scroll  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
Mor&to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear: 
And  yet  men  listen'd  not,  nor  listen ;  but 
Walk  darkling  to  their  doom;  which,  though  so  nigli. 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief. 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose. 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air ; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wontod  texture ; 
The  sun  will  rise  upon  tht:  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him,  *'Sbine!"  and  he  broke  forth 
Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind  —  but  roused 
Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds. 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites! 
Their  matins  now  draw  nigh  —  the  east  is  kindling  — 
And  they  will  sing!  and  day  will  break!  Both  near, 
80  near  the  awful  close !  For  these  must  drop 
Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep;  and  day. 
After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows,  — 
Ay,  day  will  rise;  but  upon  what?  A  chaos. 
Which  was  ere  day;  and  which,  renew *d,  makes  time 
Nothing !  for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  ? 
No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 
Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A  void :  without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man. 
Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain;  as  his  race  will  be 
Devour 'd  by  that  which  drowns  his  infant- world.  — 
What  have  wo  here?  Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air? 
No  —  all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 
1  cannot  trace  their  features;  but  their  forms. 
How  lovclily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist! 
And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour'd  forth 
Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  ns  Eden.  It  may  be  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world, 
For  which  I  have  so  often  pray'd  —  They  come! 
Anah!  oh  God!  and  with  her  — 

Enter  S&jfiASit  Azacml,  Anar,  tad  Abomvaxar. 

Anah,  Japhet! 

Samiata,  Lo! 
A  son  of  Adam! 

AzaxUL  What  doth  (he  earth-born  here. 
While  all  his  race  lire  slumbering? 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


403 


Japket,  Angd!  what 
Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  sh<Mildst  be  on  high  ? 

AtrnxieL  Knowst  thoa  not,  or  forgetst  thoa,  that  a  part 
Of  our  great  fanction  is  to  guard  thine  earth? 

Jmphet,  Bat  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  oondemn'd;  nay,  even  the  eril  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.  A  nab!  Anah!  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved ! 
Why  walkst  thoa  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hoars 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below? 

Anak,  Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me  — 

Japhet,  May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 
Will  pardon,  do  so!  for  thoa  art  greatly  tempted. 

Akolihamah,  Back  to  thy  tents,  insaltlngson  of  Noah ! 
We  know  thee  not. 

JapkeL  The  hoar  may  come  when  thoa 
Hay  si  know  me  better;  and  thy  sister  know 
He  still  the  «ame  which  I  have  ever  been. 

Samiasa^  Son  of  the  Patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whatever  thy  griefs. 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath. 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong? 

JapkeL  Wrong!  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs;  bat  thoa 
Sayst  well !  tbongh  she  be  dast,  I  did  not,  coald  not, 
Deserve  her.  Farewell,  Anah !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often!  bat  now  say  it,  ne^er 
To  be  repeated*  Angel!  or  whatever 
Thoa  arty  or  mast  be  sood,  hast  thoo  the  power 
To  save  this  beaatifol  —  thut  beantiftil 
Children  of  Cain? 

AztuieL  From  what? 

JdpkeL  And  is  it  so. 
That  ye  too  know  not?  Angels!  angels!  ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  most 
Partake  his  panlshment;  or  at  the  least 
My  sorrow. 

Samhua.  Sorrow !  I  ne'er  thoagfat  till  now 
To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

JtpheL  And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded  them  ? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost 

AUHbamah.  So  be  it! 
If  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
WithSamiasa! 

AmaL  Sister!  Sister!  speak  not 
Thus. 

AxmzieU  Fearest  thou,  my  Anah  ? 

AmK  Tes,  for  thee; 
I  would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

JtpheL  It  Is  for  Atm,  then !  for  the  seraph  thoa 
Hast  left  me !  That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too !  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  and  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  haUow'd.  We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 


The  Highest;  but  if  he  can  «ave  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anah,  Ah!  he  speaks  of  death. 

8amia$a,  Of  death  to  mm!  and  those  who  are  with  us! 
Bat  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japhet,  I  grrieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear; 
I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  bat  those 
Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.  Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption !  or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers. 
Who  could  alone  have  nmde  mine  happy,  she, 
Tlie  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
TheseedofSeth! 

AhoUbamah,  And  dost  thoa  think  tliat  we. 
With  Cain's,  the  eldest4H>rn  of  Adam's,  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins,  —  strong  Cain !  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise,  —  would  mingle  with  Seth's  children? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril! 
Our  raee  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  banning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

JapheU  I  did  not  speak  to  thee,  Aholtbamah! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather,  whom  thou  vaantest. 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
From  htm  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a  brother's ! 
Batthou,  my  Anah!  let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Albeit  thoa  art  not ;  'tis  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  nrast  from  thee.  My  Anah ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pare  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  mach  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty. 
For  all  of  them  are  foirest  in  their  ftivoar  — 

Ah^Ubamah  (intemtpdng  hfan). 
And  wouldst  thou  have  her  like  our  other's  foe 
In  mind,  in  soul?  If /partook  thy  thought, 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  herf  — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah;  thoa  mak'st  strife. 

JapheU  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  fother  did  so  1 

Aholihamah.  But 
He  slew  not  Seth ;  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him?  [and 

JapheU  Thou  speakest  well:  his  God  hath  ja<!|ged  him, 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

AhoUbamah.  He  was  oar  fathers'  ftither; 
The  eldest-born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  most  enduring:  —  Shall  I  blush  for  htm. 
From  whom  we  had  our  being?  Look  upon 
Our  race;  behold  their  statoreand  their  beaaty, 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days  — 

JapheU  They  are  number'd  -* 

Aholtbamah.  Beit  so!  but whileyet  their  hoars  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  oar  fhthers ! 

JapheU  My  sire  and  race  hot  glory  in  their  God, 
Anah!  and  thoa?  — 


404 


BBAVEN  AND  EABTH. 


An^h,  Whatever  onr  God  decrees, 
The  God  of  Selh  as  Cain,  I  mast  obey, 
And  will  endeavour  patiently  to  obey: 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  this  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be). 
It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.  My  sister !  Oh,  my  sister! 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future  without  the  sweet  past  — 
Thy  love  —  my  father's  —  all  the  life,  and  all 
The  things  which  sprang  up  with  me,  like  the  stars, 
Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 
Soft  lights  which  were  not  mine?  Aholibamah! 
Oh  I  if  there  should  be  mercy—  seek  it,  find  it: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die.  [ark, 

A  holihamah.  What !  hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's 
Tlic  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world. 
Shaken  my  sister  ?  Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  oC  Noah  for  onr  lives  ? 
Rather  than  thus  —  But  the  enthusiast  dreams 
The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engendered 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.  Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth. 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  om*  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way? 
Who  shall  do  this? 

JapheU  He,  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

Aholibamah.  Who  Aearc{  that  word? 

Japket,  The  Universe,  which  leap'd 
To  life  before  it  Ah  I  smiiest  thou  still  in  scorn? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs;  if  they  attest  it  not, 
They  are  none. 

Samiasa.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God! 

Aholibamah.  I  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 
As  thine,  and  mine:  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

JapheU  Alas!  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ?  Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love,  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants* 

Aholibamah,  'Tissaidso, 

Japhet,  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  Noah  and  Sim. 

Noah.  Japhet!  What 
Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked? 
Dreadst  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom? 

JapheU  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being;  and  behold, 
These  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Noah.  These  are  they,  then. 
Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain ;  the  sons  of  Heaven, 
Who  seek  Earth's  daughters  for  tbeir  beauty? 

Azaziel.  Patriarch! 
Thou  hast  said  it 

Noah,  Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion ! 
Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  Earth 
And  Heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind? 

Samiasa,  Was  not  man  made  in  high  J«hovah's  image? 


Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made?  And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love? 

Noah,  lam 
But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind. 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deign 'd  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
jEfir  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing. 
Even  on  the  very  epe  oiperiehing,  world. 
Cannot  be  good. 

AzazieL  What!  though  it  were  to  save? 

Noah^  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  He  who  made  you  glorious  hath  oondemn'd. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  'twoald 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful, 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  leas 
Condemn'd. 

JapheU  Oh  father!  say  it  not 

Noah,  Son!  son! 
If  that  thoti  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forgrt 
That  they  exist;  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be. 
While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world. 
And  better. 

JapheU  Let  me  die  with  thit,  and  them!  [He 

Noah,  Thou  thouldei  for  such  a  thought,  bat  shalt  not; 
Who  can,  redeems  thee. 

Samiaea.  And  why  him  and  thee. 
More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both? 

Noah.  Ask  Him  who  made  thee  greater  than  n^sclf 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own 
Almightiness.  Andlo!  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears! 

Enter   Raphau,,  the  Arclmgcl. 

Raphael,  Spirits! 

W  hose  seat  is  near  the  throne. 
What  do  ye  here? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown 
Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone  ? 
Return! 
Adore  and  burn 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "seven." 
Your  place  is  heaven. 
SamUuiL,  Raphael! 
The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  long  hath  this  been  law. 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth!  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod ! 
The  world  He  loved,  and  made 
For  love;  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions. 

Adoring  Him  in  His  least  works  display'd; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  His  dominions: 
And,  as  the  latest  birth  of  His  great  word. 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe? 
And  wherefore  speakst  thou  of  destruction  near? 


HEAVEN  AND   EARTH. 


403 


RmpiaeL  Had  SammM  and  Aaasiel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir, 
Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree, 
And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me: 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 
As  they  wax  proud  within; 
■  For  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay'd, 
Staiig  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 

By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid ; 
But  ye  are  pardon'd  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals:  Hence!  away!  away! 
Or  stay. 
And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay ! 
AzMzieL  And  Thou!  ifearth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 
Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here? 
Raphael  I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  yom-  fit  sphere, 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God  I 
I>ear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 
That  which  I  came  to  do :  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space;  together 
Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.  True,  Earth  must  die! 
Her  race,  return'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither. 
And  much  which  she  inherits;  but  oh !  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroyed. 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell;  his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure! 
But  ye  who  still  are  pure! 
Seraphs !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one. 

Think  how  he  was  undone! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late? 

Long  have  I  warr'd, 
Long  must  I  war 
With  him  who  deem'd  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  Him 
Who  'midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  suns  to  a  dependant  star, 
Leaving  the  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him ~  beautiful  he  was :  oh  Heaven ! 
Save  Hit  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !  Would  the  hour 

In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven ! 
The  wish  is  impious :  but  oh  ye ! 
Yet  undeatroy'd,  be  warn'd !  Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice: 
He  hath  not  tempted  you,  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt ; 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice. 
And  ye  to  woman's  —  beautiful  she  is, 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss . 


The  snake  but  vanquish'd  dust;  but  she  will  draw 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  Heaven's  law. 
Tet,yet,ohfly! 
Te  cannot  die; 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away. 
While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay. 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  long  outlast  the  sun  which  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  diflfereth  from  theirs 
In  all  but  suffering!  Why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs  — 
Born  to  be  plough'd  with  years,  and  sown  with  cares. 
And  reap'd  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil  ? 
Even  had  their  days  been  left  to  toil  their  path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  God's  wrath, 
Still  they  arc  Evil's  prey  and  Sorrow's  spoil. 

AhoHbamah,  Let  them  fly! 
I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die 
Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died; 
Andihat  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 
While  from  below 
The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared. 
It  seems;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister!  since  It  is  so, 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe. 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored. 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword. 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay'd, 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall. 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd. 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  Seraphs!  to  your  own  eternal  shore. 
Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  portion  is  to  die, 
And  yours  to  live  for  ever; 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver: 
Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  clay 
An  hour  beyond  His  will; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  His  grace. 
For  all  the  mercy  whicli  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 
Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high, 

Samiasa ! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye, 

'Tis  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep. 
Farewell !  Now  rise,  inexorable  deep ! 
Anah,  And  must  we  die? 

And  must  1  lose  thee  too, 
Azaziel? 


406 


HEAVJBN  AND  SARTR 


Oil,  my  heart!  my  heart! 

Thy  prophecies  were  trae! 
And  yet  thou  wert  «o  happy  too  I 
The  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new; 
But  yet  depart! 
Ah,  why? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee  —  fly ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief;  but  tbine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 

Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign'd 
To  one  of  Adam's  race! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow ;  not  to  us  alone, 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
To  love  us,  Cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 
The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  hnrl'd 
From  bis  once  archangelio  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world: 
And  thou,  Asasiel !  No  -*- 
Thou  Shalt  not  suffer  woe 
Forme.  Away!  nor  weep! 

Thou  canst  not  weep;  but  yet 
May  St  suffer  more,  not  w.eeping:  then  forget 
Her,  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  deep 
-  Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.    Ply !  fly ! 
Being  gone,  'twill  be  less  diflloult  to  die. 
Japhet,  Oh  say  not  sol 

Father !  and  thoo,  archangel,  tboa! 
Surely  celestial  mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore. 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more ! 

Noah.  Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace! 
If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong! 
Live  as  he  wills  it  —  die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  6r  be  sorrowful  in  silence;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  seMsh  plaint 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  for  thee? 
Such  would  It  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.    Be  a  man ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 
Japhet  Ay,  father!  but  when  they  are  gone, 
And  we  are  all  alone. 
Floating  upon  the  aeure  desert,  and 
The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land. 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast. 
Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  command  ? 
Can  wc  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest? 
Oh  God !  be  thou  a  God,  and  spare 
Yet  while 'tis  time! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall: 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain. 
But  they  arc  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  ram. 
Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their  graves, 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain. 
Noah,  Silence,  vain  boy!  each  word  of  thine's  a  crime! 
Angel!  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 


RaphaeLSenphal  these  mortals  speak  in  pasaion.:  To^ 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  paasionleas  and  pure. 
May  now  return  with  me. 
Samiasa.  It  may  not  be: 
We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 
RaphaaL  Saysttbou? 
AzazieL  He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Aaien! 
RaphaeL  Again! 
Then  from  this  hour. 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power. 
And  aliens  from  your  God, 
Farewell! 
Japhet  Alas!  where  shall  they  dwell? 
Hark!  hark!  Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 
A  re  howling  from  the  BM>untain's  boaom : 
There's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill. 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom: 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 

Noah,  Hark!  hark!  the  sea-birds  cry ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  sliore, 
And  then,  no  more! 
Japhet  The  sun!  the  sun! 
He  riseth,  but  his  better  liglit  is  gone; 
And  a  black  circle,  bound 

His  glaring  disk  around. 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer-days  hatb  shone ! 
The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  nigfit. 
Save  where  their  brazen-colour'd  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  moms  were  wont  (obraL 
Noah.  Audio!  yon  flash  of  light. 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears ! 

Itcometh!  hettee,away! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  ark  npreara 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides ! 
Japhet  Oh,  father,  stay ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides! 
Noah.  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to mch?  Begone! 
Japhet  Not  I. 
Noah.  Then  die 

With  them! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky. 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  condemn, 
In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath  ? 
JaphH.  Can  rage  and  justiee  join  in  the  snme  path? 
Noah.  Blasphemer!  darest  thou  murmur  even  noW? 
RaphaeL  Patriarch,  be  still  a  father !  smooth  thy  bfMr; 
Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink ; 
He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters; 
But  be,  when  passion  passeth,  good  as  thou. 
Nor  perish  Bke  Heaven's  children  with  Mnn'a  daogh* 

ters. 
Ahohhamah.  The  temp^t  cometb;  heaven  andeaitk 
For  the  annihibition  of  alt  life.  [wiii 


HEAVBN  AND  SARTR 


407 


Uoeqaal  is  the  strife 
Between  oar  streDgth  and  the  eternal  miglit! 

Stumiasu.  Bat  oars  is  with  thee:  we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  some  antroobled  star. 
Where  thoa  and  Anah  shall  partake  our  lot. 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth, 
Ovr  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

^iiaA.  Oh!  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of  birth! 
And  moantains,  land,  and  woods,  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears? 

AzmjneL  Thy  spirit-lord. 
Pear  not;  though  we  are  shut  from  hcaren, 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  cannot  be  driven. 

RmpkaeL  Rebel !  thy  words  are  wicked,  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak :  the  flaming  sword. 
Which  chased  the  first-bom  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

AxazieL  It  cannot  slay  us:  threaten  dust  with  death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds ! 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes  ? 

Raphael  The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength ; 
And  learn  at  length 

How  rain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands: 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  reAige. 
Choins  of  Bf  or  tain. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling  —  Gixll  oh  God ! 

What  have  we  done?  Yet  spare! 

Hark!  even  tlie  forest-beasts  howl  forth  their  prayer! 

The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den. 

To  herd  in  terror  innocent  with  men ; 
.\|4-lhe  birds  seream  their  agony  through  air. 
Tet,  yet,  Jehovah !  yet  withdraw  thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair! 
Hear  not  man  only  but  all  nature  plead !  \f^^ 

RapkaeL  Farewell,  thou  earth !  ye  wretched  sons  of 
I  eannoC,  must  not  aid  you.  'Tis  decreed!       [Bait  Raphael. 

JapheU  Some  clouds  sweep  on,  as  vultures  for  their  prey, 
While  others,  lix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour'd^ 
No  azure  more  shall  robe. the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious:  Death  hath  risen : 
In  the  Sun's  phioe  a  pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

AzazieL  Come,  Anah!  quit  this  chaos-founded  prison. 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair. 
To  torn  it  into  what  it  was :  beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe, 
As  WW  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  lather's.  --  Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 
1VJ^.alliU  elements!  Heed  not  their  din ! 
A  bi^htcr  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore: 
These  darkcn'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

CAnnicI  ud  Samlaaa  fly  off,  and  disappear  wiU  A  nab  and  Aholibanah. 

JapkeL  They  are  gone !  They  have  disappear'd  amidst 
Of  the  forsaken  world;  and  never  more,  [the  roar 

Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
I  unto  these  eyes. 


Cboroa  of  Mortals. 
Oh  son  of  Noah!  mercy  on  thy  kind! 
What,  wilt  thou  leave  us  all  —  all  —  all  behind? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sitst  within  thy  guarded  ark  ? 

A  Mortal  (offering  ber  Infant  to  Japhel>. 

Oh  let  this  child  embark ! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  woe. 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  Hinging  so. 

Why  was  he  born? 

What  hath  he  done  — 

My  unwean'd  son  — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  Death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  hoy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth ! 
Or  cursed  be  —  with  Him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  arc  betray 'd ! 

JapheL  Peace!  'tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer! 

Cborns   ot  Mortals. 
For  prayer! ! ! 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend. 
When  theswoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst. 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend, 

Cntil  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst? 
Accursed 
Be  He,  who  made  thee  and  thy  sir#! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain;  we  must  expire; 

But,  as  we  know  the  worst. 
Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same? 
If  He  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  His  shame, 

To  make  a  world  for  torture.  —  Lo !  they  come. 

The  loathsome  waters  in  their  rage ! 
And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  nature  dumb! 

The  forest's  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upsprung, 

Ere  Kvegave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hynm  of  slavery  sung). 

So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age. 

Arc  overtopp'd. 
Their  summer-blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp*d. 

Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies  — 

They  meet  the  seas, 
And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly,  and  take  thine  ease 

In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent; 
And  view,  all  floating  o'er  the  element. 
The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days: 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise! 

A  Mortal,  Blessed  are  the  dead 

Who  die  in  the  Lord  I  . 


408 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  ontspread, 
Yet,  as  His  word. 
Be  the  decree  adored ! 
He  gave  me  life  —  He  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  His  owa : 
And  though  these  eyes  shoald  be  for  ever  shut. 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  His  throne 
Be  heard  in  sapplicating  tone. 
Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past. 

For  that  which  is : 
For  all  are  His, 
From  first  to  last  — 
Time  —  space  —  eternity  —  life  —  death  — 

The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  anmake; 

And  s^iali  /,  for  a  little  gasp  of  breath, 
Blaspheme  and  groan? 

No ;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith. 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake! 

Chorns  of  Mortali. 

Where  shall  we  iiy? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high ; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush  with  double  roar. 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  dsowning  hill. 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 


Enter  •  Woman. 

WoMon,  Oh,  save  me,  save! 
Our  valley  is  no  more : 
My  father  and  my  fotlier's  tent. 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds, 
The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday  bent 
And  sent  forth  evening-soogs  from  sweetest  birds, 
The  little  rivulet  which  freshened  all 
Our  pastures  green. 
No  more  are  to  be  sees. 
When  to  the  mountain-cliff  I  climb'd  this  morn, 

I  turn'd  to  bless  the  spot, 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  to  fall ;  — 

And  now  they  are  not  I 
Why  was  I  born? 

JapheL  To  die!  in  youth  to  die; 
And  happier  in  that  doom. 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 
Which  I 

Am  thus  oondemn'd  to  weep  above  in  vain : 
Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain? 

[The  Watera  rbe:  Men  fly  tn  ercnr  directioB;  nuj 
•re  overtaken  by  the  waves;  the  Chorva  oflloftab 
dlaperaes  in  aearch  of  aafcty  np  the  MoaatuM; 
Japhit  rcutalni  apon  a  rock ,  while  the  Ark  Aotit 
towards  him  In  the  distance. 


409 


THE  TWO   FOSCARI, 

AN  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


The  tathw  Mftcii*,  IwC  the  governor  'i  resolved.  —  CmTic. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONifi. 


MEN. 

Francis  Foscari,  Dope  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  FosCiifU,  Son  0/  the  Doge, 
James  Loredano,  a  Patrician, 
Marco  Memmo,  a  Chief  of  the  Forty, 
Barbarigo,  a  Senator, 

Other  Senators,  the  Council  of  Ten,  Guards,  AtUnd- 
ants,  etc. 


WOMAN. 


Marina,    Wife  of  young  Foscari. 


Scene  —  the  Dacal  Palace,  Venice. 


A    C    T      L 


SCENB  I. 

A  HaU  io  the  Dneal  Palace. 
Enter  LoRRDANO  and  B^rrarioo,  meeting. 

Loredano,  Where  is  the  prisoner? 

Barhariyo.  Reposing  from 
The  question. 

Lored,  The  boar's  past  —  fix'd  yesterday 
For  the  resumption  of  his  trial.  —  Let  us 
Rejoin  our  coDcagaes  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

Barh.  Nay,  let  him  profit  by 
A  few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs; 
He  was  o'erwrought  by  the  question  yesterday, 
And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated, 

Lored.  Well? 

Bm-h,  I  yield  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice. 
Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Foscarl, 
Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race; 
Bot  the  poor  wretch  has  suffered  beyond  nature's 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

Lored,  Without  owning 
His  crime. 

Barh.  Perhaps  without  committing  any. 
Bat  he  avow'd  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Slihin,  and  his  sufferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

Lored,  We  shall  se^ 
Barh,  Yon,  Loredano, 
Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 


Lored,  How  far? 

Barh,  To  extermination. 

Lored,  When  they  are 
Extinct,  you  may  say  this.  —  Let's  in  to  council. 

Barh,   Yet  ^ause  —  the  number  of  our  colleagues 
is  not 
Complete  yet;  two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

Lored.  And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge? 

Barh,  No  —  he 
With  more  than  Roman  fortitude  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  and  only  son. 

Lored,  True  —  true  — 
mnhut, 

Barh,  Will  nothing  move  you? 

Lored,  Feels  he,  think  yon? 

Barh,  He  shows  it  not. 

Lored,  Ihavemark'd  <*«*  — the  wretdi! 

Barh,  But  yesterday,  I  hear,  on  his  return 
To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass'd  the  threshold 
The  old  man  fainted. 

Lored,  It  begins  to  work,  then. 

Barh,  The  work  is  half  your  own, 

Lored,  And  should  be  all  mine  — 
My  father  and  my  uncle  are  no  moro. 

Barh,  I  have  read  their  epitaph,  which  nys  they  died 
By  poison. 

Lored,  When  the  Doge  deelarcd  that  be 
Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  tifl 


410 


THE  TWO  FOSCAiU. 


ACT  1. 


The  death  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 

The  brothers  sicken'd  shortly :  —  he  u  soTereign. 

Barh,  A  wretched  one. 

Lored.  What  shoald  they  be  who  make 
Orphans? 

Barb,  But  did  the  Doge  make  yoa  so? 

Lored,  Yes. 

Barb.  What  solid  proofs? 

Lored,  When  princes  set  themselves 
To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  difficult;  but  I  have  such 
Of  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needless. 

Barb,  But  you  will  move  by  law? 

Lored,  By  all  the  laws 
Which  he  would  leave  us. 

Barb.  They  are  such  in  this 
Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.  Is  It  true 
That  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  commerce 
(The  wealthy  practise  of  oar  higkeat  noblcs)» 
''Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  the  deaths 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 
My  sire  and  uncle  ?" 

Lored,  It  is  written  thus. 

Barb,  And  will  you  leave  it  unerased? 

Lored,  Till  balanced. 

Barb,  And  how? 

(Two  Senators  put  over  the  Mage,  ai  in  their  way  to 
"th«  HaU  of  the  CooncU  of  Ten.*' 

Lored,  You  see  the  number  is  complete. 

Follow  me.  [Exit  Lorcdaoo. 

j9tf r6.  (mIui).  VoWow  thee  f  I  have  followed  long 
Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 
The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and  Wretch 
Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 
The  waters  through  them :  but  this  son  and  sire 
Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
Must  I  on  hardily  like  them  —  Oh!  vrould 
I  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly!  — 
Lo,  where  he  comes !  —  Be  still,  my  heart !  they  are 
Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims :  wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee? 

Bnter  Oaards,  with  youi(  Foscari  ai  prisoner. 

Guard,  Let  him  rest 
Signor,  take  time. 

J,  Foicari,  I  thank  thee^  friend,  I'm  fceUe; 
But  thou  mayst  stand  reprovedt 

Guard,  ru Stand tbe hazard.  [mercy; 

J,  Foscari*  That's  kind:  —  I  m^ei  tome  pity,  but  no 
This  is  the  first 

Guard,  And  might  be  last,  did  they 
Who  rule  behold  us. 

Barb,  (adTancing  to  «h»  Gmr^  There  is  one  who  does; 
Yet  fear  not ;  I  will  neithcnr  be  thy  judge 
Nor  thy  accuser ;  tl^iif  h  the  hour  U  past, 
WnitthekrlMtHtawioiia  ^  I  am  (tf  <'the  Tei^" 
And  waiting  for  that  summons  sanction  you 
Even  by  my  presettoe:  wliMi  the  hurt  caU  squads. 
We'll  in  togeMier.  ->  Look  well  to  the  prisoner! 


J,  Fotcaru  What  voice  is  that  ?  —  'tis  Barbarigo's! 
Our  house's  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges.  [Ah ! 

Barb.  To  balance  such  a* foe,  if  such  there  be, 
Thy  father  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 

J,  Foscari.  True, 
He  judges. 

Barb.  Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 
Whteh  yield  so  mneh  indulgence  to  a  sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  la  sach  high  matter 
As  the  state's  safety  — 

J.  Foscari.  And  his  son's.  I'm  faint; 
Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yoa  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 

Enter  an  Ofll«<er,  who  whispers  Bsrbarigo. 

Barh,  Qto  die  Gnard)  Let  him  approach.  I  most  not  speak 
with  him 
Further  than  thus;  I  have  tran8gres.«*d  my  doty 
In  this  brief  parley,  and  mast  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council-Chamber,  .    [CxU  Barharifo. 

[Oaard  condocting  Jacopo  Foscari  to  the  irlad«iw. 

Guard.  There  air, 'tis 
Open  —  How  feel  you? 

J.  Foscari.  Like  a  boy  —  Oh  Venice! 

Guard.  And  your  limbs? 

J,  Foscari,  Limbs!  how  often  have  they  borne  me 
Bounding  o'er  yon  blue  tide,  as  I  have  akimm'd 
The  gondola  along  in  childish  race, 
And,  masqncd  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 
My  gaf^  competitors,  noble  as  I, 
Raced  for  our  pleasure  in  the  pride  of  strength. 
While  the  fair  populace  of  crowding  beaaties, 
Plebeian  as  patrician,  chcer'd  us  on 
With  dazzling  smileSt  and  wishes  audible, 
And  waving  kerchiefs,  and  applauding  bands. 
Even  to  the  goal!  ~  How  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring. 
The  wave  all  roughen'd;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  dreuch'd  hair, 
And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine. 
Which  kiss'd  it  like  a  wine-cup,  rising  o'er 
The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me;  and  oft, 
In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  way  to  shells  and  sea- weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  wax'd  fearful;  then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As  show'd  that  I  had  search'd  the  deep;  exuhlng. 
With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurn 'd 
The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 
My  track  like  a  sea-bird.  —  I  was  a  boy  then. 

Guard.  Be  a  man  now:  there  never  was  more  need 
Of  manhood's  strength. 

J.  Foscari  (looking  fl-om  the  lattice).  My  beautiful,  my  own, 
My  only  Venice  —  this  is  breath  I  Thy  breeze. 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  my  face! 
Tliy  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins, 
And  cool  them  into  calmness!  How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 


ICT  1. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


411 


Whicb  howl'd  tboot  my  Candiotodaogeoii,  SBd 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

Guard,  I  see  the  colour  comes 
Back  to  yoQT  cheek :  Heaven  send  yon  streogtii  to  bear 
What  more  may  be  imposed !  —  1  dread  to  think  on't 

J,  Posemri,  They  will  not  baiiitk  me  again!  —  No  — 
Let  them  wring  on ;  I  am  strong  yet  [no, 

Chuird,  Confess, 
And  the  rack  will  be  spared  yon. 

J.F9$earL  loonfess'd 
Oaoe  —  twice  before:  both  times  they  exiled  me. 

Guard,  And  the  third  time  will  slay  yon. 

J,  Poicwri,  Let  them  do  so, 
Solbeboriedinmybirth-piaoe;  better 
Be  ashes  here  than  anght  that  ItTes  eJsewbere. 

Guard,  And  can  yon  so  mnch  love  the  soil  whiob 
hates  yon? 

J,  Fotearu  The  soil !  —  Oh  no,  it  is  the  seed  of  the  soil 
Whieh  persecutes  me;  but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms. 
I  ask  no  more  than  a  Venetian  grave, 
A  dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here. 

Enter  nn  Officer. 

Officer.  Bring  in  the  prisoner  I 

Guard,  Signor,  yon  hear  the  order. 

/.  Foteari,  Aj,  I  am  used  to  such  a  summons;  /tifl 
The  third  time  they  have  tortured  me :  —  then  lend  me 
Thine  arnL  CTo  the  Oovd. 

Officer,  Take  mine,  sir;  'tis  my  duty  to 
Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

J,Po9eari,  You!  —  you  are  he 
Who  yesterday  presided  o'er  my  pangs  — 
Away!  —  III  walk  alone. 

Offietr,  As  you  please,  sig^nor; 
The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  bat 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Coundl  when 
They  — 

J,  Fo$cari,  Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  their  horrid  engine. 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not  —  that  is,  just  now ; 
The  time  will  come  they  will  renew  that  order. 
But  keep  off  from  me  till  'tis  issued.  As 
I  look  upon  thy  hands  my  curdling  limbs 
Quiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching, 
And  the  cold  drops  strain  through  my  brow  as  if — 
But  onward  —  I  have  borne  it  —  I  can  bear  it  — 
How  looks  my  fiither? 

Officer.  With  his  wonted  aspect 

J,  Foecari   So  does  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of 
ocean, 
Tlie  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes, 
The  mirth  of  her  Piazza  —  even  now 
Its  merry  hum  of  nations  piercer  here, 
Rreo  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 
Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  unnumber'd 
Judged  and  destroy'd  in  silence,  —  all  things  wear 
The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire! 
Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Poscari, 
Not  even  a  Poscari.  —  Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[ExeoBC  Jftcopo  Potcirl,  OtAcer,  cCCb 


Bntar  llsjnm  and  wothcr  Seiwtor. 

Memmo,  He's  gone  — -  we  are  too  late:  —  think  you 
Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ?  [the  Ten 

Senator,  They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate. 
Persisting  In  his  §rst  avowal ;  but 
IVCore  I  know  not 

Memmo,  And  that  is  much;  the  secrets 
Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 
As  from  the  people. 

Senator,  Save  the  wonted  rumours, 
Which  (like  the  tales  of  spectres  that  are  rife 
Near  ruin'd  buildings)  never  have  been  proved. 
Nor  wholly  disbelieved:  men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
Unfathom'd  mysteries. 

Memmo,  But  with  length  of  time 
We  gain  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

Senator,  Or  Doge? 

Memmo,  Why,  no;  not  if  I  can  avoid  it 

Senator,  ^is  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfuUy 
Attained  by  noble  aspirants. 

Memmo,  To  such 
I  leave  it;  though  born  noble,  my  ambition 
Is  limited :  I'd  rather  be  an  unit 
Of  an  united  and  imperial  Ten, 
Than  shine  a  lonely,  tbongh  a  gilded,  cipher.  — 
Whom  have  we  here?  the  wife  of  Foscari? 

Baler  Ma«ina,wMi  •  ftmale  AttendMit 

Marina,  What,  no  one?  —  I  am  wrong,  there  still  are 
But  they  are  senators.  [two ; 

Memmo,  Most  noble  lady. 
Command  us. 

Marina,  I  command/ -^  AUlsI  my  life 
Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vun  one. 

Memmo,  I  understand  thee,  but  I  must  not  answer. 

Marina  (Sercdy).  True  —  none  dare  answer  here  save 
Or  question  save  those  ^  *  [on  the  rack, 

jlftfmme(intemiptingber).  High-bom  damc!  bethink  thee 
Where  thou  now  art 

Marina,  Where  I  now  am!  —  It  was 
My  husband's  father's  palace. 

Memmo,  The  Duke's  palace.  [It; 

Marina*  And  his  son's  prison ;  —  true,  I  have  not  forgot 
And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer 
Remembrances^  would  thank  the  illustrious  Memmo 
For  poi  nting  out  the  pleasures  of  the  place. 

Memmo,  Becalm! 

Marina  (looking  up  towvdi  bevTen).  I  am!  but  oh,  thou 
eternal  God! 
Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a  world? 

Memmo,  Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 

Marina*  He  is. 
In  heaven.  I  pray  yon,  signor  senator. 
Speak  not  of  that ;  you  are  a  man  of  office. 
So  is  the  Doge:  he  has  a  son  at  stake^ 
Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I  have  a  bnsband. 
Or  had :  they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 


412 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


ACT  I. 


An  hour  since,  face  to  face,  as  judge  and  culprit: 
Will  he  coDdemn  him  ? 

Memmo,  Itruflt,DOt, 

Marina,  But  if 
He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence  botli. 

Memmo,  They  can. 

Marina.  And  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 
In  wickedness:  —  my  husband's  lost! 

Memmo,  Not  so; 
Justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

Marina.  IfitweresOy 
There  now  would  be  no  Venice.  But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature's  summons;  but  the  Ten's  is  qnicka* 
And  we  must  wait  on't.  Ah!  a  voioe  of  wail ! 

CA  fiunt  cry  within. 

Senator.  Hark!  • 

Memmo,  'Twasacryof  — 

Marina,  No,  no;  not  my  husband's  — 
Not  Foscari's. 

Memmo.  Thevoice  was — 

Marina.  Not  his:  no. 
He  shriek !  No;  that  should  be  his  father's  part, 
Not  his  —  not  his  ^  he'll  die  in  silence. 

CA  Aunt  groan  afsin  within. 

Memmo.  What! 
Again? 

Marina.  ffitToioe!  itseem'dso:  I  will  not 
Believe  it.  Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  lore;  but  —  no  —  no  —  no  —  it  must  have  been 
A  fearful  pang  whicli  wrung  a  groan  from  him.         [thou 

Senator.  And,  feeling  tor  thy  husband's  wrongs,  wouldst 
Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain  in  silence  ? 

Marina.  We  all  must  bear  our  tortures.  I  have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 
Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from  life ; 
I  have  endured  as  .much  in  giving  life 
To  those  who  will  succeed  them  as  they  can 
In  leaving  It;  but  mine  were  joyful  pangs; 
And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I  could  have  shriek'd, 
But  did  not ;  for  my  hope  was  to  bring  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome  them  with  tears. 

Memmo.  All's  silent  now. 

Marina.  Perhaps  all's  over,  but 
I  will  not  deem  it :  he  hath  nerved  himself, 
And  now  defies  them. 

Safer  an  Officer  hutUjr. 

Memmo.  How  now,  friend,  what  seek  yon ! 
Officer,  A  leech.  The  prisoner  has  fainted. 

iKxie  Officer. 

Memmo,  Lady, 
'Twere  better  to  retire. 

Senator  (offering  to  aMist  her).  I  pray  thee  do  so. 

Marina.  Off!  /  will  tend  him. 

Memmo.  Yon!  Remember,  lady ! 
Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Bxcept  the  Ten,  and  their  familiars. 

Marina.  Well, 
I  know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 


As  they  have  enter'd  —  many  never ;  biit 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

Memmo.  Alas  I  this 
Is  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repalse. 
And  worse  suspense. 

Marina.  Who  abali  oppose  me? 

Memmo.  They 
Whose  duty  'tis  to  do  so 

Marina.  'Tis  their  duty 
To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  aH 
Ties  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends,  who  will  one  day  requite  tliem  in 
Variety  of  torturing!  Yet  I'll  pass. 

Memmo.  It  is  impossible. 

Marina,  That  shall  be  tried. 
Despair  defies  even  despotism :  there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through  hosts 
With  levcird  kpears;  and  think  you  a  few  jailors 
Shall  put  me  from  my  path?  Give  me,  tlien,  way; 
This  is  the  Doge's  paJaoe;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  the  innocent  Duke's  son, 
And  they  shall  hear  this! 

Memmo.  It  will  only  serve 
More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

Marina.  What 
Are judifes  who  give  way  to  anger?  they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.  Give  me  way.  CExix  Mario^ 

Senator,  Poor  lady! 

Memmo.  'Tis  mere  desperation;  she 
Will  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold.     . 

Senator.  And, 
Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But  see,  the  officer  returns. 

[The  odicer  pastes  over  the  stage  with  another  pcnon. 

Memmo.  I  hardly 
Thought  th^t  the  Ten  had  even  this  touch  of  pity. 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  this  sufferer. 

Senator,  Pity !  Is 't  pity  to  recall  tofeeling 
The  wretch  too  happy  to  escape  to  death 
By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature's  last 
Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  ? 

Memmo.  I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  onca 

Senator.  That's  not  their  policy;  they'd  have  him  live. 
Because  he  fears  not  death  ;  and  banish  him. 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land. 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a  slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

Memmo.  Circumstance 
Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not      [wTittrn, 

Senator.   None,  save  the  letter,  which  he  says  was 
Addrpss'd  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  full  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands. 
And  thus  he  should  be  re-convey 'd  to  Venice. 

Memmo,  But  as  a  culprit 

Senator.  Yes,  bat  to  his  country: 
And  that  was  all  he  souglit,  so  he  avouches. 

Memmo.  The  accusation  of  tlie  bribes  was  proved. 

Senator.  Not  clearly,  and  the  cliarge  of  homicide 
Has  been  aonull'd  by  the  death*^bed  confession 


ACT  !• 


TH£  TWO  FOSCARI. 


413 


Of  NicoHia  Erizso,  wbo  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  the  Ten. 

Metmm9,  Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

SenMimr.  That 
They  oaght  to  answer;  for  it  is  well  known 
That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I  said. 
Was  alain  by  Brixso  for  private  vengeance.  [than 

Memmm,  There  mast  be  more  in  this  strange  process 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  aocnsed  disclose  — 
Bat  here  come  two  of  the  Ten :  let  ns  retire. 

CExennt  M«mino  and  Senator. 
Enter  Lorbuano  and  Bikbarioo. 

Bmrh.  (mMnuiughondno),  That  were  too  much :  believe 
me,  'twas  not  meet 
The  trial  shook!  go  further  at  jthis  moment 

LoretL  And  so  theCoancii  must  break  up»  and  Justice 
Pause  in  her  fuU  career,  because  a  woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations? 

Bmrk,  No, 
That's  not  the  cause;  you  saw  the  prisoner's  state. 

L&rmd,  Andhadhenotrecover'd? 

Bmrh,  To  relapse 
Upon  the  least  renewal. 

L^nd.  'Twas  not  tried. 

Bmrh,  Tis  vain  to  murmur;  the  majority 
In  eooocil  were  against  you. 

Lmred.  Thanks  to  you*  sir, 
And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'erruled  my  own. 

Bmrh.  I  am  a  judge;  but  mnsteonfess  that  part 
Of  oar  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  question, 
And  bids  us  sit  and  see  iti  sharp  infliction, 
Hakes  me  wish  — 

Ij9r€d.  What? 

Bmrh.  That  yoKi9^if«MM«<imtf«  feel, 
As  I  do  always. 

Lmr^d^  Go  to,  you're  a  child, 
Infinn  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  melted  by  a  tear  —  a  precious  judge 
For  Veoioc!  and  a  worthy  statesman  to. 
Be  partner  in  my  policy ! 

Bwrh.  He  shed 
No  tears. 

tared.  He  cried  out  twice. 

Bmrb,  A  saint  liad  done  so, 
Even  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye. 
At  snch  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  wan  forced  on  him:  but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity ;  not  a  word  nor  groan  escaped  him, 


And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  supplication. 
But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  followed  by  no  prayers. 

Lored.  He  mutter'd  many  times  between  his  teeth. 
But  inarticulately. 

Barb,  That  I  hea.rd  not; 
Yon  stood  more  near  him. 

Lored.  I  did  so. 

Barb.  Methonght, 
To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touch'd  with  mercy. 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistance  ^ 

When  he  was  failing. 

Lared,  I  believed  that  swoon 
His  last 

Barb,  And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 
His  and  his  father's  death  your  nearest  wish  ? 

lA^red,  If  be  dies  innocent  that  is  to  say. 
With  his  guilt  unavow'd,  he'll  be  lamented. 

Barb,  What  wouldst  thou  slay  bis  memory  ? 

Lored,  Wouldst  thou  have    . 
His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must. 
If  he  die  un attainted  ? 

Barb,  War  with  <Aein  too?  [nothing. 

Lored,  With  all  their  house,  till  theirs  or  mine  are 

Barb,  And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife. 
And  the  repress'd  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Broke  forth  in  a  slight  shuddering,  though  rarely, 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity;  these  moved  you  not?      [Exit  Loredano 
He's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 
Was  in  his  suffering;  and  the  poor  wretdi  moved  me 
More  by  bis  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries 
Could  have  effected.  'Twas  a  dreadful  sight 
When  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 
The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 
What  we  could  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 
To  such  sights.  1  must  think  no  more  of  this. 
Lest  I  forget  in  this  compassion  for 
Our  foes  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 
The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 
For  him  and  me;  but  mine  would  be  content 
With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for. 
And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 
To  milder  thoughts;  but,  for  the  present,  Foscari 
Has  a  short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 
The  instance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 
Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 
The  hall,  and  his  own  suflerings.  --  Lo !  they  come: 
How  l^ble  and  forlorn !  I  cannot  bear 
To  look'on  tbem  again  in  tliis  extremity : 
ril  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano .  [Exit  Barbarieo. 


414 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


ACT  « 


ACT      II. 


SCENE  L 

A  Hall  in  the  Doom's  Palace. 
The  DooB  and  a  Simatob. 

Senator*  Is  it  jonr  pleasure  to  sign  tbe  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  tiU  to-morrow  ? 

Dope,  Now; 
r  overlook'd  it  yesterday :  it  wants 
Merely  the  signature.  Give  me  tJie  pen  — 

[The  Doge  lits  down  and  signs  the  paper. 

There,  signor.  [sign'd. 

Senator  [looking  at  the  paper).  You  bavc  fbrgot;  it  is  not 
Doj^e.  Not  sign'd  ?  Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes  begin 

To  wax  more  weak  with  age.  I  did  not  see 

That  I  had  dipp'd  the  pen  without  effect 

Senator  (dipping  the  pen  Into  tbe  Ink,  and  placing  the  paper  before 

the  Doge).  Your  hand,  too,  shakes,  my  lord : 
allow  me,  thus  — 

Doife.  'Tis  done,  I  thank  you. 

Senator.  Thus  the  act  confirmed 
By  you  and  by  the  Ten,  gives  peace  to  Venice. 

Doi^e.  'Tis  long  since  she  enjoy 'd  it :  may  it  bo 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms! 

Senator.  'Tis  almost 
Thirty-fonr  years  of  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 
With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy; 
The  state  had  need  of  some  repose. 

Dope.  No  doubt: 
I  found  her  Queen  of  Ocean,  and  I  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy :  it  is  a  comfort 
That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Brescia  and  Ravenna ;  Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers ;  her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign. 
While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

Senator.  'Tis  most  true, 
And  merits  all  our  country's  gratitude. 

Dope.  Perhaps  so. 

Senator.  Which  should  be  made  manifest 

Dope.  I  have  not  complain'd,  sir. 

Senator,  My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

Dope.  For  what?  • 

Senator.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

Dope.  Forme, signor? 

Senator.  And  for  your  — 

Dope,  Stopl 

Senator.  It  must  have  way,  my  lord ! 
I  have  too  many  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  past  and  present  kindness, 
Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 

Dope,  Was  this 
In  your  commission  ? 

Senator.  What,  my  lord? 

Dope.  This  prattle 


Of  things  you  know  not :  but  tlie  tre«ty*«  signetf ; 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 

Senator,  I  obey.  I  had  in  charge,  too,  from  tfieComeS, 
That  you  would  fix  an  hour  for  their  re-union. 

Dope,  Say,  when  they  will  —  now,  even  at  this  moment 
If  It  so  please  them :  I  am  the  state's  servant      [repose. 

Senator.   They   would  accord  some  tine  fov  yonr 

Dope,  I  have  no  repose,  that  is,  none  wlu^  ^hafl 
The  loss  of  an  hour's  time  unto  the  state  [c 

Let  them  meet  when  they  wHI,  I  shall  be  found 
Where  I  should  be,  and  what  I  have  been  ever. 

CEsft  8e 
[The  Doge  i 


Attendant  Prince! 

Dope,  Say  on. 
Attendant  The  illustrious  lady  Foseari 
Requests  an  attdience. 

Dope.  Bid  her  enter.  Poor 
Marina  I  [B«it  AitaHinM. 

(The  Doge  rcimiai  in  titeane  m  bcioct, 
Kntnr  VAaiMa. 

JlfdrnM.  I  haive  ventured,  folfaer,  on 
Your  privacy. 

Dope,  I  have  none  from  you,  my  child. 
Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
Tbe  state. 

Marina,  I  wish'd  to  speak  to  you  of  Ann. 

Dope,  Your  husband? 

Marina,  And  your  son. 

Dope,  Proceed,  my  daughter! 

Marina.  I  had  obtained  permission  from  the  Ten 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

Dope,  You  had  so. 

Marina.  'Tis  revoked. 

Dope.  By  whom?  [of  Sighs. 

Marina,  The  Ten.  —  When  we  had  reaeh'd  the  Bridgr 
Which  I  prepared  to  pass  with  Foscari, 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurr'd :  a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
The  Ten ;  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate, 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writinfr, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re-assembled 
The  dungeon-walls  must  still  divide  us. 

Dope.  True, 
The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 
With  which  the  court  adjoum'd,  and  till  it  oieets 
'Tis  dubious. 

Marina,  Till  it  meets!  and  when  it  meets. 
They'll  torture  him  again;  and  he  and  I 


ACT  n. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


415 


Most  pnrebase  by  renewal  of  tbe  rack 

The  intenricw  of  husband  and  of  wife, 

The  holiesf  tie  beneath  the  heaTent  ?  —  Oh  6od ! 

Dost  thou  see  this? 

Dft.  Child  ^  child -> 

MartAtL  (abruptly).  Call  me  not  child  I 
Yon  soon  will  have  no  children  —  yo«  deserve  none  — 
You,  who  can  tallc  thus  calmly  of  a  son 
In  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartana !  Though  these  did  not  weep 
Theit  boys  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecomual,  nor 
Stretch'd  forth  a  hand  to  save  them? 

Dope,  Youbehoidmo: 
I  cannot  weep  ~  I  would  i  conld ;  but  if 
Bach  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  yovng  lifo> 
This  dvcal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth, 
This  ducal  rin^  with  which  I  wed  the  wares 
A  talisman  to  still  them  ~  I'd  give  all 
For  him. 

Marine,  With  leas  he  surely  idght  be  saved* 

Doge.  That  answer  only  skows  yon  know  aoC  Venice. 
Alas!  how  should  yon?  she  knows  not  herself. 
In  all  her  mystery.  Hear  me  •<-  they  if  ho  aim 
At  Foscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father; 
The  sire's  destruction  would  not  sure  tbe  son ; 
They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same  end. 
And  that  is  —  but  they  have  not  eoa^uer'd  yet 

Merino.  But  they  have  crush'd^ 

Doye.  Hot  crushed  as  yet  —  I  live. 

Morina,  And  yonr  sqib^  •^  how  loAg  will  he  live  ? 

Doge.  Itrwt, 
For  all  that  yet  is  paal,  as  many  yean 
And  happier  than  his  fether.  Tbe  rash  boy, 
With  womanish  impatience  to  return, 
Hath  min'd  all  by4hat  detected  letter ; 
f  A  high  criBK,  which  I  neitfaer  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  paircnt  or  as  duke; . 
Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  little  longer 
His  Candiote  exile,!  hadhopes-^hehas  qneoch'd  them  -^ 
He  must  return. 

Marina.  To  exile? 

Doge.  I  have  said  it 

Marimm,  And  can  I  not  go  wltb  bin  ? 

Doge.  You  well  know 
Thb  prayer  of  youra  was  twice  denied  before 
By  the  assembled  Ten,  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  aocgr#ed  to  a  third  reqaest, 
Smoe  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  year  lord  render  then^  still  more  austere. 

JKiriiM.  Austere?  Airooioua!  Tlie  old  hfUMA  fiends. 
With  one  feot  In  thcgiKre,  iiltb  dun  eye8»  straqgo 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  wbke 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  ahsiing  hands,  and  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  hearts  are  hand*  th^  cowaril. 
Cabal,  and  pot  men's  Urea  ont,  as  if  life  ^ 

Were  no  more  than  the  fedinga  famg  eatk^rwsh'd 
la  their  accursed  boaoma. 

Doge.  Yon  kiMHf  not  «*^ 

JIUrnuL  Ido^-ido-^asidaosfaouidyoa^Biethinks— 
Yhat  tiiefle  are  demons:  could  it  be  else  that ' 


Men„  who  have  been  of  women  bom  and  suckled  •— 
Who  have  loved,  or  talk*d  at  least  of  love— have  given 
Their  hands  in  sacred  vows  ^  have  danced  their  babes 
Upon  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn'd  above^them  -  - 
In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death  —  who  are. 
Or  were  at  least  in  seeming  human,  could 
Do  as  they  have  done  by  yours^  and  you  yourself, 
Yov,  who  abet  th<»n7 

Doge.  I  forgive  this,  for 
You  know  not  what  you  say. 

Marina.   You  know  it  well. 
And  feci  it  nothing. 

Doge.  I  have  borne  so  much, 
That  words  have  ceased  to  shake  me. 

Marina.  Oh,  no  doubt!  [shook  not; 

You  have  seen  your  son's  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 
And,  aftes  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words? 
No  more  than  woman's  tears,  that  they  should  shake  you. 

Doge.  Woman,  this  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I  tell  thee, 
Is  no  more  in  the  balance  weigh'd  with  that 
Which  —  but  I  pity  thee,  my  poor  Marina  1 

Marina.  Pity  my  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from  me; 
Pity  thy  son  !  Thou  pity  I  --  'tis  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart  —  how  canie  {jt  on  thy  lips  ?       [me. 

Doge,  I  must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they  wrong 
Couldst  thou  but  read  — 

Martna.  'Tia  not  upon  thy  brow^ 
Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts,  —  where  then 
Should  I  behold  this  sympathy?  or  shall? 

Doge  (pointiDg  downwards).  There! 

Jiforvui.  In  the  earth? 

Dage.  To  which  I  am  tending:  when 
It  lies  upon  this  heart,  ihr  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  tlioughts  which  press  it 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better. 

Marina.  Arc  you,  then. 
Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied? 

Doge.  Pitied  1  None 
Shall  ever  use  that  base  word,  with  which  men 
Cloke  their  soul's  hoarded  triumph,  as  a  fit  one 
To  mingle  with  my  name;  that  name  shall  be. 
As  far  as  /have  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  I  received  it 

Marina.  But  for  the  poor  children    - 
Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save. 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it 

Doge.  Would  it  were  so! 
Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  bom; 
Better  for  me.  ~  I  have  seen  our  house  dishonour'd. 

Marina,  That's  fhlse!  A  traer,  nobler^  trustier  heart. 
More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a  human  breast  I  would  not  change 
My  exiled^  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 
Oppress'd  but  not  disgraced,  cmsh'd,  overwhelm'd, 
AUve,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin 
|In  story  or  in  fabl^  with  a  world 
To  back  his  suit  Dishononr'd!  —  he  dishonour'd! 
I  tell  thee,  JDofp^  'tis  Venice  is  dishonour'd; 
His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  vorst  reproach. 
For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 
'Tis  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant  I  —  y e ! 


416 


THK  TWO  FOSCARL 


Acrn 


Did  you  bat  love  your  country  like  this  victliii, 
Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 
Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 
You'd  fliuj?  yourselves  before  bim,  and  unplore 
,His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

Doge,  He  was 
Indeed  all  you  have  said.  I  better  bore 
The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me 
Than  Jacopo's  disgrace. 

Marina.  That  word  again? 

Doge,  Has  he  not  been  condemn'd? 

Marina,  Is  none  but  guilt  so? 

Doge,  Time  may  restore  his  memory— I  would  hope  so. 
He  was  my  pride,  my  —  but  'tis  useless  bow  — 
I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  he  was  bom :  those  drops  were  ominous. 

Martna,  1  say  bc's  innocent:  and  were  he  not  so, 
Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments? 

Doge,  I  shrank  not  from  him : 
But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties; 
Twice  I  demanded  it,  but  was  refused; 
They  must  then  be  fuUiiI'd. 

Boter  an  AtU-ndanL 

Attendant  A  message  from 
The  Ten. 

Doge,  Who  bears  it? 

Attendant,  Noble  Loredano. 

Doge,  He  I  — -  but  admit  him.  [Exit  Aticnd«Du 

Marinu,  Must  I  then  retire  ? 

Doge,  Perhaps  It  is  not  requisite,  if  this 
Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not  —  Well,  signor, 

Your  pleasure !  [To  Loredano  enttrlDg. 

Lered,  1  bear  that  of  the  Ten. 

Doge,  They 
Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

Lored,  'Tis  tkeir  choice 
Which  leads  me  here. 

Doge,  It  does  their  wisdom  honour. 
And  no  less  to  their  courtesy.  —  Proceed. 

Lored,  We  have  decided. 

Doge,  We? 

Lored,  The  Ten  in  council. 

Doge,  What!  harethey  met  again,  and  met  without 
Apprising  me? 

Lored,  They  wish'd  to  spare  your  feelings. 
No  less  than  age. 

Doge,  That's  new  —  when  spared  they  either? 
I  thank  them,  notwithstanding. 

Lored,  You  know  well 
That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion. 
With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge. 

Doge,  'Tis  some  years  since  I  Icarn'd  this,  long  before 
I  became  Doge,  or  dream'd  of  such  advancement.  ^ 

You  need  not  school  me,  signor:  I  sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician.        [and 

Lored.  True,  In  my  fathcr*s  time;  I  have  heard  him 
The  admiral,  his  brother,  say  as  much. 


Your  Highness  may  remember  them :  they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

Doge,  And  if  they  did  so,  better 
So  die  than  live  on  lingeringly  in  pain.  [oat 

Lored,  No  doubt!  yet  most  men  like  to  Htc  their  days 

Doge,  And  did  not  they? 

Lored,  The  grave  knows  best:  tlieydied. 
As  I  said,  suddenly. 

Doge»  Is  tliat  so  strange 
That  you  repeat  tlie  word  emphatically  ? 

Lored,  So  for  ftt>m  strange,  that  never  was  there  death 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  tbeirg. 
Think  you  not  so? 

Doge,  W  hat  should  I  think  of  mortals  ? 

Lored,  That  tbev  have  mortal  foes. 

Doge,  I  understand  you; 
Your  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  la  all  thniga. 

Lored,  Yon  beat  know  if  I  shoald  be  ao. 

Doge,  I  do. 
Your  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  have  heard 
Foul  rumours  were  abroad ;  I  have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  thdr  deaths 
To  poison,  'Tis  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  fable. 

Lored,  Who  dares  say  so? 

Doge,  \\  —  'Tis  true 
Your  fathers  were  nine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e'er  can  be,  and  I  no  less 
Was  theirs;  bat  I  was  openlg  their  foe; 
1  never  work'd  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,    nor  secret  means 
Of  praotioe  against  life  by  steel  or  dmg. 
The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

Lored,  I  fear  not 

Doge.  You  have  nocause^  being  what  I  am;  but  were  I 
That  yon  would  have  me  thought,  you  long  eie  now 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.    Hate  on;  I  care  not 

Lored,  I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 
In  Venice  had  to  dread  a  Doge's  frown. 
That  is,  by  open  means. 

Doge,  But  I,  good  signor, 
Am,  or  at  least  was,  more  than  a  mere  doke. 
In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means;  and  that  they  know 
Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down :  be  snrc^ 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I  held  jFOtt' 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  of  mine  had  set  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  have  made  you  nothing.  Hot  in  aH  things 
I  have  observed  the  strictest  rewrenoe; 
Not  for  the  laws  alone,  for  those, yme  have  straio'd 
{J  do  not  speak  oigou  bat  as  a  single 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
I  could  enfbrce  for  my  authority, 
Were  I  disposed  to  brawl;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  the  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifioe  of  my  own  blood  and  qoiet^ 
Safety,  and  all  save  honosr,  the  decrees. 


ACT  IL 


THE  TWO  POSCARL 


417 


The  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

LoretL  Tis  decreed. 
That,  without  farther  repetition  of 
The  question,  or  oontinuanoe  of  the  trial, 
WbicJi  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt  is  — 
(TbeTeUydispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
Which  still  prescribes  the  question  till  a  full 
Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 
Avow'd  his  crime  in  not  denying  that 
The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  3Iilan  's  his)  — 
James  Foscari  return  to  baoishment, 
And  sail  in  the  same  gaUey  which  convey'd  him.    [more 

Marina,  Thank  God!  At  least  they  will  not  drag  him 
Before  that  horrible  tribunal.  Would  he 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land. 

Do4^,  That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter. 

Marina,  No,  'twas  too  human.  May  I  share  his  exile? 

LoretL  Of  this  the  Ten  said  nothing, 

Marina.  So  I  thought: 
That  were  too  human,  also.  But  it  was  not 
Inhibited? 

Laredo  It  was  not  named. 

Marina  (to  the  Doge).  Then,  father, 
Surely  yon  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much : 

[To  Loradano. 
And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband. 

Do^s.  I  will  endeavour. 

Marina,  Andyou,  signor? 

Lored,  Lady!  - 
*Tis  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

Marina.  Pleasure!  what  a  word 
To  use  for  the  decrees  of  — 

Doffe.  Daughter,  know  you 
In  what  a  presence  you  pronounce  these  things? 

Marina,  A  prince's  and  his  subject's. 

LoretL  Subject! 

Marina.  Oh! 
It  galls  you :  —  well,  you  arc  his  equal,  as 
Ton  think ;  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be. 
Were  he  a  peasant;  ~  well,  then,  you're  a  prince, 
A  princely  noble;  aud  what  then  am  I? 

Lored.  The  oflfspring^f  a  noble  house. 

Marina.  And  wedded 
To  one  as  noble.  What,  or  whose,  then,  is 
The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thoughts? 

Lored.  The  presence  of  your  husband's  judges. 

Doge.  And 
The  deference  due  even  to  the  lightest  word 
That  foils  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

Marina.  Keep 
Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics, 
Toor  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 
Voor  tributaries,  your  dumb  citiasens, 
And  mask'd  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 
Toor  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves, 


To  whom  your  midnight  carryings-off  and  drownings, 
Tour  dungeons  next  the  palace-roofs,  or  under 
The  water's  level,  your  mysterious  meetings. 
And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions, 
Tour  Bridge  of  Sighs,  your  strangling  chamber,  and 
Tour  torturing  instruments,  have  made  ye  seem 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world  I 
Keep  such  for  them:  I  fear  ye  not  1  know  ye, 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husband !  Treat  me  as 
Te  treated  him :  —  you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.  Then  what  have  I  to  fearyrom  you, 
Even  if  I  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I  trust  I  am  not? 

Doge.  Tou  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

Marina.  Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

Lored.  Lady!  words 
Utter'd  within  these  walls,  1  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saring  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  service. 
Doge !  have  you  aught  in  answer  ? 

Doge.  Something  from 
The  Doge;  it  may  be  also  from  a  parent 

Lored.  My  mission  kcre  is  to  the  Doge. 

Doge.  Then  say 
The  Doge  will  choose  his  ow^  embassador, 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet;  and  for 
The  father  — 

Lored.  i  remember  mine  —  Farewell ! 
I  kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  ladv. 
And  bow  mc  to  the  Duke.  [Bjtit  Lercdano. 

Marina.  Are  you  content? 

Doge.  1  am  what  you  behold. 

Marina.  And  that's  a  mystery. 

Doge.  All  things  are  so  to  mortals;  who  can  read  them 
Save  he  who  made?  or,  it  they  can,  the  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
That  loathsome  volume  —  man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves,  his  heart  and  brain. 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it:  all  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own; 
All  our  advantages  are  those  of  fortune; 
Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents. 
And  when  we  cry  out  against  Fate,  'twere  well 
We  should  remember  Fortune  can  take  nought 
Save  what  nhegave  —  the  rest  was  nakedness. 
And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 
The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 
With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations. 
Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want. 
And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 
Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passions 
Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  I  All  is  low. 
And  false,  and  hollow  —  clay  from  first  to  last. 
The  prince's  urn  no  less  than  potter's  vessel. 
Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  upon 
Less  than  their  breath ;  our  durance  upon  days, 
Our  days  on  seasons ;  our  w  hole  being  on 
Something  which  is  not  lu !  --  So,  we  are  slaves, 
27 


418 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


ACT  IL 


Tbe  greatest  as  the  meanest  —  nothing  rests 
Upon  oar  will;  the  will  Itself  no  less 
Depends  upon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm; 
And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led, 
•     And  stiU  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes  as  much 
Without  our  act  or  choice,  as  birth;  so  that 
Methinks  we  must  have  sinn'd  in  some  old  world, 
And  this  is  hell :  the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 
EtemaL 

Marina,  These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

Doffe.  And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other, 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  call'd  upon 
Tojudgemy  son?  I  have  administered 
My  country  faithfully  —  yictorioudy  — 
I  dare  them  to  the  proof,  the  ckart  of  what 
She  was  and  is:  my  reign  has  doubled  realms; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  1110  single. 

Marina,  And  Foscari?  I  do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

Doffe,  You  shall  be  so ; 
Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

Marina,  And  if 
They  should,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

Dope.  That  can  ne'er  be. 
And  whither  would  you  fly  ? 

Marina.  I  know  not,  reck  not  ^ 
To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman  — 
Any  where,  where  we  might  respire  unfcttcr'd, 
And  live  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state. 

Dos^e.  What,  wouldstthou  havearcnegadefor  husband, 
And  turn  him  into  traitor? 

Marina,  He  is  none! 
Tbe  country  vt  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.  Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  treasons.  Dost  thou  deem 
None  rebels  except  subjects?  The  prince  who 
Neglects  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A  brigand  than  the  robber-ehietl 

Dope.  I  cannot 
Charge  me  with  such  a  breach  of  faith. 

Marina,  No;  thou 
Observ'st,  obey'st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Drflco*s 
•  A  code  of  mercy  by  comparison. 

Dope.  I  found  the  law;  I  did  not  make  it  Were  I 
A  subject,  still  I  might  find  parts  and  portions 
Fit  for  amendment ;  but  as  prince,  I  never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  charter 
Left  by  our  lathers. 


Marina.  Did  they  make  it  for 
The  ruin  of  their  children  ? 

Dope.  Under  such  laws  Venice 
Has  risen  to  what  she  is  —  a  state  to  rival 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add. 
In  glory  (for  we  have  had  Roman  spirits 
Amongst  us),  all  that  history  has  bequeathed 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  times,  when 
The  people  sway*d  by  senates. 

Marina.  Rather  say, 
Groan'd  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

Dope  Perhaps  so;     . 
But  yet  subdued  the  world:  in  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 
Without  a  name«  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintained  in  vigour,   [father. 

Marina,  This  means  that  yon  arc  more  a  Doge  tbao 

Dope,  It  means,  I  am  more  citisen  than  either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

Marina,  Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
Would  stifle  nature's! 

Dope.  Had  I  as  many  sons 
As  I  have  years,  I  would  have  given  them  all» 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given  tiiem 
To  the  state's  service,  to  fulfil  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be. 
As  it,  alas  I  lias  been,  to  ostracism, 
£\ilc,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She  might  decree. 

Marina.  And  this  is  patriotism? 
To  me  it  seems  tlie  worst  barbarity. 
Let  me  seek  out  my  husband :  the  sage  Ten, 
With  all  their  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 

Dope.  r\\ 
So  fiir  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
You  may  be  admitted. 

Marina,  And  iihat  shall  f  say 
To  Foscari  from  his  fother? 

Dope.  That  he  obey 
The  laws. 

Marina.  And  nothing  more?  4Vill  you  not  see  liira 
Ere  he  depart?  It  may  be  the  last  time. 

Dope.  The  last !  —  my  boy !  —  the  last  time  I  shall  «f 
My  last  of  children!  Tell  him  I  will  come.  tEiceoc 


4CT  in 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


419 


ACT      III. 


SCENE  I. 

The  Prison  of  Jacopo  FotCABi. 

J,  Fo$eari  (•oIm).  No  light,  save  yon  faiot  gleam,  which 
shows  me  walls 
Wbidi  never  echo'd  but  (o  sorrow's  sounds, 
The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 
Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank'd,  the  groan 
Of  death,jthe  imprecation  of  despair ! 
And  yet  for  this  I  have  return'd  to  Venice, 
With  some  faint  hope,  'tis  true,  that  time,  which  wears 
The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hate 
Of  men's  hearts:  but  I  knew  (hem  not,  and  here 
Most  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 
For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 
The  dove  has  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 
High  in  the  air  on  her  return  to  greet   . 
Her  callow  brood.  What  letters  are  these  wliich 

[Approaching  the  wall. 

Are  scrawFd  along  the  inexorable  wall  ? 

Will  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them?  Ah!  the  names 

Of  my  sad  predecessors  In  this  place, ; 

The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 

A  grief  too  great  for  many.  This  stone-page 

Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history; 

And  the  poor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 

His  dungeon-barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 

UpoB  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 

His  own  and  his  beloved's  name.  Alas! 

f  recognize  some  names  familiar  to  me. 

And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add. 

Fittest  for  snch  a  chronicle  as  this. 

Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wretches. 

[He  engratei  hit  name. 

Bnter  «  FaniUar  of  the  Teo. 

Pamilutr,  I  bring  you  food. 

J.  Rscari,  I  pray  you  set  it  down ; 
I  am  past  hanger;  bat  my  lips  are  parch'd — 
The  water! 

FamiHar,  There. 

J.  Fotcari  (after  drinking).  I  tbank  you :  I  am  better. 

Familiar,  I  am  commanded  to  inform  you  that 
Yoar  farther  trial  is  postponed. 

•/.  Foscaru  Till  when  ? 

Familiar,  I  know  not.  —  It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  yoar  illustrious  lady  be  admitted.  [hope  it : 

J.  Foscari.  Ah !  they  relent,  then  —  I  had  ceased  to 
Twaa  time. 

Botcr  Mabw4. 

Marina.  My  best  beloved !  e 

«/.  Foscari  (embracing  her).  My  true  wife, 
And  only  ftiend !  What  happiness! 


Marina.  We'U  part 
No  more. 

J,  Foscari,  How!  wouldstthoa  share  a  dungeon? 

Marina,  Ay, 
The  rack,  the  grave,  all  —  any  thing  with  thee, 
Hot  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 
Be  ignorant  of  each  other:  yet  I  will 
Share  that  —  all  things  except  new  separation; 
It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  firs^ 
How  dost  thou?  How  are  those  worn  limbs?  Alasl 
Why  do  I  ask?  Thy  paleness  — 

J.  Foscari,  'Tistbejoy 
Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine, 
For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina! 

Marina,  'Tis 
The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cell,  which  never 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  sallow  sullen  glare 
Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  akin 
To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 
The  dungeon-vapours  its  bituminous  smoke. 
Which  cloud  whatever  we  gaze  on,  even  thine  eyes  — 
No,  not  thine  eyes  —  they  sparkle  —  how  they  sparkle! 

J.  Foscari,  And  thine !  —but  I  am  blinded  by  the  torch* 

Marina,  As  I  had  been  without  it  Couldst  thon  see 
here?  [taught  me 

«/.  Foscari,  Nothing  at  first;  but  use  and  time  had 
Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness; 
And  the  gray  twilight  of  sach  glimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices  made  by  the  winds 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  son. 
When  gorgeously  o'ergilding  any  towers 
Save  those  of  Venice:  but  a  moment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither  I  was  busy  writing. 

Marina,  What? 

J,  Foscari,  My  name :  look,  'tis  there,  recorded  next 
The  name  of  him  who  here  preceded  me, 
If  dungeon-dates  say  true. 

Marina,  And  what  of  him  ?  [only 

XFoscaru  These  walls  are  silent  of  men's  ends;  they 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.  Sach  stern  walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o'er  the  dead, 
Or  those  who  soon  must  be  so.  —  What  of  him? 
Thou  askest  —  What  of  me?  may  soon  be  ask'd. 
With  the  like  answer  —  doubt  and  dreadful  surmise  ~ 
Unless  thoa  tellst  my  tale. 

Marina,  IspeakoiiheeX  [of me: 

J.  Foscari,  And  wherefore  not?  All  then  shall  speak 
The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting, 
And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men's  groans 
Will  burst  all  cerement,  even  a  living  grave's! 
I  do  not  doubt  my  memory,  but  my  life; 
And  neither  do  I  fear. 


420 


THE  TWO  POSCARL 


ACT  la 


Marina,  Thj  life  is  safe. 

«/.  Foicari.  And  liberty? 

Marina.  The  mind  should  make  its  own. 

«/.  Fotcari,  That  has  a  noble  sonnd ;  but  'tis  a  sound, 
A  music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient: 
The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  all.  The  mind 
Hath  nerved  mc  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 
And  torture  positive,  far  worse  than  death 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  without  a  f^roan. 
Or  with  a  cry  which  rather  shamed  my  jndg^ 
Than  me;  but  'tis  not  all,  for  there  arc  things 
More  woful  —-  such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I  may  breathe  many  years. 

Marina,  Alas!  and  this 
Small  dungeon  is  all  (hat  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thy  sire  is  prince. 

J.  Foteari,  That  thought  would  scarcely  aid  me  to 
endure  it. 
My  doom  is  common,  many  are  in  dungeons. 
But  none  like  mine,  so  near  their  father's  palace; 
But  then  my  heart  is  sometimes  high,  and  hope 
Will  stream  along  those  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 
Our  only  day;  for,  save  the  jailor's  torch, 
And  a  strange  firefly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  like  a  ray.  Alas! 
I  know  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no. 
Fur  rhave  such,  and  shown  it  before  men; 
It  sinks  in  solitude:  my  soul  is  social. 

Marina,  I  will  be  with  thee. 

«/.  Foseari,  Ah!  ifitwercso! 
But  that  they  never  granted  —  nor  will  grant, 
And  I  shall  be  alone:  no  men  -*  no  books  — 
Those  lying  likenesses  of  lying  men. 
I  ask'd  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind. 
Which  they  term  annals,  history,  what  you  will, 
Whicfi  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me;  so  these  walls  have  been  my  study, 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story, 
With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,  than  is 
The  ball  not  fifir  from  hence,  which  t>cars  on  high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

Marina.  I  come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  council  on  thy  doom. 

J.  Foscari,  I  know  it  —  look ! 

CH«  points  CO  hh  UoBbi,  as  rtferrtng  lo  the 
toitores  wlilch  be  bad  vndcrKOiM. 

Marina.  No— no-*  no  more  of  that:  even  they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

J.  Fotcari,  What  then? 

Marina.  That  you 
Return  to  Candia. 

J,  Fotcan,  Then  my  last  hope's  gone. 
I  could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  'twas  Venice; 
I  tould  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
In  my  native  air  that  baoy'd  my  spirits  up. 
Like  a  ship  on  the  ocean  toss'd  by  storms. 
But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 
And  holding  on  its  course;  but  thert,  afar. 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves,  and  captives. 


And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wre<^, 

My  very  soul  seem'd  mouldering  in  my  bosom. 

And  piecemeal  I  shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

Marina.  And  heret 

J.  Foseari.  At  once  —  by  better  means,  as  briefer. 
What!  would  tbey  even  deny  me  my  sires'  sepulchre. 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage? 

Marina.  My  husband! 
I  have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence. 
And  not  so  hopelessly.  This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism :  for  me. 
So  I  could  see  thee  with  a  quiet  aspect. 
And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A  paradise;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

J,  Foseari.  Well  I  know  how  wretched! 

Marina.  And  yet  you  see  how  from  thdr  banishmcDt 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles. 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remain'd  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 
Created  by  degrees  an  Ocean-Rome; 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus? 

J.  Foscari.  Had  I  gone  forth 
From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  sciekiqg 
Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 
Or,  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 
Prom  fertile  Italy  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  g^ven  some  tears  to  my  late  comitfy. 
And  many  thoughts ;  but  afterwards  address'd 
Myself,  with  those  about  me»  to  create  , 

A  new  home  and  fresh  state:  perhaps  I  ooold 
Have  borne  this  ~  though  I  know  not 

Marina.  Wherefore  not? 
It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  myriadd  more. 

J.  FoscarL  Ay  —  we  but  hear 
Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands. 
Their  numbers  and  success ;  but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting. 
Or  after  their  departure ;  of  that  malady 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fever'd  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain 'd  from  treading  them  ? 
That  melody,  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  awaj 
From  his  snow -canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds, 
That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous,  thought, 
And  dies.  You  call  this  ip«ain«M/  It  is  streqgtii, 
I  say,  —  the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

Marina.  Obey  her,  then ;  'tis  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 

J,  Foscari.  Ay,  there  it  is :  'tis  like  a  mother's  < 
Upon  my  soul  —  the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations. 


i<n-  III. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


421 


Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way, 
Their  tents  were  pitched  tog^cther  -  Tm  alone. 

Marmm,  You  shall  be  so  no  more— I  will  go  with  thee. 

J.  Fo$€mru  My  best  Marina !  —  and  onr  children  ? 

Marina,  They, 
I  fear,  by^e  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy  (which  holds  all  ties 
As  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure) 
Will  not  be  suffered  to  proceed  with  us. 

J.  Fosemri.  And  canst  thou  leave  them? 

Marin:  Yes.  With  many  a  pang: 
Bnt  —  I  can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are. 
To  teach  yon  to  be  l^ss  a  child.  From  this 
Learn  yon  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
By  duties  paramount;  and  'tis  our  first 
On  earth  to  bear. 

J.  Fosemri,  Have  I  not  borne? 

AUrina,  Too  much 
From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot 
Which,  as  compared  with  what  yon  have  undergone 
Of  late,  is  mercy. 

J.Foscari,  Ah!  yon  never  yet 
Were  lar  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beaotifni  towers  in  the  receding  distance. 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Secm'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you  never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory. 
And,  after  dreaming  a  disturbed  vision         ^ 
Of  them  and.theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not 

Marina,  I  will  divide  this  wich  yon.  Let  us  think 
Of  oar  departure  from  this  much  -  loved  city 
(Since  you  mast  lave  it,  as  it  seems),  and  this 
Chamber  of  state,  her  gratitude^allots  you. 
Onr  children  will  be  oared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles:  we  must  sail  ere  night. 

J.  Foseari,  That's  sudden.   Shall  I  not  behold  mf 
fiither? 

Marinm,  Yoo  wilL 

J,  Foicari.  Where? 

Marina,  Here  or  In  the  ducal  chamber  » 
He  said  not  which.  I  would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it 

«/.  Fateari,  Blame  him  not 
I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment;  but 
He  eonld  not  now  act  otherwise.  A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 
Suspieioo  from  the  Ten,  and  upon  mine 
Aocnmulated  Ills. 

Marina,  Accumulated! 
What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you? 

J,FoMtari,  That  of  leaving 
Teolee  without  beholding  him  or  you, 
Wbi<:h  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  'twas 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

Mmrina,  Thatistrae, 
And  thus  fiir  |  am  also  the  state's  debtor. 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  sec  us  both 
Floatijig  on  the  fr<d%aves  -*  away  ^  away  — 


Be  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorr'd, 
Uqjust,  and  — 

J,  Foseari,  Curse  it  not.  If  I  am  silent, 
Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

Marina,  Men  and  angels! 
The  blood  of  myriads  recking  up  to  heaven. 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects, 
Held  in  the  bondage  often  bald-  beads :  and 
Though  last,  not  least,  thy  silence,  CoSidst  ikon  say 
Aught  in  its  favour,  who  would  praise  like  thee? 

J,  Foseari,  Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must  be, 
To  our  departure.  Who  comes  here? 

Enter  Loudano,  attended  by  FwniUars. 

Lored,  (to  the  Funiiian).  Retire, 
But  leave  the  torch.  [Bxeant  the  two  FamUttrt. 

J,  Foseari,  Most  welcome,  noble  signor. 
I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have  drawn 
Such  presence  hither. 

Lored,  'Tis  not  the  first  time 
I  have  visited  these  places. 

Marina,  Nor  would  be 
The  last,  were  all  men's  merits  well  rewarded. 
Came  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us? 

Lored,  Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady, 
I  am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  the  Ten's  decree. 

Marina,  That  tenderness 
Has  been  anticipated :  it  is  known. 

Lored,  As  how? 

Marina,  I  have  inform'd  him,  not  so  gently. 
Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe. 
The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues ;  but  he  knew  it 
If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and  hence ! 
The  dungeon  -  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you, 
And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  bonester. 

J,  Foscafi,  I  pray  you,  calm  you: 
What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

Marina,  To  let  him  know 
That  he  is  known. 

Lored,  Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 
Her  nex'B  privilege. 

Marina,  1  have  some  sons,  sir, 
WUl  one  day  thank  you  better. 

Lored,  You  do  well 
To  nurse  them  wisely.  Foseari  —  you  know 
Your  sentence,  then? 

J,  Foseari,  Return  to  Candia? 

Lored,  True  — 
For  life. 

J,  Foseari,  Not  long. 

Lored,  I  said  —  for  Itfe, 

J,  Foseari,  And  I 
Repeat  —  not  long. 

Lored,  A  year's  imprisonment 
In  Canea  —  afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

J,  Foseari,  Both  the  same  to  me:  the  after  - 


422 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


ACT  m 


Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisoameDt 
Is't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me? 

Lored,  Yes, 
Ifslicflo  willsit 

Marina.  Who  obtain'd  that  justice? 

Lored,  One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

JUarina,  But  oppresses 
l^lcn :  howsoever,  let  him  have  mjf  thanks 
.  For  the  only  boon  I  would  have  askM  or  taken 
From  him  or  suolflis  he  is. 

LoretL  He  receives  them 
As  they  are  offered. 

Marina.  May  they  thrive  witli  him 
So  much !  —  no  more. 

•/.  Foscari,  Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission? 
Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation. 
And  you  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
This  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours,  » 

Marina.  Nobler  1 

Lored,  How  nobler? 

Marina.  As  more  generous! 
We  say  the  "generous  steed'*  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  high  blood.  Thus  much  Tvc  learnt,  although 
Venetian  (who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze). 
From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimm'd  the  coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbour  Araby : 
And  why  not  say  as  soon  *^i\iG  jfene  row  man  f* 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
More  than  in  years;  and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product,  nay  — 
Look  not  so  stern  —  but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
Upon  your  gcnealogic  tree's  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush'd 
For  such  a  son  —  thou  cold  inveterate  hater ! 

J,  Foscari.  Again,  Marina ! 

Marina.  Again !  sHUf  Marina. 
See  you  not,  he  comes  here  to  glut  his  hate 
With  a  last  look  upon  our  misery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it ! 

J,  Foscari.  That  were  difiicult 

Marina.  Nothing  more  easy.  He  partakes  it  now  — 
Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a  marble -brow 
And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 
A  few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil's  servants 
No  less  than  master;  I  have  probed  his  soul 
A  moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long, 
Will  reach  it  always.  See  how  he  shrinks  from  me! 
With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand 
To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit: 
They  arc  his  weapons,  not  his  armour,  for 
I  have  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 
I  care  not  for  his  frowns !  We  can  but  die. 
And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 
Of  destinies:  each  day  secures  him  more 
His  tempter's. 

•/•  Foscari.  This  is  mere  insanity. 

Marina.  It  may  be  so;  ^nd  who  mtide  as  mad? 

Lored.  Let  her  go  on;  it  irks  not  me. 

Marina.  That's  false! 
You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 


Of  cold  looks  upon  manifold  griefs !  You  came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain  —  to  mark  our  tears. 
And  board  our  groans  —  to  gaze  upon  the  wre«sl: 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son  —  my  huaftiand: 
In  sliort,  to  trample  on  the  fallen  —  an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him ! 
How  have  you  sped?  We  are  wretched,  signer,  as 
Your  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  oonld  desire  as, 
And  hovr  feel  you? 

Lored.  As  rocks. 

Marina.  By  thunder  blasted: 
They  feel  not,  but  no  less  are  shiver'd.  Come, 
Foscari ;  now  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon. 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  cell. 
Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  fitly 
Till  be  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone. 

Bnter  the  Doom. 
J.  Foscari.  Myfiitberl 

Dope.  (embraeiuK  him).  JaOOpo!  my  SOU  —  my  SOU ! 

J.  Foscari.  My  father  still!  How  long  it  is  since  I 
Have  heard  thee  name  my  name  —  our  name ! 

Doye,  My  boy! 
Couldst  thou  but  know  — 

J.  Foscari.  I  rarely,  sir,  have  mnrmur'd. 

Doge.  I  feel  too  much  thou  hast  not 

Marina.  Doge,  look  there !  [Sbe  poinn  to  Louoawx 

Doge.  I  sec  the  man  —  what  meanst  thou  ? 

Marina.  Caution! 

Lored.  Being 
The  virtue  which  this  noble  lady  most 
May  practise,  she  doth  well  to  recommend  it. 

Marinai  Wretch !  'tis  no  virtue,  bat  the  policy 
Of  those  who  fkin  must  deal  perforce  with  vice: 
As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 
To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 

Doge.  Ihiughter,  it  is  superfluous;  I  have  long 
Known  Loredano. 

Lored.  You  may  know  him  better. 

Marina.  Yes;  worse  he  could  not. 

J.  Foscari.  Father,  let  not  these 
Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.  Is  it  —  is  it. 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

Doge.  You  behold 
These  white  hairs ! 

J.  Foscari.  And  I  feel,  besides,  that  mine 
Will  never  be  so  white.  Embrace  me,  father! 
[  loved  you  ever  —  never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children  —  to  your  last  child's  children: 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  also? 

Marina.  No  —  not  here, 

J.  Foscari.  They  might  behold  their  parent  any  where. 

Marina.  I  would  that  they  beheld  their  fhther  in 
A  place  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love. 
To  fl-eeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  current. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 
Their  sire  was  a  mere  hunted  outlaw.  Well 
I  know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  theiAiaritag^ 


I 


ACT  IV. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


423 


Bat  let  it  only  be  ihdr  keriUiffe, 

And  not  their  present  fee.  Their  senses,  though 

Alive  to  love,  are  jet  awake  to  terror ; 

And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  thickgreen  wave 

Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now  stand  — 

A  cell  so  fhr  below  the  water's  level. 

Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice, 

Might  strike  them :  this  is  not  their  atmosphere, 

However  you  —  and  you  —  and,  most  of  all, 

As  worthiest  —you,  sir,  noble  Loredano ! 

May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

J,  Foteari,  I  had  not 
Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 
I  shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them? 

Doge.  Not  so :  they  shall  await  you  in  my  chamber. 

/.  Fotcari.  And  must  I  leave  them  aUi 

Lored.  You  must 

J.  Foscari.  Not  one? 

Lored,  They  are  the  state's. 

Marina,  I  thought  they  had  been  mine. 

Lored.  They  are,  in  all  maternal  things. 

Marina.  That  is. 
In  all  things  painful.  If  they're  sick,  they  will 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  thera;  should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn :  but  if 
They  live,  they'll  make  you  soldiers,  senators. 
Slaves,  exiles  —  what  you  will ;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for  nobles! 
Behold  the  state's  care  for  its  sons  and  mothers  \ 

Lored,  The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wind  is  ihlr. 

y.  Foseari,  How  know  yon  that  here,  where  the  genial 
Ne'er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom  ?  [wind 

Lfired.  'Twasso 
When  I  came  here.  The  galley  floats  within 
A  bow  -  shot  of  the  Ri va  di  Schiavoni. 

J,  Foseari,  Father!  I  pray  yon  to  precede  me,  and 
Prepare  me  children  to  behold  their  father. 

Doffe,  ^efirm,  my  son! 

J.  Foscaru  I  will  do  my  endeavonr. 


Marina,  Farewell!  at  least  to  this  detested  dungeon, 
And  him  to  whose  good  oflioes  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 

Lored.  And  present 
Liberation. 

Doge,  He  speaks  truth. 

J,  Foseari,  No  doubt :  but  'tis 
Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe  him. 
He  knows  this,  or  he  had  not  sought  to  change  them. 
But  I  reproach  not 

Lored,  The  time  narrows,  signor. 

J.  Foseari,  AJas!  I  little  thought  so  lingeringly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this :  but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  from  Venice,  I  look  back 
Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and  — 

Doge,  Boy !  no  tears. 

Marina,  Let  them  flow  on :  he  wept  not  on  the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 
They  will  relieve  his  heart  —  that  too  kind  heart  — 
And  I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 
Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.  I  could  weep  now, 
But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 
Let  us  proceed.  Doge,  lead  the  way.         • 

Lored.  (to  the  Familiar)  Thc  tofch,  there! 

Marina,  Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre. 
With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

Doge,  My  son,  you  are  feeble:  take  this  hand. 

J,  Foseari,  Alas! 
Must  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I 
Who  ought  to  be  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

Z^re(2.  Take  mine. 

Marina,  Touch  it  not,  Foseari ;  'twill  stingyon.  Signor, 
Stand  off"!  be  sure,  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  thc  gulf  wi»ercln  we  are  plunged, 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it 
Come,  Foseari,  take  the  hand  thc  altar  gave  you; 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  yon  ever.  [Bxeaot. 


ACT      IV. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  ia  the  dncal  Palace. 
Boter  LomuDAHO  and  Bakbarioo. 

BarS,  And  have  you  coofidence  in  such  a  project? 

Lored.  I  have. 

Bar^.  'Tis  hard  upon  his  years. 

L&rad*  Say  rather 
Kind  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 

Barh»  Twill  break  his  heart 

Lored.  Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 
Be  has  seen  his  son's  half  broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeliqg  in  his  dungeon,  never 
BwervecL 


Barb.  In  his  countenance,  I  grant  you,  never; 
But  I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a  calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  to  envy  him  within.  Where  is  he? 

Lored,  In  his  own  portion  of  the  palace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 

Barb.  Bidding  farewell? 

Lored.  A  last  As  soon  he  shall 
Bid  to  his  dukedom. 

Barb.  When  embarks  the  son?  [Tis 

Lored.  Forthwith  —  when  this  long  leave  is  taken. 
Time  to  admonish  them  again. 

Barb.  Forbear; 
Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 


424 


THE  TWO  F08CARL 


ACT  IV. 


Lored,  NotI,  dow 
We  ttave  higher  business  for  our  own*  This  day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge's  reign, 
As  the  first  of  his  son's  last  banishment. 
And  that  is  vengeance. 

Barb.  In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

Lored,  'Tis  moderate — not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time; 
They  owe  me  still  my  father's  and  my  uncle's. 

Barb.  Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly? 

Lored,  Doubtless. 

Barb.  And  did  not  this  shake  your  sospicion  ? 

Lored.  No. 

Barb,  But  if  this  deposition  should  take  place 
By  our  united  influence  in  the  council, 
It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  his  deeds. 

Lored,  As  much  of  ceremony  as  yon  will, 
So  that  the  thing  be  done.  You  may,  for  aug^t 
I  care,  depute  the  Council  on  their  knees, 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 

Barb.  W  liat,  if  he  wUl  not  ? 

Lored  We'll  elect  another, 
And  make  him  null. 

Barb,  But  will  the  laws  uphold  us?  [were  not, 

Lored.  What  laws?  «-  The  Ten  are  laws;  and  if  tbey 
I  will  be  legislator  in  this  business. 

Barb,  At  your  own  peril? 

Lored.  There  is  none,  I  tell  you, 
Our  powers  are  such. 

Barb,  Bui  he  has  twice-already 
Solicited  permission  to  retire, 
And  twice  it  was  refused. 

Lored.  The  better  reason 
To  grant  it  the  third  timel 

Barb.  Unask'd? 

Lored,  It  shows 
The  impression  of  his  former  instances : 
If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thankful; 
If  not,  'twill  punish  his  hypocrisy. 
Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time;  let  us  join  them. 
And  be  thou  fix'd  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  to  remove  him :  since 
Their  thoughts,  their  objects,  have  been  sounded,  do  not 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  us  pause, 
And  all  will  prosper. 

Barb,  Could  I  but  be  certain 
This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

Lored,  He  is  safe,  I  tell  you ; 
His  fourscore  years,  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them:  'tis  his  throne 
Alone  is  aim'd  at 

Barb.  But  discarded  princes 
Arc  seldom  long  of  life. 

Lored,  And  men  of  eighty 
More  seldom  still. 

Barb,  And  why  not  wait  these  few  years? 


Lored,  Because  we  have  waited  long  enoagh,  and  he 
Lived  longer  than  enough.  Hence!  Intocooneil! 

CExeant  Lorcdaao  and  BaitaifaL 
Bncer  If  bujio  nml  «  Senator. 

Senator.  A  sununoos  to  the  Ten !  Why  so  ? 

Memmo,  The  Ten 
Alone  can  answer;  they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.  We  are  summon'd  — 
That  is  enough. 

Senator.  For  them«  but  not  for  ns; 
I  would  know  why. 

Memmo,  You  will  know  why  anon, 
If  you  obey ;  and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  yon  should  have  obey'd. 

Senator.  I  mean  not 
To  oppose  them,  but  — 

Memmo.  In  Venice  *'Buf*  's  a  traitor. 
But  me  no  **buts"  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  whidi  few  repass. 

Senator,  I  am  silent 

Memmo,  Why 
Thus  hesitate?  —  The  Ten  have  call'd  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five  and  twenty 
Patricians  of  the  senate  —  you  are  one, 
And  I  another;  and  it  seems  to  me 
Both  honour'd  by  the  choice  or  chance  which  leads  us 
To  mingle  with  a  body  so  augiist 

Senator,  Most  true.  I  say  no  more. 

Memmo,  As  we  hope,  signor. 
And  all  may  honestly  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may)  one  day  hope  to  be    - 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
Chosen  delegates  a  school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novi<;es, 
To  view  the  mysteries. 

Senator,  Let  us  view  them :  they. 
No  doubt,  are  worth  it 

Memmo,  Being  worth  our  lives 
If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least  to  you  or  me. 

Sendtor,  I  sought  not 
A  place  within  the  sanctuary ;  but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 
I  shall  fulfil  my  office. 

Memmo.  Let  us  not 
Be  latest  in  obeying  the  Ten's  summons. 

Senator.  All  are  not  met,  but  I  am  of  your  thought 
So  fiw  —  let's  in. 

Memmo,  The  earliest  are  most  welcome 
In  earnest  oooncils  —  we  will  not  be  least  so.        [: 


Enter  tbe  Dooi,  Jacopo  Posoau,  and  IIauiia. 
J.FoscarL  Ah,  father!  though  I  must  and  will  depart. 
Yet  —  yet  —  I  pray  you  to  obtain  for  me 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home, 
Howe'er  remote  the  period.  Let  there  be 
A  point  of  time  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 
With  any  penalty  annex'd  they  please. 
But  let  mc  still  return. 


ACT  IV. 


THE  TWO  F08CARL 


425 


Doye,  Son  Jacopo, 
Go  aad  obey  our  country's  will :  'tis  not 
For  us  to  look  beyond. 

J*  Foseari,  But  still  I  must 
Look  back.  I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

Doge,  Alas! 
You  ever  were  my  dearest  offspriog,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Now  yon  are  last ;  but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth, 
And  their  desponding  shades  came  flitting  round 
To  impede  the  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 
k  duty  paramount  to  every  duty. 

Mmrina.  My  husband  1  let  us  on:  this  but  prolongs 
Oar  sorrow. 

«/.  Foscari,  But  we  are  not  sammon'd  yet; 
The  galley's  sails  are  not  unfurl'd :  —  who  knows? 
The  wind  may  change. 

Marina,  And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 
Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot:  the  galley's  oars 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harbour. 

J,  Foecari,  Oh,  ye  elements! 
Where  are  your  storms? 

Marina,  In  human  breasts.  Alas! 
Will  nothing  calm  you? 

J,  Foscari,  Never  yet  did  mariner 
Put  up  to  patron-saint  such  prayers  for  prosperoosf 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  I  call  upon  you. 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  city!  which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 
To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 
And  wakon  Austcr,  sovereign  of  the  tempest ! 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A  broken  oorse  upon  the  barren  Lido, 
Where  I  may  mingle  with  the  sands  which  skirt 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more! 

Marina,  And  wish  you  this  with  me  beside  you? 

J.  Foscari,  No  — 
No  —  not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind !  —  Mayst  thon 
Live  long  to  be  a  mother  to  those  children 
Thy  fond  fidelity  for  a  time  deprives 
Of  such  support !  But  for  myself  alone, 
May  all  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the  gulf, 
And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 
Appaird,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me. 
As  the  Pheniclans  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  oat  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 
To  appease  the  waves.  The  billow  which  destroys  me 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me, 
]>ead,  bat  sHU  hear  me  to  a  native  grave, 
FhND  fisher's  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand, 
Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne'er  received 
One  laeerated  like  the  heart  which  then 
Will  be- —  Bat  wherefore  breaks  it  not?  why  live  I? 

Marina^  To  man  thyself,  I  trast,  with  time,  to  master 
Such  ojeleflS  passion.  Until  now  thoa  wert 
A  sufferer,  bat  not  a  loud  one:  why, 
What  is  this  to  the  tilings  thou  hast  borne  in  silenoe — 
Imprisonment  and  actual  torture? 

J»  Foscari,  Double, 


Triple,  and  tenfold  torture!  But  you  are  right. 
It  must  be  borne.  Father,  your  blessing. 

Doge,  Would 
It  could  avail  thee!  but  no  less  thoa  hast  it 

J.  Foscari,  Forgive  — 

Doffe,  What? 

J,  Foscari.  My  poor  mother  for  my  birth, 
And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself 
(As  I  forgive  you)  for  the  gift  of  life. 
Which  you  bestow'd  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

Marina.  What  hast  thou  done? 

J,  Foscari,  Nothing.  I  cannot  charge 
My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow :  but 
I  have  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 
Chasten'd  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.  If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A  like  hereafter. 

Marina,  Fear  not:  f Ant's  reserved 
For  your  oppressors 

«/.  Foscari,  Let  me  hope  not 

Marina,  Hope  not? 

J.  Foscari,  I  cannot  wish  them  all  they  have  inflicted. 

J^arina,  All!  the  consummate  fiends!  A  thousand  fold  I 
May  the  worm  which  ne'er  dieth  feed  upon  them! 

J,  Foscari,  They  may  repent. 

Marina.  And  if  they  do.  Heaven  will  not 
Accept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Enter  an  Offlcer  and  Oaardf. 

Officer,  Signor !  the  boat  is  at  the  shore  —  the  wind 
Is  rising  —  we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

J,  Fotcari,  And  I  to  be  attended.  Once  more,  &ther. 
Your  hand ! 

Doge,  Take  it  Alas!  how  thine  own  trembles  I 

J,  Foscari,  No — you  mistake!  'tis  yours  that  shakes, 
Farewell !  [my  father. 

Doge.  Farewell!  Is  there  aoght  else? 

J,  Foscari  No  —  nothing.  [To  Uie  Officer. 

Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Officer*  You  turn  pale  — 
Let  me  support  you  —  paler «—  ho !  some  aid  there  I 
Some  water! 

Marina,  Ah,  he  is  dying! 

J,  Foscari,  Now,  I'm  ready  — 
My  eyes  swim  strangely  —  where's  the  door? 

Marina,  Away! 
Let  me  support  him  —  my  best  love !  Oh,  God ! 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart  --  tliis  pulse ! 

J,  Foscari,  The  light! 
Is  it  the  light?  ^  1  am  feint      COfficcr  pratentt  hin  with  i»at«r. 

Q^er.  He  will  be  better. 
Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

J,  Foscari*  I  doubt  not  Father  —  wife  — 
Your  hands! 

Marina,  There's  death  in  that  damp  clammy  grasp. 
Oh  God  I  -^  My  Foscari,  how  Are  yoa  ? 

J. Foscari.  Well!  [He dies. 

Officer,  He's  gone. 

Doge,  He's  free. 

Mfurina,  No  —  no,  he  is  not  dead; 

2r* 


426 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


ACT  IT. 


There  mast  be  life  yet  in  that  heart  —  he  oould  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

Doge.  Daughter! 

Marina.  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man ! 
I  am  no  daughter  now  —  thoa  hast  no  aon. 
Oh,  Foscari ! 

Officer,  We  must  remove  the  body.  [base  office 

Marina,  Touch  it  not,  dungeon -miscreants!    your 
Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.  Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honour  them. 

Officer,  I  must 
Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 

Doge,  Inform  the  signory  from  me,  the  Doge, 
They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes : 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject  — 
Now  he  is  mine  —  my  broken-hearted  boy!     [Exit  oncer. 

Marina,  And  I  must  live! 

Doge,  Your  children  live,  Marina.  [live 

Marina   My  children!  true—  they  live,  and  I  must 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.  Oh  I  what  best  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice  I  Would  my  mother 
Had  been  sol 

Doge,  My  unhappy  children! 

Marina,  What! 
You  feel  it  then  at  last  —  you! -^  Where  is  bow 
The  Stoic  of  the  state? 

Doge  (tbrowiog  himseir  down  by  the  body).   Here! 

Marina,  Ay,  weep  on ! 
I  thought  you  had  no  tears  —  you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless;  but  weep  on !  he  never 
Shall  weep  more  —  never,  never  more. 

Enter  Lobrdako  and  Basbabico, 

Lored,  What's  here? 

Marina,  Ah!  thcdevil,cometoinsultthedead!  Avauat! 
Incarnate  Lucifer!  'tis  holy  ground. 
A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 
A  shrine.  Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  torment! 

Barb,  Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event, 
But  pass'd  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

Marina,  Pass  on. 

Lored,  We  sought  the  Doge.  [son**  body). 

Marina  (poincing  to  the  Doge,  who  Is  still  on  the  ground  by  hia 

He's  busy,  look. 

About  the  business  gou  provided  for  him* 

Are  ye  content  ? 

Barh,  We  will  not  interrupt 
A  parent's  sorrows. 

Marina,  No,  ye  only  make  tliem. 
Then  leave  them. 

Doge  (rising).  Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

Barh,  No  —  not  now. 

Lored,  Yet  'twas  important. 

Doge,  If 'twas  so,  I  can 
Only  repeat  —  I  am  ready. 

Barh,  It  shall  not  be 
Just  now,  though  Venice  totter'd  o'er  the  deep 
Like  a  frail  vessel.  I  respect  your  griefs. 

Doge,  I  thank  you.  If  the  tidings  nrhioh  you  bring 


Are  evil,  you  may  say  them;  nothing  farther 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  lookst  on  ther«: 
If  they  be  good,  say  on ;  you  need  not  fear 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

Barh,  I  would  they  could! 

Doge,  l  spoke  not  to  you,  but  to  Loredano. 
He  understands  me. 

Marina,  Ah!  I  thought  it  would  be  so. 

Doge,  What  mean  you? 

Marina,  Lo!  there  is  the  blood  beginning 
To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari  — 
The  body  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assassin.  [To  Londne. 
Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds! 

Doge,  My  child!  this  is  a  phantasy  of  grief.  [yon. 
Bear  henoe  the  body.  [To  his  Atteudents.]  Signors,  if  it  please 
Within  an  hour  I'll  hear  you. 

[Bxeont  Doge,  Marina,  and  Attendants  with  the  body.; 
[Manent  Loredano  end  Barbari|^ 

Barh,  He  must  not 
Be  troubled  now. 

Lored,  He  said  himself  that  nought 
Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

Barh,  These  are  words; 
But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

Lored,  Sorrow  preys  upon 
Its  solitude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world 
Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this ; 
The  busy  have  no  time  for  tears. 

Barh,  And  therefore 
Tou  would  deprive  this  old  man  of  all  businesa? 

Lored,  The  thing's  decreed.  The  Ginnta  ard  the  Tea 
Have  made  it  law :  who  shall  oppose  that  lawf 

Barh,  Humanity! 

Lored.  Because  his  son  is  dead? 

Barh,  And  yet  unburied. 

Lored,  Had  we  known  this  when 
The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not  —  once  past. 

Barh,  I'll  not  consent 

Lored,  You  have  consented  to 
All  that's  essential  —  leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Barh,  Why  press  bis  abdication  now  ? 

Lored,  The  feelings 
Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit;  and  what  the  state 
Dceidcfl  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a  natural  accident 

Barh.  You  have  a  son. 

Lored.  I  have  —  and  had  a  &thcr. 

Barh,  Still  so  Inexorable? 

Lored,  Still. 

Barh,  But  let  him 
Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict 

Lored.  Let  him  call  up  into  life 
My  sire  and  uncle  —  I  consent  Men  may. 
Even  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be. 
Sires  of  a  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 


ACT  IV. 


THB  TWO  FOSCAM. 


427 


Aa  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 
The  Tictims  are  not  equal :  he  lias  seen 
His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
Hy  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies. 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 
His  sons,  and  he  had  four,  are  dead,  without 
Mfy  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

Barb,  And  art  thou  sure 
He  dealt  in  such  ? 

LoretL  Most  sure. 

Barb.  And  yet  he  seems 
All  openness. 

L^red.  And  so  he  seem'd  not  long 
Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

Barb.  The  attainted 
And  foreign  traitor? 

Lared.  Even  so:  when  Ae, 
After  the  very  night  in  which  the  Tea 
(ioin'd  with  the  Boge)  decided  his  destmctioo, 
Met  the  great  Duke  at  daybreak  with  a  jest. 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
'^he  good  day  or  good  night? "  his  Dogeship  answer M, 
**That  he  in  truth  had  pass'd  a  night  of  vigil, 
In  which  (he  added  with  a  gracious  smile) 
There  often  has  been  question  about  you." 
Twas  trne;  the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died; 
And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doom'd,  smiled  on  him 
With  deadly  cozenage,  eight  long  months  beforehand  — 
Bight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is 
Learnt  bat  in  eighty  years.  Brave  Carmagnuola 
Is  dead ;  ao  is  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren  — 
I  nerer  smiied  on  them. 

Barb.  Was  Carmagnuola 
Tour  frieod? 

Lored,  He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 
In  early  life  its  foe,  but,  in  his  manhood, 
lis  saviour  first,  then  victim. 
Barb.  Ah!  that  seems 
The  penalty  of  saving  cities.  He 
Whom  we  now  act  against  not  only  saved 
Oar  own,  but  added  others  to  her  sway. 

Lored.  The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a  crown 
To  him  who  took  a  city ;  and  they  gave 
A  erown  (o  him  who  saved  a  citizen 
In  battle:  the  rewards  are  equal.  Now, 
If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 
By  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 
Destroyed  by  him,  or  through  him,  the  account 
Were  fc»rially  against  him,  although  narrow'd 
To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 
And  my  dead  fiither. 


Barb.  Arc  you  then  thus  fix'd  ? 

Lored.  Why,  what  should  change  mc? 

Barb.  That  which  changes  mc: 
But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A  feud.  But  when  all  is  accomplished,  when 
The  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded. 
His  sons  all  dead,  his  family  depressed, 
And  you  and  yours  triumphant,  shall  you  sleep? 

Lored  More  soundly. 

Barb.  That's  an  error,  and  you'll  find  it 
Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

Lored  They  sleep  not 
In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will, 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.  Each  night  I  see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  towards 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance. 

Barb,  Fancy's  distcmperaturel  There  is  no  passion 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  hate; 
Not  even  its  opposite,  love,  so  peoples  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 

Enter  an  Offlcer. 

Lored  Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

Officer,  By  the  ducal  order 
To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari's  interment 

Barb.  Their 
Vault  has  been  often  open'd  of  late  years. 

Lored  'Twill  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed  for  ever. 

Officer.  May  I  pass  on? 

Lored  You  may. 

Barb.  How  bears  the  Doge 
This  last  calamity? 

Officer.  With  desperate  firmness. 
In  presence  of  another  he  says  little. 
But  I  perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then ; 
And  once  or  twice  I  heard  him,  from  the  adjoining 
Apartment,  mutter  forth  the  words  —  "My  son !" 
Scarce  audibly.  I  must  proceed.  .  [RxU  o/r:cer. 

Barb.  This  stroke 
Will  move  all  Venice  in  his  favour. 

Lored  Right! 
We  must  be  speedy  :  let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  Council's  resolution. 

Barb.  I  protest 
Against  it  at  this  moment. 

Lored  As  you  please  — 
ril  take  their  voices  on  it  nc'ertheless, 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 

[Bxciut  Barbarig^i  and  Loredano. 


428 


THB  TWO  FOSCARt 


ACT  1. 


A    C    T      V. 


SCENE  I. 

The  Doge's  Apurtnient 
The^  Dooi  and  AtteadAsti. 

Attendant  My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting; 
But  add,  that  if  another  hour  would  better 
Accord  with  your  will,  they  will  make  it  theirs. 

Doife.  To  me  all  hours  are  like.  Let  them  approach* 

CBxit  AtlendADf. 

An  Officer,  Prince!  I  have  done  your  bidding, 

Doge^  What  command? 

Officer.  A  melancholy  one  —  to  call  theattendance 
Of— 

Doge.  True  —  true  —  true:  I  crave  your  pardon.  I 
Begin  to  fall  in  apprehension,  and 
Wax  very  old  —  old  almost  as  my  years. 
Till  now  I  fought  them  off,  but  they  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

Enter  the  DepntatiOD,  coMlaeing  of  bIx  of  the  Bignory,  «nd  the  Chief 
or  the  Ten. 

Noble  men,  your  pleasure!  [condole 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  In  the  first  place,  the  Council  doth 
With  the  Doge  on  his  late  and  private  grieU 

Doge.  No  more  —  no  more  of  that 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Will  not  the  Duke 
Accept  the  homage  of  respect? 

Doge.  I  do 
Accept  it  as  'tis  given  —  proceed. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  The  Ten, 
With  a  selected  Giuuta  from  the  senate 
Of  twenty-five  of  the  best-born  patricians. 
Having  deliberated  on  the  state 
Of  the  republic,  and  the  o'er  whelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Your  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 
Have  judged  It  fitting,  with  all  reverence, 
Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this) 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring. 
Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably; 
And,  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
An  appanage  of  twenty  hundred  golden 
Ducats,  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat 

Doge.  Did  I  hear  rightly? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Need  I  say  again? 

Doge.  No.  —  Have  you  done? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  I  have  spoken.  Twenty-four 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

Doge.  I  shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 


Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 
Will  now  retire. 

Doge.  Stay!  Pour  and  twenty  hours 
Will  alter  nothing  which  I  have  to  say. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Speak! 

Doge.  When  I  twice  before  reiterated 
My  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me; 
And  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 
An  oath  from  me  that  I  would  never  more 
Renew  this  instance.   I  have  sworn  to  die 
In  full  exertion  of  the  functions  which 
My  country  call'd  me  here  to  exercise. 
According  to  my  honour  and  my  oonscicnoc  — 
I  cannot  break  mg  oath. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Reduce  as  not 
To  the  alternative  of  a  decree. 
Instead  of  your  compliance. 

Doge,  Providence  • 

Prolongs  my  days  to  prove  and  chasten  me ; 
But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
Of  days,  since  every  hour  has  been  the  country's. 
I  am  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her, 
As  I  have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life: 
But  for  my  dignity  —  I  hold  it  of 
The  whole  republic;  when  the  general  will 
Is  manifest,  tlicii  you  shall  all  be  answcr'd.  [cannot 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Wc  grieve  for  such  an  answer;  bnt  it 
Avail  you  aught 

Doge.  I  can  submit  to  all  things. 
But  nothing  will  advance;  no,  not  a  moment 
What  you  decree  —  decree. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  this,  then,  must  we 
Return  to  those  who  sent  us  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  me. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  With  all  due  reverence  wc  retire. 

££xeaDt  the  D«poUttoa  wc 

Enter  an  Attendant 
Attendant.  My  lord. 
The  noble  dame  Marina  craves  an  audience. 
Doge.  My  time  is  hers. 

Enter   Mauna. 

Marina,  My  lord,  if  I  intrude  — 
Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alone? 

Doge.  Alone! 
Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.  But  we  will  bear  it 

Marina.  We  will;  and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are. 
Endeavour  —  Oh  my  husband ! 

Doge.  Give  it  way; 
I  cannot  comfort  tliee. 


kCT  ▼. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


429 


Marina.  He  might  have  lived, 
So  form'd  for  gentle  privacy  of  life, 
So  loTiDg,  so  beloved,  the  native  of 
Another  land ;  and  who  80  blest  and  blessing 
As  my  poor  Foscari?  Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

Dojfe.  Or  a  prince's  son. 

Biarina.  Yes;  all  things  which  conduce  to  other  men's 
Imperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition, 
By  some  strange  destiny  to  him  proved  deadly. 
The  country  and  the  people  whom  he  lov#d. 
The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born. 
And  — 

Do^e,  Soon  may  be  a  prince  no  longer. 

Marina,  How? 

Doffe.  They  have  taken  my  son  from  mc,  and  now  aim 
At  my  too  long  worn  diadem  and  ring. 
Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws! 

Marina.  Oh  the  tyrants ! 
In  such  an  hour  too! 

Do^e.  'Tis  the  fittest  time: 
An  hour  ago  I  should  have  felt  it 

Marina.  And 
Will  you  not  now  resent  it?  —  Oh  for  vengeance ! 
But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protected. 
Might  have  repaid  protection  in  this  moment. 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

Doffe.  Nor  should  do  so 
Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that  — 

Marina.  They  tortured  from  him.  This 
ilay  be  pure  patriotism.  1  am  a  woman : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Country  and  home.  I  loved  him  —  how  I  loved  him! 
I  have  seen  him  pass  through  such  ordeal  as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from:  he  is  gone, 
And  I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for  him, 
Have  nought  to  give  but  tears !  But  could  I  compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs!  —  Wcll^  well; 
I  have  sons  who  shall  be  men. 

Dope.  Your  grief  distracts  you.  [him 

Marina.  I  thought  I  could  have  borne  it,  when  I  .saw 
Bow'd  down  by  such  oppression ;  yes,  I  thought 
That  I  would  rather  look  upon  his  corse  * 

Than  his  prolonged  captivity:  I  am  pnnish'd 
For  that  thought  now.  Would  I  were  in  his  grave! 

Office.  I  must  look  on  him  once  more. 

Marina.  Come  with  me! 

Dope.  Is  be  — 

Marina.  Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

Dope.  And  he  is  in  his  shroud  t 

Marina.  Come,  come,  old  man ! 

CExeont  the  Dof  e  aod  M ariiuu 

Enter  Barbarigo  and  Lorrdano. 
Barb,  (to  an  Atteiidaot).  Whcrc  is  the  Doge  ? 
AiUndant,  This  instant  retired  hence 
With  the  illustrious  lady,  his  son's  widow. 
Lored.  Where? 
Attendant.  To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 


Barb.  Let  us  return  then. 

Lored.  You  forget,  you  cannot 
We  have  the  implicit  order  of  the  Giunta 
To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  them  in 
Their  office :  they  Ml  be  here  soon  after  us. 

Barb.  And  will  they  press  their  answer  on  the  Doge? 

Lored.  'Twas  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be  done 
promptly. 
He  answer'd  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answered ; 
His  dignity  is  look'd  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for  —  what  would  he  more? 

Barb.  Die  in  his  robes. 
He  could  not  have  lived  long;  but  I  have  done 
My  best  to  save  his  honours,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why  would  the  general  vote  compel  me  hither? 

Lored.  'Twas  fit  that  some  one  of  such  different  thoughts 
From  ours  should  be  a  witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 

Barb.  And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for  the  sake 
Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 
You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 
Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 
A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  oi hating; 
'Tis  thus  (although  a  secondary  object. 
Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes)  to  you 
I  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous. 
This  undesired  association  in 
Your  Giunta's  duties. 

Lored.  How !  —  my  Giunta ! 

Barb.   Yours! 
They  speak  your  language,  watch  your  nod,  approve 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.  Are  they  not  yours  ? 

Lored.  You  talk  unwarily.  'Twere  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

Barb,  Oh !  they'll  hear  as  much  one  duy 
From  louder  tongues  than  mine :  they  have  gone  beyond 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  power;  and  when 
This  happens  in  the  most  contemn 'd  and  abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it 

Lored  You  talk  but  idly. 

Barb.  That  remains  for  proof. 
Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Depotation  ai  before. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  the  Duke  aware 
We  seek  his  presence? 

Attendant.  He  shall  be  informed.  [Exit  Attendant 

Barb.  The  Duke  is  with  his  son.  / 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Ifitbeso, 
We  will  remit  him  till  the  rites  are  over. 
Let  us  return.  Tis  time  enough  to-morrow. 

Lored  (aude  to  Barb.)  No  w  the  rich  man's  hell  -fire  upon 
your  tongue, 
Unquench'd,  unquenchable!  I'll  have  it  torn 
From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 
Nothing  but  sobs  through  blood,  for  this !  Sage  signors, 
I  pray  yc  be  not  hasty.  CAioad  lo  tht  othera. 

Barb.  But  be  human ! 

Lored.  Sec,  the  Duke  comes! 


430 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


ACT  T. 


Enter  the  Doos. 

Doye,  I  have  obey  M  your  summons.  [request. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  We  come  once  more  to  urg^e  our  past 

Doge,  And  I  to  answer. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  What? 

Doge,  My  only  answer. 
You  have  heard  it 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Hearyouthen  the  last  decree,' 
Definitive  and  absolute! 

Doge,  To  the  point  — 
To  the  point!  I  know  of  old  the  forms  of  office, 
And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts  —  Go  on !     [released 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  You  are  no  longer  Doge;  you  arc 
From  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign ; 
Your  ducal  robes  must  be  put  off;  but  for 
Your  services,  the  state  allots  the  appanage 
Already  mentioned  in  our  former  congress. 
Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence. 
Under  the  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
All  your  own  private  fortune. 

Doge,  That  last  clause, 
I  am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Your  answer,  Duke ! 

Lored,  Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari ! 

Doge,  If  1  could  have  foreseen  tliat  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country; 
But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  decree  being  rendered,  I  obey. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,    If  you  would  have  the  three  days 
named  extended, 
We  willingly  will  lengthen  them  to  eight, 
As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

Doge,  Not  eight  hours,  signor. 
Nor  even  eight  minutes.  —  There's  the  ducal  ring, 

[Tiiklns;  off  faiB  ring  and  cmp. 

And  there  the  ducal  diadem.  And  so 
The  Adriatic's  free  to  wed  another. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Yet  go  not  forth  so  quickly. 

Doge,  I  am  old,  sir. 
And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.  Methinks  I  see  amongst  yon 
A  face  I  know  not  —  Senator!  your  name, 
You,  by  your  garb.  Chief  of  the  Forty ! 

Memmo.  Signor, 
I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo. 

Doge.  Ah! 
Your  father  was  my  friend.  —  But  sons  emd fathers!  — 
What,  ho !  m^  servants  there ! 

Attendant,  My  prince! 

Doge,  No  prince  — 
There  arc  the  princes  of  the  prince ! 

CPoiating  to  the  Ten's  Depntatioa. 
Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

Chief  of  the  Ten    Why 
So  rashly?  'twill  give  scandal. 


Doge,  Answer  that;  [TotkeTe^ 

It  is  your  province.  —  Sirs,  bestir  yourselves ! 

CTotlwf 

There  is  one  burthen  which  I  b^  you  bear 
With  care,  although  'tis  past  all  forther  harm  — 
But  I  will  look  to  that  myself. 

Barb,  He  means 
The  body  of  his  son. 

Doge.  And  call  Marina, 
My  daughter! 


Enter   Mabina. 

Doge,  Get  thee  ready,  we  must  mourn 
Elsewhere. 

Marina,  And  every  where. 

Doge,  True;  but  in  freedom, 
Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 
Signors,  you  may  depart:  what  would  you  more? 
We  are  going:  do  you  fear  that  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us?  li^jold  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I  am,  and  I'm  very  old. 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale;  but  I  invoke  them  not 
To  fall  upon  you!  else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dasroji's  temple  on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 
Such  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you;  but  I  curse  not  Adieu,  good  signors! 
May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present ! 

Lored,  The  present  duke  is  Paschal  Mallpiero. 

Doge.  Not  till  I  pass  the  threshold  of  these  doors. 

Lored.  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

Doge,  Earth  and  heaven! 
Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ;  and  I 
Live  to  hear  this !  —  the  first  doge  who  e'er  heard 
Such  sound  for  his  successor!  Happier  he. 
My  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Falicro  — 
This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

Lored.  What! 
Do  you  regret  a  traitor? 

Doge,  No  —  I  merely 
Envy  the  dead. 

Chief  of  the  TVn,  My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you  towards 
The  landing -place  of  the  canal. 

Doge,  No.  I 
Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I  mounted 
To  sovereignty  —  the  Giant's  Stairs,  on  vrhose 
Broad  eminence  I  was  invested  duke. 
My  services  have  oall'd  me  up  those  steps, 
The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down  them. 
T%ere  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 
Install'd,  and  traversed  these  same  halls  from  whidL 
I  never  tliought  to  be  divorced  except 
A  corse  —  a  corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  for  tbem  *— 
But  not  push'd  hence  by  fellow  -  cJtisens. 


ACT  T. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


431 


Bat,  Gome;  my  son  and  I  will  go  together  — 
He  to  liifl  grave,  and  I  to  pray  for  mioe. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  What,  thus  in  public  ? 

Doge.  I  was  publicly 
Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina!  art  thou  willing? 

Marina.  Here's  my  arm ! 

Doge.  And  here  my  staff^:  thus  propp*d  will  I  go  forth. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    It  must  not  be  —  the  people  will 
perceive  it  [know  it, 

Dope,    The  people!  — There's  no  people,  yon  well 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  populace,  perhaps,  whose  looks 
Hay  shame  you ;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse  you. 
Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Yon  speak  in  passion. 
Else  — 

Doge,  You  have  reason.  I  have  spoken  much 
If  ore  than  my  wont:  it  is  a  foible  which 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuses  you. 
Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs ! 

Barb.  You  shall  not  depart  without 
An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany,  with  due  respect. 
The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.  Say ! 
My  brethren,  will  we  not? 

Different  Voices.  Ay!  —  Ay! 

Doge.  You  shall  not 
Sdr  —  in  my  train,  at  least  I  enter'd  here 
As  sovereign  —  I  go  out  as  citizen, 
By  the  same  portals,  but  as  citizen. 
All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults. 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more. 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Pomp  is  for  princes  —  1  am  none!  —  That's  false, 
I  cat,  but  only  to  these  gates.  —  Ah ! 

Lored.   Hark !  [1  he  Rreat  bell  ofSt.  Mark's  tolls. 

Barh.  The  bell! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  St  Mark's,  which  tolls  for  the  election 
OfMalipiero. 

Doge.  Well  I  recognize 
The  sound !  I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before. 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  yean  ago ; 
Even  then  I  wot  not  young. 

Barb.  Sit  down,  my  lord! 
You  tremble. 

Doge.  'Tis  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy ! 
My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

Barh.  I  pray  you  sit 

Doge.  No;  my  scat  here  has  been  a  throne  till  now. 
Marina!  let  us  go. 

Marina.  Most  readily. 

Doge  (walks  ft  few  Mep*,  then  stops). 

I  feel  athirst  —  will  no  one  bring  me  here 
A  cup  of  water? 

Betrb.  I  — 

Marina.  And  I  — 


Lored.  And  I  — 

[The  Doge  takes  a  goblet  tnm  the  hand  oTLoredaoOb 

Doge.  I  tAke  gours,  Loredano,  firom  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  hour  as  this. 

Lored.  Why  so? 

Doge.  'Tis  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons,  as 
To  burst  if  aught  of  venom  touches  it 
You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 

Lored.  Welt,  sir! 

Doge,  Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true. 
For  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither;  'tis 
An  idle  legend. 

Marina.  You  talk  wildly,  and 
Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart  Ah !  now  you  look  as  look'd  my  husband ! 

Barb.  He  sinks !  —  support  him!  —  quick  —  a  chair 
—  support  him !  [on  fire ! 

Doge.  The  bell  tolls  on !  —  let's  hence  —  my  brain's 

Barb.  I  do  beseech  you,  lean  upon  us ! 

Doge.  No! 
A  sovereign  should  die  standing.  My  poor  boy! 

Off"  with  your  arms !  —  That  beli!  [The Doge  dro|M  down  and  diei. 

Marina.  My  God  I  My  God! 

Barb,  (to  Lored.)  Brhold !  your  work's  completed ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  there  then 
No  aid?  Call  in  assistance ! 

Attendant.  'Tis  all  over. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so,  bt  least  his  obsequies 
Shall  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 
His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  the  duties 
Of  the  realm,  while  his  age  permitted  htm 
To  do  himself  and  them  full  justice.  Brethren, 
Say,  shall  it  not  be  so? 

Barb.  He  has  not  had 
The  misery  to  die  a  subject  where 
He  reign'd :  then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  princely. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  We  are  agreed,  then? 

[All,  except  Loredano,  answer 

Yes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Heaven's  peace  be  with  him ! 

Marina.  Signors,  your  pardon :  this  is  mockery. 
Juggle  no  more  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 
A  moment  since,  while  yet  it  had  a  soul 
(A  soul  by  whom  you  have  increased  your  empire. 
And  made  your  power  as  proud  as  was  his  glory). 
You  banish'd  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 
From  his  high  place  with  such  relentless  coldness ; 
And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these  honours, 
Nor  would  accept  them  if  he  could,  yoa,  signors, 
Purpose,  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp. 
To  make  a  pageant  over  what  you  trampled. 
A  princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach. 
And  not  his  honour. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Our  purposes  so  readily. 

Marina.  I  know  it, 
As  far  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 
I  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  yon,         [may 
Though  (some,  no  doubt,)  consign'd  to  powers  uhich 


432 


THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


ACT  ▼. 


Resemble  that  yon  exercise  on  earth. 

Leave  him  to  me;  you  would  have  done  so  for 

His  dregs  of  life,  wliich  you  have  kindly  shortened : 

It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 

A  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 

Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 

And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  Bo  you 
Pretend  still  to  this  office? 

Marina,  Ido,  signor. 
Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry, 
Which  shall  be  consecrated  to  his  rites, 

And  those  of  —  [Slw  Btopa  with  agitacion. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Best  retain  it  for  your  children. 

Marinm,  Ay,  they  are  fatherless,  I  thank  you* 

Chief  of  the  Ten,  We 
Cannot  comply  with  your  request.  His  relics 
Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pomp,  and  foliow'd 
Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 
As  Doge,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 

Marina,  I  have  heard  of  murderers,  who  haye  interred 
Their  victims;  but  ne'er  heard, until  this  hour. 


Of  so  much  splendour  in  hypocrisy 

O'er  those  they  slew.  I've  heard  of  widows'  tears  — 

Alas !  I  have  shed  some  —  always  thanks  to  yon! 

I've  heard  of  heirt  in  sables  —  you  have  left  none 

To  the  deceased,  so  yon  would  act  the  part 

Of  such.  Well,  sirs,  your  will  be  done!  as  one  day, 

I  trust.  Heaven's  will  be  done  too! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Know  you,  lady, 
To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech? 

Marina.  I  know  the  former  better  than  yourselves; 
The  latter  —  like  yourselves;  and  can  fiioe  both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals? 

Barb,  Heed  not  her  rash  words ; 
Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  will  not  note  them  down. 

Barb,  (tarainff  to  Loredano,  wbo  U  trrltiagapon  hi*  taUctv) 

What  art  thou  writing. 

With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  tablets? 

Lored,  (pointing  to  the  Dog«^  body). 

That  he  has  paid  me  I 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What  debt  did  he  owe  yon  ? 
Lored,  A  long  and  just  one;  Nature's  debt  and  sum. 

[CvlahiCili. 


.433 


SARDANAPALUS, 


A    TRAGEDY. 


TO 


THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    GOTHE. 


A  STKANaXM  raUt'MBS  TO  OFrSA  THB  ROMAUB  OW  A   UTBmAJIT  TASSll.  TO  KM  LIBOC'LOJIU,    TUB  riBtT  Or  BXISTINO   WKITBBl,    WHO  RA8  CBXATBD  TUB 
UTUATVBB  OF  HIB  OWN  COt'MTRYj  A.HO  ILLUfTBATBD    THAT  OB  BUBOrS.     THI    U!< WORTHY  PBOOUCTIOM  WBICB  THB  AVTHOB  VBMTVB8S  TO  INBOBIBB  TO 

RIX  U  BXTITLBO 

SARDANAPALUS. 


PREFACE. 


In  pnblisbiDgthe  Tragedies  of  Sardanapahu,  and  of 
The  T\co  Foscarif  I  have  only  to  repeat,  Uiat  tbey  were 
not  composed  with  the  most  remote  view  to  the  stag^c. 

On  the  attempt  made  by  the  Managers  in  a  former  in- 
stance, the  public  opinion  has  been  already  expressed. 

With  regard  to  my  own  private  feelings,  as  it  seems 
that  they  are  to  stand  for  nothing,  I  shall  say  nothing. 

For  the  historical  foundation  of  the  compositions  in 
<|ncstion,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Notes. 

The  Author  has  in  one  instance  attempted  to  preserve, 
and  in  the  other  to  approach  the  unities ;  conceiving  that 
with  any  very  distant  departure  from  thcm^  there  may  be 
poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama.   He  is  aware  of  the  unpo- 


pularity of  this  notion  in  present  English  literature ;  but 
it  is  not  a  system  of  his  own,  being  merely  an  opiuioo, 
which ,  not  very  long  ago ,  was  the  law  of  literature 
throughout  the  world,  and  is  still  so  in  the  more  civilized 
parts  of  it  But  ''Nous  avons  change  tout  cela,"  and  are 
reaping  the  advantages  of  the  change.  The  writer  is  far 
from  conceiving  that  any  thing  he  can  adduce  by  per- 
sonal precept  or  example  can  at  all  approach  his  regular, 
or  even  irregular,  predecessors:  he  is  merely  giving  a 
reason  why  he  preferred  the  more  regular  formation  of  a 
structure,  however  feeble,  to  an  entire  abandonment  of 
all  rules  whatsoever.  Where  he  has  failed,  the  failure  is 
in  the  architect,  —  and  not  in  the  art 


DRAMATIS   PERSONiE. 


MEN. 


Samoanapalus,  King  of  Nineveh  and  Assyria, 
Arbaces,  the  Mede  who  aspired  to  the  Throne, 
Beleses,  a  Chaldean  and  Soothsayer, 
Salemenes,  the  King's  Brother-in-law, 
Altada,  an  Assyrian  Officer  of  the  Palace, 
Pania. 

Z%ME& 

SrtKo. 
Balea. 


WOMEN 


Zarina,  Me  Queen. 

Myrrha,  an  Ionian  female  Slave,  and  the  Favourite  of 

Saruanapalus. 
Women  composing  the  Harem  o/'Sardanapalus,  Gtutrds, 

AttMndanU,  Chaldean  PriesU,  Modes, 

Scene  —  a  Hall  in  the  Royal  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


A    C    T      L 


SCENE  L 

A  HaU  in  the  Palace. 

Salemenes  (loiiu).  He  bath  wrong'd  his  queen »  but  still 
he  is  her  lord; 
He  hath  wrong'd  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother ; 
He  hath  wrong'd  his  people,  still  he  is  their  sovereign, 
And  I  must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject: 
He  mnst  not  perish  thus.  I  will  not  see 


The  blood  of  Nimrod  and  Semiramis 
Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  tale; 
He  must  be  roused.  In  his  effeminate  heart 
There  is  a  careless  oourage  which  oorroption 
Has  not  all  quench'd,  and  latent  energies, 
Represt  by  drcnmstanee,  bnt  not  destroy'd  — 
Steep'd,  but  not  drown'd.  In  deep  voluptaotisiiess. 
If  born  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 
28 


434 


SARBANAPALUS. 


ACT  L 


To  have  rcach'd  an  empire;  to  an  empire  born, 

He  will  bequeath  none;  nothing  but  a  name. 

Which  his  sons  will  not  prize  in  heritage:  — 

Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  ^et  he  may  redeem 

His  slotli  and  shame,  by  only  being  that 

Which  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 

He  should  not  be  and  is.  Were  it  less  toil 

To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life? 

To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a  harem? 

He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul, 

And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yield  not 

Health  like  the  ohase,  nor  glory  like  the  war  — 

He  must  be  roused.  Alas!  there  is  no  sound 

[Soand  of  soft  mosic  heard  from  within. 

To  rouse  him  short  of  thunder.  Hark !  the  lote, 
The  lyre,  the  timbrel;  the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  softening  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 
Must  chime  in  to  the  echo  of  his  revel, 
While  tlie  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crown'd  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negligently  by  to  be  caught  up 
By  the  first  jnanly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch  it 
Lo,  where  they  come!  already  I  perceive 
The  recking  odours  of  the  perfumed  trains. 
And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls, 
Who  are  his  comrades  and  his  council,  tiash 
Along  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels. 
As  femininely  garb'd,  and  scarce  less  female, 
The  grandson  of  Semlramis,  the  man-queen. 
He  comes !  Shall  I  await  him?  yes,  and  front  him. 
And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  each  other, 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.  They  come,  the  slaves, 
Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves. 

SCENE  H. 

Enter  Sardahapalus  effeminately  dressed,  his  bead  crowned  with  flowers, 

and  bis  robe  negligently  flowing,   attended  by  a  train  of  Women  and 

young  Slaves. 

SardanapahtS  (speaking  to  some  or  his  AttCDdanU). 

Let  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 

Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnish'd  forth 

For  an  espeoial  banqaet;  at  the  hoar 

Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there;  see  nouglit  wanting, 

And  bid  the  galley  be  prepared.  There  is 

A  cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  broad  clear  river: 

We  will  embark  anon.  Fair  nymphs,  who  deign 

To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 

We'll  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour. 

When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  as. 

And  you  will  form  a  heaven  as  bright  as  theirs; 

Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 

And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  M^yrrha,  choose, 

Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  mc? 

Myrrha,  My  lord  — 

Sard.  My  lord!  my  life,  why  answerest  tliou  so  coldly? 
It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answered.  [thou 

Kale  thy  own  hours,  thoa  raleat  mine  —  say,  ivould&t 
Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away 
The  moments  from  me  ? 

Mifrrha,  The  king's  ofaoioe  is  mine; 


Sard.  I  pray  thee  say  not  so :  my  chiefest  joy- 
Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 
I  do  not  dare  to  breathe  my  own  desire. 
Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine;  for  thou  art  still 
Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others. 

Myrrka.  I  would  remain :  I  have  no  happiness 
Save  in  beholding  thine;  yet  — 

Sard.  Yet,  what  yet? 
Thy  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

Mjfrrka^  1  think  the  present  is  the  wonted  hoar 
Of  council;  it  were  better  I  retire.  [let  her  retire. 

SaL  (comes  fbrward  and  says)  The  Ionian  slavc  says  wdi: 

Sard,  Who  answers?  How  now,  brother? 

SaL  The  gtfeen'f  brother, 
And  your  most  fiiithful  vassal,  royal  lord.      [their  hoars 

Sard,  (addressing  his  train)  As  I  havc  Said,  let  all  dispose 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence. 

[The  coart  retirio^ 

(to  Myrrha,  who  is  going.)  Myrrlia!  I  thouglit  tkou  nonld^ 

Myrrka.  Great  king,  [remain. 

Thou  didst  not  say  so.      • 

Sard.  DtttfAovlookedstit; 
I  know  earh  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes. 
Which  said  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

Myrrha.  Sire!  your  brother  — 

SaL  His  consorts  brother,  minion  of  lonia! 
How  darest  tkou  name  me  and  not  blush? 

Sard.  Not  blush! 
Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her  crimson 
Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows. 
And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold  blindness. 
Which  will  not  see  it  What,  in  tears,  my  Myrrha  ? 

SaL  Let  them  flow  on ;  she  weeps  for  more  than  one. 
And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 

Sard,  Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears  to  Bow! 

SaL  Curse  not  thyself  —  millions  do  that  already. 

Sard,  Thou  dost  forget  tliee :  make  mc  not  remember 
I  am  a  monarch. 

SaL  Would  thou  oouldst! 

Myrrha,  My  sovereign, 
I  pray,  and  thou,  too,  prince,  permit  my  abacnoe. 

Sard.  Since  it  most  be  so,  and  this  charl  baa  check'd 
Thy  gentle  spirit,  go;  but  recollect 
That  we  must  forthwith  meet:  I  had  rather  lose 
An  empire  than  thy  presenoe,  [Exit  Hjtvfri. 

SaL  It  may  be, 
Thou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever! 

Sard   Brother, 
I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this;  yet  nrge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

SaL  'Tia  beyond 
That  easy,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature. 
Which  1  would  urge  thee.  Oh  that  I  could  rouse  thcc! 
Though  'twere  against  myself. 

Sard.  By  the  god  Baal! 
The  man  would  make  mc  tyrant. 

SaL  So  thou  art. 
Thinkst  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  bat  that 


ACT  I. 


SARDANAPALUa 


435 


Of  blood  and  chains  ?  The  despotism  of  vice  — 
The  weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  laxury  -* 
The  neg^ligence  —  the  apathy  —  the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth  -^  produce  ten  thousand  tyrants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 
The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master, 
Howcrer  harsh  and  hard  in  liis  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  pageant  power 
And  those  who  should  sustain  it ;  so  that  whether 
A  foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal: 
The  first  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer; 
The  hist  they  rather  would  assist  than  vanquish. 

Sard,  Why,  what  makes  thee  the  mouth -piece  of  the 
people? 

Sal  Forgiveness  of  the  quieen  my  sister's  wrongs; 
A  natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews ; 
Faitli  to  the  king,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly. 
In  more  than  words;  respect  for  Nimrod's  line; 
Also,  another  thing  thou  knowest  not 

Sard.  What's  that? 

Sal,  To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

Sard.  Yet  speak  it; 
I  love  to  learn. 

SdL  Virtue. 

Sard.  Not  know  the  word! 
Never  was  word  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears  — 
Worse  tlian  the  rabble's  shooit,  or  splitting  trompet; 
I've  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 

Sai.  To  change  the  irksome  theme,  then,  hear  of  vice. 

Sard,  From  whom? 

SaL  Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst  listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation's  voice. 

Sard.  Come,  I'm  indulgent,  as  thou  knowest,  patient, 
As  thou  hast  often  proved — speak  out,  what  moves  thee  ? 

SaL  Thy  peril. 

Sard.  Say  on. 

SaL  Thus,  then:  all  the  nations, 
For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  left 
In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  against  thee.  . 

Sard.  'Gainst  me/  What  would  the  slaves? 

Sal.  A  king. 

Sard.  And  what 
Am  I  then? 

Sal.  In  their  eyes  a  nothing;  but 
I n  mine  a  man  who  might  be  something  still.         [have? 

Sard.  The  railing  drunkards!  why,  what  would  they 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty? 

SaL  Of  the  first. 
More  than  is  glorious ;  of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

Sard,  Whose  then  is  the  crime, 
But  the  fidse  satraps,  who  provide  no  better? 

SaL  And  somewhat  in  the  monarch  who  ne'er  looks 
Beyond  his  palace -walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  'tis  but  to  some  mountain  -palace. 
Till  summer -heats  wear  down.  O  glorious  Baal ! 
Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a  god 


Through  the  long  centuries  ofthy  renown, 
This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  thou  didst  leave  as  hero, 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and  peril ! 
For  what?  to  furnish  imposts  for  a  revel. 
Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a  minion. 

Sard,  1  understand  thee  ^  thou  wouldst  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqueror^y  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read!  the  restless  slaves 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes. 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

SaL  Wherefore  not? 
Semiramis  —  a  woman  only  — '  led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

Sard,  'Tis  most  true.  Xnd  how  teUjom'dt 

SaL  Why,  like  a  man  —  a  hero;  baffled,  but 
Not  vanquish'd.  With  but  twenty  guards,  she  made 
Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

Sard.  And  how  many 
Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures? 

SaL  Our  annals  say  not 

Sard.  Then  I  will  say  for  them  — 
That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palaoe 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  the  ravens. 
And  wolves,  and  men  —  the  fiercer  of  the  three,  — 
Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.  Is  this  glory  1 
Tben  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

SaL  Ail  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A  hundred  kings,  although  she  ftul'd  in  India, 
Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  the  realm 
Which  she  once  sway'd  -*  and  thou  migkttt  sway. 

Sard,  1  sway  them  — 
She  but  subdued  them. 

SaL  It  may  be  ere  long 
That  tliey  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your  sceptre. 

Sard.  There  was  a  certain  Bacchus,  was  there  not? 
I've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such  —  they  say 
He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  god, 
An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria's  worship, 
Who  conquer'd  this  same  gold^i  realm  of  Ind 
Thou  prat'  st  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish'd. 

SaL  1  have  heard  of  such  a  man;  and  thou  percclvest 
That  be  is  deem'd  a  god  for  what  he  did. 

Sard,  And  in  his  godsbip  I  will  honour  him  — 
Not  much  as  man.  What,  ho!  my  cupbearer! 

SaL  What  means  the  king? 

Snrd,  To  worship  your  new  god 
And  ancient  conqueror.  Some  wine,  I  say. 

Bncer  Copbearer. 
Sard.  (addreMing  tha  Cupbearer) 

Bring  mc  the  golden  goblet  thick  with  gems, 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chalice.  Hence ! 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

SaL  Is  this  moment 
A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslcpt-off  revels? 


436 


SARDANAPALUa 


ACT  L 


Re-«ater  Copbcairr,  with  wfne. 

f     Sard,  (uking  the  enp  flrom  him)  Noble  kinsmany 
If  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  the  far  shores 
And  skirts  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  this  Bac»hiis 
Conquered  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not! 

SaL  He  did,  and  thence  was  deem'd  a  deity. 

Sard,  Not  so : — of  all  his  conquests  a  few  columns. 
Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  i|yne,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  oonyeyanoe,  are 
The  landmarks  of  the  seas  of  gore  he  shed, 
The  realms  he  wasted,  and  the  hearts  he  broke. 
But  here,  here  in  this  goblet  is  his  title 
To  immortality  —  the  immortal  grape 
From  which  he  first  expressed  the  soul,  and  gave 
To  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 
Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 
A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave ; 
And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 
A  sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 
Here's  that  which  deified  him  —  let  it  now 
Humanize  thee;  my  surly,  chiding  brother, 
Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  I 

Sal,  For  all  thy  realms 
I  would  not  so  blaspheme  our  country's  creed. 

Sard,  That  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  him  a  hero, 
That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans ;  and  no  god, 
Because  he  tum'd  a  fruit  to  an  enchantment, 
Which  cheers  tlie  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 
The  young,  makes  W^eariness  forget  his  toil, 
And  Fear  her  danger ;  opens  a  new  world 
When  this,  the  present,  palls.  Well,  then,  /pledge  thee 
And  him  as  a  true  man,  who  did  his  utmost 
In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  COrinks. 

SaL  Wilt  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour? 

Sard,  And  if  I  did,  ^twere  better  than  a  trophy, 
Being  bought  without  a  tear.  But  that  is  not 
My  present  purpose :  since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  mc. 
Continue  what  thou  pleasest 

(To  the  Copbeerer)  Boy,  retire.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal,  I  would  but  have  recallM  thee  from  thy  dream : 
Better  by  me  awaken'd  than  rebellion. 

Sard.  Who  should  rebel?  or  why  ?  what  cause?  pretext  ? 
lam  the  lawful  king,  descended  from 
A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 
What  have  I  done  to  tiiee,  or  to  tlie  people, 
That  thou  shouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against  me? 

Sal.  Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  I  speak  not 

Sard.  But 
Thou  thinkst  that  I  have  wrong'd  the  queen :  is't  not  so? 

Sal,  Think  I  Thou  hast  wrongM  her! 

Sard,  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  me. 
She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs, 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarchs  wed — for  state, 
And  loved  her  as  most  husbands  love  their  wives. 
If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate, 
Ye  knew  nor  me.  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

SaL  I  pray  thee,  change  the  theme;  my  blood  disdains 


Complaint,  and  Salonenes'  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love  ev^i  from  Assyria's  lord! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passioii 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent 

Sard,  And  why  not  her  brother  ? 

SaL  I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires. 
Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

Sard,   The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  slaves!   they 
murmur 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  into  the  deserf  s  dust  by  myriads, 
Or  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges ; 
Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 
Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids, 
Or  Babylonian  walls. 

Sal,  Yet  these  are  trophies 
More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concQlHiies, 
And  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sard,  Now,  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded  cities: 
There's  Tarsus  and  Anchialns,  both  built 
In  one  day — what  could  that  blood4oving  beldame^ 
My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 
Bo  more,  except  destroy  them? 

SaL  'Tis  most  true: 
I  own  tliy  merit  in  those  founded  cities. 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ages. 

Sard,  Shame  me  I    By  Baal,  the  cities,  thoqgh  well 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse !  Say  what        [built 
Thou  wilt  'gainst  me,  my  mode  of  life  or  rale, 
But  nothing  'gainst  tiie  truth  of  that  brief  record. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Ofall  things  human;  hear — *<Sardanapalus 
The  king,  and  son  of  Anaeyndaraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love;  the  rest's  npt  worth  a  fillip." 

SaL  A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription. 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects !  [edicts — 

Sard,   Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up 
<<Obey  the  king,  contribute  to  his  treasure — 
Recruit  his  phalanx  —  spill  your  blood  at  bidding  — 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toiL" 
Or  thus— ''Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  liis  enemies. 
These  are  tlieir  sepulchres,  and  this  his  tropky," 
1  leave  such  things  to  conquerors;  enough 
For  mc,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroauing  to  the  tomb ;  I  take  no  licence 
Wliich  I  deny  to  them.  We  all  are  men. 

SaL  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods  *- 

Sard.  In  dust 
And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me !  The  worms  are  gods; 
At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods, 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment 
Those  gods  were  merely  men ;  look  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  tliousand  mortal  things  about  me, 
But  nothing  godlike,  unless  it  may  be 


ACT  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


437 


The  thin^  wliich  you  oondenui,  a  dUpositioii 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 
The  follies  of  oiy  species,  and  (thafs  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

Smi.  Alas! 
The  doom  of  Nineveh  is  seal'd. — Woe — woe 
Tjo  the  unrivaird  city ! 

Sard,  What  dost  dread? 

SaL  Thou  art  {guarded  by  thy  foes :  in  a  few  hours 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  thee. 
And  thine  and  mine;  and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Belus'  race. 

Smrd.  What  must  we  dread? 

Sai,  Ambitious  treachery. 
Which  has  environ'd  thee  with  snares ;  but  yet 
There  is  resource :  empower  me  with  thy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I  lay 
The  heads  of  tliy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet 

SartL  The  heads  — how  many? 

SmL  Must  I  stay  to  number 
When  even  tliine  own's  in  peril  ?  Let  me  go ; 
Give  me  thy  signet — trust  me  with  the  rest 

Smrd.  I  will  trust  no  man  with  unlimited  lives. 
Allien  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 
What  we  have  taken*  nor  the  thing  we  give.  [thine? 

SaL  Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek  for 

Sard.  That's  a  liard  question.  —  But,  I  answer  Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without?  Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest?  —  Let  them  be  arrested,    [ment 

SaL  I  would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me;  the  next  mo- 
WiU  send  my  answer  tliroughthy  babbling  troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  the  palace, 
Bven  to  the  city,  and  so  bafBe  alt  — 
Trust  me. 

Sard  Thou  knowest  I  have  done  so  ever ; 
Take  thou  the  signet  [GItm  Uie  Signet. 

SaL  I  have  one  more  request 

Sard  Name  it 

Sal,  That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  tlie  Euphrates. 

Sard  Forbear  the  banquet!  Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom !  Let  them  oome, 
And  do  their  worst:  I  shall  not  blench  for  them; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner ;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  rose  the  less; 
Nor  lose  one  joyous  hour.  —>  I  fear  them  not    [needful  ? 

SaL  But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst  tiou  not,  if 

Sard  Perhaps.  I  have  the  goodliest  armour,  and 
A  sword  of  such  a  temper;  and  a  bow 
And  javelin,  which  might  furnish  Nimrod  forth : 
A  little  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 
And  now  I  think  on't,  'tis  long  since  I've  used  them. 
Even  in  the  chase.  Hast  ever  seen  them,  brother? 

SaL  Is  this  a  time  for  such  fantastic  trifling?  — 
If  need  be,  wilt  tliou  wear  them? 

Sard  Willi  not?— 
Ob !  if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves 
Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I'll  use  the  sword 
Till  they  shall  wish  it  turn'd  into  a  distafi*. 

SaL  They  say,  thy  sceptre  's  turn'd  to  that  already. 

Sard,  That's  raise !  but  let  them  say  so :  the  oldGreeks, 


Of  whom  our  captives  often  sing,  related 
The  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
Because  he  loved  a  Lydiaa queen:  thoaseest 
The  populace  of  all  the  nations  a&ze 
Each  calumny  they  can  to  sink  their  sovereigns. 

SaL  They  did  not  speak  thus  <^  thy  fathers. 

Sard  No; 
They  dared  not  They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat, 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armour; 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastime,  and  the  licence 
To  revel  and  to  rail;  it  irks  me  not 
I  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
For  all  Uie  popular  breath  that  e'er  divided    ' 
A  name  from  nothing.  What  are  the  rank  tongues 
Of  this  vile  herd,  grown  insolent  with  feeding. 
That  I  should  prise  their  noisy  praise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamour? 

SaL  You  have  said  they  are  men; 
As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

Sard  So  my  dogs' are; 
And  better,  as  more  foithfnl :  —  but,  proceed : 
Thou  hast  my  signet:  —  since  they  are  tumultuous, 
Let  them  be  temper'd,  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it  I  hate  all  pain, 
Given  or  received ;  we  have  enough  within  us. 
The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch. 
Not  to  add  to  each  other's  natural  burthen 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen, 
By  mild  reciprocal  alleviation, 
The  fa tal  penalties  imposed  on  life ; 
But  tbi.4  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 
I  have,  by  Baal  \  done  all  I  could  to  soothe  them : 
I  made  no  wars,  I  added  no  new  imposts, 
I  interfered  not  with  their  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit  them. 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

SaL  Thoustopp'st 
Shor  t  of  the  du  ties  of  a  king ;  and  therefore 
They  say  thou  art  unfit  to  be  a  monarch. 

Sard  They  lie,  —  Unhappily,  I  am  unfit 
To  be  aught  save  a  monarch ;  else,  for  me, 
The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 

Sal,  There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  to  be  ao. 

Sard  What  meanst  thou?  —  'tis  thy  secret;    thou 
Few  questions,  and  I'm  not  of  curious  nature,     [desires  t 
Take  the  fit  steps ;  and,  since  necessity 
Requires,  I  sanction  and  support  thee.  Ne'er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 
The  peaceful  only ;  if  they  rouse  me,  better 
They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrod  from  his  ashes, 
iThe  mighty  hunter."  I  will  turn  these  realms 
To  one  wide  desert-chase  of  brutes,  who  were. 
But  would  no  more,  by  their  own  choice,  be  human. 
}Vhat  they  have  found  me,  tliey  belie ;  that  which 
They  yet  may  find  me — shall  defy  their  wish 
To  speak  it  worse;  and  let  them  thank  themselves. 

SaL  Then  thou  at  least  canst  feel  ? 

Sard  Feel!  who  feels  not 
Ingratitude? 

SaL  I  will  not  pause  to  answer 
With  words,  but  deeds.    Keep  thou  awake  that  eneigy 


438 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACTL 


Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within  thee, 
And  thou  mayst  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign. 
As  powerful  in  thy  realm.  Farewell!  [Exit 

Sard,  (solus)  Farewell! 
He's  grone;  and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet. 
Which  is  to  him  a  sceptre.  He  is  stern 
As  I  am  heedless ;  and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.  What  may  be  the  danger, 
I  know  not :  —  he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it 
Must  I  consume  my  life  —  this  little  life  — 
In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less? 
It  is  not  worth  so  much  1  It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death. 
Tracing  revolt;  suspecting  all  about  me, 
Because  they  are  near;  and  all  who  are  remote. 
Because  they  arc  far.  But  if  it  should  be  so  — 
If  they  should  sweep  me  ofi'from  earth  and  empire, 
Why,  what  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth? 
I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image; 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  tlian  those  — 
Acts  of  this  clay !  'Tis  true  I  have  not  shed 
Blood,  as  I  might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  became  tiie  synonyme  of  death  — 
A  terror  and  a  trophy.  But  for  this 
I  feel  no  penitence;  my  life  is  love: 
If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 
Till  now  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flow'd  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 
Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasures  e'er  been  lavished 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  aons  a  tear: 
If  then  they  hate  me,  'tis  because  I  bate  not; 
If  they  rebel,  it  is  because  I  oppress  not 
Oh,  men!  yc  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptres. 
And  mowM  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we  reap 
Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  rotten  harvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil. 
Making  a  desert  of  fertility.  — 
I'll  think  no  more.  —  Within  there,  ho ! 

Enter  an  Attmdant. 
Sard.  Slave,  tell 
Tlic  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 
AttetidanL  King,  she  is  here. 

Mtrbha  enters. 
Sard,  (apart  to  Attendant)  Away ! 

(Addressing  Myrrlin)  Beautiful  being! 

Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 

It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  oomest :  let  me 

Deem  that  some  unknown  influence,  some  sweet  oracle. 

Communicates  between  us,  tiiough  unseen. 

In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

Myrrha.  There  doth. 

Sard,  I  know  tiiere  doth,  but  not  its  name; 
What  is  it? 

Mtfrrha.  In  my  native  land  a  God, 
And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  God's, 
iSxalted;  yet  I  own 'tis  only  mortal. 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy  — 

That  is,  it  would  be  iiappy  ;   but  —  [Myrrlia  pan.scs. 

Sard^  Tlkcre  comes 


For  ever  something  between  as  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness :  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  seal'd. 

Mjfrrha,  My  lord!  —  pj  ~ 

Sard,  Mylord— my  king— sire --soverelipi!  thus  it 
For  ever  thus,  address'd  with  awe.  I  ne'er  I 

Can  see  a  flmile^  unless  in  some  broad  banqnef  a 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 
Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality,  | 

Or  I  have  quaff'd  me  down  to  their  abasement  j 

Myrrha,  I  can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names,  [them,  : 
Lord — king  —  sire  —  monarch — nay,  time  was  I  prised  ' 
That  15, 1  suffer'd  them  —  from  slaves  and  nobles; 
But  when  they  falter  from  tiie  lips  I  love. 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  cfaill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  ials^ood 
Of  this  my  station,,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  felt  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  1  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara. 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  tiiec,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 

Myrrha,  Would  that  we  could ! 

Sard,  And  dost  thtm  feel  this?  —  Why? 

Myrrha,  Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  tfaov  casst 

Sard.  And  that  is—  [never  know. 

Myrrha.  The  true  value  of  a  heart; 
At  least,  a  woman's. 

Sard,  I  have  proved  a  tiiousand  — 
A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

Myrrha,  Hearts? 

Sard.  I  think  so. 

Myrrha.  Not  one!  the  time  may  come  thoa  mayst 

Sard.  It  wUl. 
Hear,  Myrrha;  Salemenes  has  declared  — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belos, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I  — 
But  Salemenes  has  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

Myrrha,  He  did  well. 

Sard.  AndsaysteAouso? 
Thou  whom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers. 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush? 

Myrrha,  I  should  do  botli 
More  frequentiy,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.  But  thou  spakest  of  peril  — 
Peril  to  thee  — 

Sard,  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 
From  Medes  —  and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 
I  know  not  what  —  a  labyrinth  of  things  —  — 
A  maze  of  muttcr'd  tiircats  and  mysteries: 
Thou  knowst  the  man  ~  it  is  his  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.  Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on't  — 
But  of  tiie  midnight-festival. 

Myrrha.  *Tis  time 
To  tiiink  of  aught  save  festivals.  Thou  hast  not 
Spuru'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sard.  What!  — and  dost  thou  fear?  [death! 

Myrrha.  Fear !  —  I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  ftar 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 


ACT  L 


SARDANAPALUSs 


439 


SmrtL  Then  wherefore  dost  thou  tarn  so  pale? 

Myrrha,  I  love. 

Sard,  AnddoDotI?  Ilovetheefar— far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 
Which,  it  may  be^  are  menaced ; — yet  I  blench  not, 

Mjfrrka,  That  means  thou  loyest  nor  thyself  nor  me; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself, 
Bven  for  that  other's  sake.  This  is  too  rash : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost 

Sard,  Lost!  —  why,  who  is  the  aspiringchicf  who  dared 
>— wm^  to  win  them? 

Myrrka,  Who  is  he  should  dread 
To  try  so  much  ?  When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgetsr  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 

Sard,  Myrrhal 

Myrrha,  Frown  not  upon  me:  you  have  smiled 
Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
l^liich  they  may  augur.  —  King,  I  am  your  subject ! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave !  Man,  I  have  loved  you  !  — 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  bom  a  foe  to  monarchs — 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters  —  an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  I 
Stilt  I  have  loved  you.  If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature. 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 

Sard  Save  me,  my  beauty !  Thou  art  very  fair. 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love  —  not  safety. 

Jlyrrka.  And  without  love  where  dweUs  security? 

Sard  I  speak  of  woman's  love, 

Myrrha,  The  very  first 
Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast. 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing. 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  tiiem. 

Sard  My  eloquent  Ionian !  thou  speakst  music; 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 
1  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favourite  pastime 
Of  thy  far  fatherland.  Nay,  weep  not  -  calm  thee. 

Mjfrrha.  I  weep  not  —  But  I  pray  thee,  do  not  speak 
About  my  fathers  or  their  land. 

Sard.  Yet  oft 
Thou  speidLcst  of  them. 

Myrrka.  True  — true:  constant  thought 
Will  overflow  in  words  anoonsctously ; 
Bot  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounda  me. 

Sard  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  Mve  me,  as  thou 
saidst? 

Bfyrrka,  By  teaching  thee  to  save  thyself,  and  not 
Thyself  alone,  but  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war — tlie  war  of  brethren. 

Sard  Why,  child,  I  loathe  all  uar,  and  warriors; 
I  live  in  peace  and  pleasure :  what  can  man 
Do  more? 

3fyrrka.  Alas!  my  lord,  with  common  men 
There  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  peace ;  and,  for  a  king, 


'Tis  sometimes  better  to  be  fear'd  than  loved. 

Sard  And  I  have  never  sought  but  for  the  last 

Mifrrha,  And  now  art  neither. 

Sard  Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha? 

Myrrha,  1  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  «e^-love. 
Which  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law. 
Yet  not  oppress'd  —  at  least  they  must  not  think  so ; 
Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary, 
To  ward  off  worse  oppression,  their  own  passions. 
A  king  offcasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and  revel. 
And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 

Sard  Glory!  what's  tliat? 

Myrrha,  Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers.  [for  them, 

Sard  They  cannot  answer;  when  the  priests  speak 
'Tis  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 

Myrrha,  Look  to  the  annals  of  thine  empire's  founders. 

Sard  They  are  so  blotted  o'er  with  blood,  I  cannot 
But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  hat  been  founded. 
I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 

Myrrha,  Preserve  thine  own. 

Sard  At  least,  I  will  enjoy  it 
Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  on  to  the  Euphrates ; 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared. 
And  tlie  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  return. 
In  fit  adornment  for  the  evening-banquet. 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star;  and  we  will  sit 
Crown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like  — 

Myrrha,  Victims. 

Sard  No,  like  sovereigns, 
The  shepherd-kings  of  patriarchal  times, 
Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  sunmier-wreaths, 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.  Let  us  on. 

Enter  Pania. 

Pania,  May  the  king  live  for  ever ! 

Sard  Not  an  hour 
Longer  than  he  can  love.  How  my  soul  hates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  itself  a  lie. 
Flattering  dust  with  eternity.  Well,  Pania! 
Be  brief. 

Pania,  I  am  charged  by  Salemcnes  to 
ReitiTatc  his  prayer  unto  the  king, 
That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace :  when  the  general  returns, 
He  will  adduce  such  reasons  as  will  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perhaps  obtain  the  pardon 
3f  his  presumption. 

Sard  What!  am  I  then  coop'd? 
Already  captive  ?  can  I  not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven?  Tell  prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I  would  still  go  forth. 

Pania.  1  must  obey,  and  yet  — 

Myrrha,  Oh,  monarch,  listen! 
How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace-walls  in  silken  dalliance, 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people's  longing; 
Leaving  thy  subjects'  eyes  ungratified. 
The  satraps  uncontroll'd,  the  gods  nnworshipp'dy 


440 


aiRDANAPALUa 


ACT  L 


And  all  things  in  die  anarchy  of  sloth, 

rill  all,  save  eyil,  slnmber'd  through  the  realm  I 

And  wilt  thou  not  now  tarry  for  a  day, 

\  day  which  may  redeem  thee?  Wilt  thou  not 

Vieid  to  the  few  still  faithful  a  few  hours, 

For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  fathers'  race, 

And  for  thy  sous'  inheritance? 

Pania.  'Tistrue! 
From  the  deep  ui^enoy  with  which  the  prince 
Despatched  me  to  your  sacred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

Sard.  No,  it  must  not  be. 

Myrrha.  For  the  sake  of  thy  realm! 

SarcL  Away! 

Panto,  For  that 
Of  all  thy  faithhil  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  thee  and  thine. 

Sard,  These  are  mere  phantasies; 
There  is  no  peril :  —  'tis  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  approve  his  zeal, 
And  show  himself  more  necessary  to  us.  [counsel ! 

Myrrha,  By  all  that's  good  and  glorious,  take  this 

Sard,  Business  to-morrow. 

Myrrha,  Ay,  or  death  to-night 

Sard,  Why,  let  it  come,  then,  unexpectedly, 
'Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  mirtli  and  love; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the  pluck'd  rose!  —  far  better 
Thus  than  be  witfaer'd. 

Myrrha,  Then  thou  wilt  not  yield, 
Bven  for  the  sake  of  all  that  ever  stirr'd 
A  monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A  trifling  revel? 

Sard.  No. 

Myrrha.  Then  yield  for  mnttf ; 
For  my  sake! 

Sard.  Thine,  my  Myrrha? 

Myrrha,  'Tis  the  first 
Boon  which  I  e'er  ask'd  Assyria's  king.  [granted. 

Sard,  That's  true;  and  were't  my  kingdom,  must  be 
Well,  for  thy  sake,  I  yield  me.  Pania,  hence ! 
Thou  hearst  me. 

Pania.  And  obey.  [Exit  Pania. 

Sard.  I  marvel  at  thee. 
What  is  thy  motive,  Myrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  ? 

Myrrha.  Thy  safety;  and  the  certainty  that  nought 
Could  urge  the  prince,  thy  kinsman,  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending  danger. 

Sard,  And  if  I  do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldst  thou  ? 

Jlifyrrha.  Because  thou  dost  not  fear,  I  fear  for  thee, 

Sard.  To-morrow  thou  wilt  smile  at  these  vain  fancies. 


Myrrha.  If  the  worst  oone,  I  shall  be  whei^  none  weep, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  power  to  smile. 
And  thou? 

Sard.  I  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

Myrrha.  Where? 

Sard.  With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiranus, 
Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 
Fate  made  we  what  1  am — may  make  me  notituDg  — 
But  either  that  or  nothing  must  I  be: 
I  will  not  live  degraded. 

Myrrha.  Hadst  thou  felt 
Thus  always,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

Sard,  And  who  will  do  so  now? 

Myrrha.  Dost  thou  suspect  none? 

Sard.  Suspect  1  —  that's  a  spy's  office.  Oh !  we  lose 
Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words. 
And  vainer  fears.  Within  there!  Ye  slaves,  deck 
The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening-revel : 
[f  I  must  make  a  prison  of  our  palace, 
At  least  we'll  wear  our  fetters  jocundly; 
If  the  Euphrates  be  forbid  us,  and 
The  summer-dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border, 
Here  we  are  Still  unmenaced.    Ho !  witliin  there! 

[ISxic  SardanaiMtas. 

Myrrha.  (soIk)  Why  do  I  love  this  man?  My  country's 
daughters 
Love  none  but  heroes.  But  I  have  no  country  I 
The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds.  I  love  him ; 
And  that 's  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain  — 
To  love  whom  we  esteem  not  Be  it  so : 
The  hour  is  coming  when  he'll  need  all  love. 
And  find  none.  To  fall  from  him  now  were  baser 
Than  to  have  stabb'd  him  on  his  throne  when  highest 
Would  have  been  noble  in  my  country's  creed; 
I  was  not  made  for  either.  Could  I  save  him, 
I  should  not  love  Aim  better,  but  myself; 
And  I  have  need  of  the  last,  for  I  have  fallen 
In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  this  soft  stranger: 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  love  him  more,  perceiviiig 
That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbarians. 
The  natural  foes  of  all  the  blood  of  Greece. 
Could  I  but  wake  a  single  thought  like  those 
Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt,  when  battling  long 
'Twixt  lUon  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart, 
He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds,  andtriuiplL 
He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him ;  the  slave  loves 
Her  master,  and  would  free  him  from  his  vices. 
If  not,  I  have  a  means  of  freedom  still. 
And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign. 
May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  can  leave 
His  throne.  I  must  not  lose  him  firom  my  sight         Cba- 


ACT  II. 


SARDANAPALUS* 


441 


ACT       II. 


SCENE  I. 

The  Portal  of  the  nine  Hall  of  the  Palace. 

Beteset,  («oius)  The  syn  goes  down :  methinks  he  sets 
Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria's  empire,     [more  slowly, 
How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening  clouds, 
Like  tlie  blood  he  predicts  !  If  not  in  vain, 
Thou  sun  that  stukest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 
I  have  ontwatch'd'ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 
The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 
For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  'tis  the  ftirthest 
Hour  of  Assyria's  years.  And  yet  how  calm ! 
An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a  fall  — 
A  summer's  sun  di8<*.loses  it.  Yon  disk, 
To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 
Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 
Scem'd  everlasting;  but  oh!  thou  true  sun! 
The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  live, 
As  fountain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 
Him  who  bestows  it,  wherefore  dost  thou  limit 
Thy  lore' unto  calamity?  Why  not 
Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 
\ll-glorious  burst  from  ocean?  why  not  dart 
A  beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future's  years, 
As  of  wrath  to  its  days?  Hear  me !  oh  I  hear  me! 
I  am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant  — 
I  liave  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall, 
And  bow'd  my  head  beneatli  thy  mid-day  beams, 
When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.  I  have  watch'd 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  pray'd  to  thee, 
And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear'd  thee, 
And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer'd  —  but 
Only  to  tlms  much :  while  I  speak,  he  sinks  — 
Is  gone — and  leaves  liis  beauty,  not  his  knowledge. 
To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 
Its  hues  of  dying  glory.  Yet  what  is 
Death,  so  it  be  glorious?  'Tis  a  sunset; 
And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  AiBACia,  by  ah  inner  door. 

Arb^ees.  Belescs,  why 
80  rapt  in  thy  devotions  ?  Dost  thou  stand 
ilmag  to  trace  thy  disappearing  god 
Into  some  realm  of  undiscoyer'd  day  ? 
Ov  business  is  with  night  —  'tis  come. 

Beieses,  But  not 
Gone. 

Arhaeet,  LctU  roil  on  —  we  are  ready. 

Belenet,  Yes. 
Would  it  were  over  I 


Arhacet.  Does  the  prophet  doubt, 
To  whom  the  very  stars  shine  victory? 

Seleses,  I  do  not  doubt  of  victory — but  the  victor.  ^ 

Arbacet.  Well,  let  thy  sdence  settle  that  Meantime, 
I  have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spears 
As  will  out-sparkle  our  allies —  your  planets. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.  The  shocking. 
That  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.  The  order 
Is  issued  for  tlic  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  flie  last 
QuafiTd  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 

Beleses.  'T  was  a  brave  one.  [mend  it 

Arbaces,  And  is  a  weak  one  —  'tis  worn  out  —  we'll 

Belesei.  Art  sure  of  that? 

Arbaces*  Its  founder  was  a  hunter— 
I  am  a  soldier  ~  what  is  tlicre  to  fear  ? 

Beleset.  The  soldier. 

Arbaces,  And  the  priest,  it  may  be;  but 
If  you  tJiought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Your  king  of  concubines?  why  stir  me  up? 
Why  spur  me  to  this  enterprise  ?  your  own 
No  less  than  mine  ? 

Beleses.  Look  to  the  sky ! 

Arbaces,  I  look. 

Beletes,  What  seest  thou? 

Arbaces,  A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 
The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

Beletes.  And  midst  them,  mark 
Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers, 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 

Arbaees.  Well? 

Seleses,  'Tis  thy  natal  ruler —  thy  birth-planet 

Arbaces  (toncbiOK  bi«  »cabbard). 

3Iy  star  is  in  this  scabbard:  when  it  shines. 

It  shall  out-dazzle  comets.    Let  us  think 

Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 

Thy  planets  and  their  portents.  When  we  conquer, 

They  shall  have  temples —ay,  and  priests  —.and  thou 

Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of  —  what  gods  tiiou  wilt; 

For  I  observe  that  they  are  ever  just. 

And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  deyout  [hast  not 

Seleses,  Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  bnve  —  thou 
.Seen  me  tarn  back  from  battle. 

Arbaces,  No;  I  own  thee 
As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  skilfhl  in  Cbaldea's  worship;  now, 
Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 
And  be  the  warrior  ? 

SeUses.  Why  not  both? 

Arbaces.  The  better; 

28* 


442 


SARDANAPALU8. 


ACT  a 


And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect  This  woman's  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.  To  have  pluck'd 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne, 
And  grappled  with  htm,  clashing  steel  with  steel. 
That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 
But  to  upraise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm, 
And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be — 

Beletet,  Do  not  deem  it : 
He  has  that  in.him  which  may  make  you  strife  yet; 
And  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are  hardy, 
And  headed  by  the  cool,  stem  Salemenes. 

Arhacet,  They'll  not  resist 

Beletet,  Why  not?  they  are  soldiers. 

Arhacet,  True, 
And  therefore  need  a  soldier  to  command  them. 

Beletet.  That  Salemenes  is. 

Arhacet.  But  not  their  king. 
Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that  governs. 
For  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.  Mark  yon  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels? 

Beletet.  But 
Not  from  the  council — there  he  is  ever  constant    [more 

Arhacet,  And  ever  thwarted;  what  would  yon  have 
To  make  a  rebel  out  of?  A  fool  reigning. 
His  blood  dishonour'd,  and  himself  disdain'd; 
Why,  it  is  hit  revenge  we  work  for. 

Beletet.  Could 
He  but  be  brought  to  think  so :  this  I  doubt  of, 

Arhacet,  What,  if  we  sound  him? 

Beletet.  Yes  — if  the  time  served. 

Bnter   Balba. 

Balea,  Satraps !  the  king  commands  your  presence  at 
The  feast  to-night 

Beletet,  To  hear  is  to  obey. 
In  the  pavilion? 

Balea,  No;  here  in  the  palace. 

Arhacet,  How !  in  the  palace?  it  was  not  thus  ordered. 

Balea.  It  is  so  order'd  now. 

Arhacet.  And  why? 

Balea.  I  know  not 
May  I  retire? 

Arhacet.  Stay. 

Beletet.  (to  Artacet  aside)  Hushl  let  him  go  his  way. 
(Alternately  to  Baiaiu)  Tcs,  Balea,  thank  the  monarch,  kiss 
Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves  [the  hem 

Will  take  the  cnims  he  deigns  to  scatter  from 
His  royal  table  at  the  hour— was't  midnight? 

Balea.  It  was;  the  place,  the  Hall  of  Nimrod.  Lords, 
I  humble  me  before  yoo,  and  depart  CBxit  Bale*. 

Arhacet,  I  like  not  this  same  sudden  change  of  place; 
There  is  some  mystery ;  wherefore  should  he  change  it  ? 

Beletet,  Doth  he  not  change  a  thousand  times  a  day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  mostfiuiciful — 
And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when  they  seek 
To  leave  their  foe  at  fault  -  Why  dost  thou  muse  ? 

Arhacet,  He  loved  that  gay  pavilion — it  was  ever 
His  summer-dotage. 

Beletet.  And  he  loved  his  queen  — 


And  thrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides  — 
And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  tarns,  except 
Wisdom  and  glory. 

Arhacet.  Still— I  like  it  not 
If  he  has  changed — why,  so  must  we:  the  attack 
Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower. 
Beset  witli  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtiers; 
But  in  tlic  Hall  of  Nimrod  — 

Beletet.  Is  it  so? 
Methou{|rht  the  haughty  soldier  fear'd  to  mount 
A  throne  too  easily ;  does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  find  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on? 

Arhacet,  When  the  hour  comes, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  how  te  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake  —  and  gaily  play 'd  for: 
But  here  is  more  upon  the  die  —  a  kingdom. 

Beletet,  I  have  foretold  already — thou  wilt  win  it: 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

Arhmcet.  Now,  were  I  a  soothsayer, 
I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obey'd  -^  I  cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  inteipreter.  Who's  here? 

Eater  Salsmkhm. 

SaL  Satraps! 

Beletet,  My  prince! 

Sal.  Well  met  —  I  sought  ye  both. 
But  elsewhere  than  the  palace. 

Arhacet,  Wherefore  so? 

Sal.  'Tis  not  the  hour. 

A  rhacet.  The  hour  —  what  hour  ? 

Sal.  Of  midnight 

Beletet,  Midnight,  my  lord ! 

Sal,  What,  are  you  not  invited  ? 

Beletet.  Oh!  yes  —  we  had  forgotten. 

iS<i/.  Is  it  usual 
Thus  to  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  ? 

Arhacet.  Why  —  we  but  now  received  it 

Sal.  Then  why  here? 

Arhacet.  On  duty. 

SaL  On  what  duty? 

Beletet.  On  the  state's. 
We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence. 
But  found  tlie  monarch  absent 

Sal.  And  I  too 
Am  upon  duty. 

Arhacet.  May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

Sal.  To  arrest  two  traitors.  Guards!  within  (hcR! 

Enter  Gt/AAM. 

SaL  (coBtinaiBg)  Satraps^ 
Your  swords. 
Beletet.  (ddiverfnx  hit)  My  lord,  behold  my  sdmilar. 
Arhacet.  (drawiiiK  hU  swwd)  Take  mine. 

Sal,  (advancing}  I  will. 

Arhacet,  But  in  your  heart  ^e  blade  — 
The  hilt  quits  not  this  hand. 

SaL  (drawing)  How !  dost  thou  braTc  me  ? 
'Tis  well— this  saves  a  trial  and  fUse  mcnty. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 


ACT  II. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


443 


Arhmees,  Soldiers!  Ay  — 
Almte  you  dare  not 

Sal,  Alone  I  fooUah  slave  — 
Wliat  is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should  shrink  from 
Of  open  force?  We  dread  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  strength :  thy  tooth  is  nought  without  its  venom  — - 
The  serpent's,  not  the  lion's.  Cut  him  down. 

BtUses,  (interpMiog)  Arbaoes!  are  you  mad?  Have  I 
•         notrender'd 
]tfy  sword  ?  Then  trust  like  me  our  sovereign's  justioe. 

Arbaeet.  No — I  will  sooner  trust  the  stars  thou  praf  st 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a  king  at  least  [of 

Of  my  own  breath  and  body  —  so  fiEur  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

StiL  (to  the  Goards)  You  hear  him,  and  m*. 
Take  him  not — kill. 

[Tbe  Gair<U  attack  Arbaecs,  who  d«flm<U  kimfelf  valiantly 
and  dexterondy  till  tbey  waver. 

SaL  Is  it  even  so;  and  must 
I  do  the  hangman's  office  ?  Recreants !  see 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor*  CSalcmcnei  atta<(ks  Aitocct. 

Enter  Sabdanapalvs  and  Train. 
Sard.  Hold  your  hands — 
Upon  your  fives,  I  say.  What,  deaf  or  drunken  ? 
My  sword!  Oh  fool,  I  wear  no  sword:  here,  fellow, 
Give  me  thy  weapon.  [To  a  Guard. 

[Sardanapalns  raaCclies  a  aword  fram  one  of  the  loldlen,  and 
mtliea  lietwcen  tlic  combntanCa  —  tbey  teparafee. 
Sard.  In  my  very  palace! 
What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twinn. 
Audacious  brawlers? 
BeUsts,  Sire,  your  jusdoe. 
&!.  Or- 
Your  weakness. 

Sard.  (raIaiiigtbeiword)How? 

SaL  Strike !  so  the  blow's  repeated 
Upon  yon  traitor  -  whom  you  spare  a  moment^ 
I  trust,  for  torture  —  Fm  content         i 

Sard.  What— him! 
Who  dares  assail  Arbaoes? 

SaL  1! 

Sard.  Indeed! 
Prinee,  you  forget  yourself.  Upon  what  warrant? 

&■/.  (alkowiiig  the  aignet)  Thine. 

Arhatei.  (confoMd).  The  king's! 

SaL  Yes!  and  let  the  king  confirm  it 

Sard.  I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  purpose. 

SaL  You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety —I 
Smploy'd  it  for  the  best  Pronounce  in  person. 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave «—  a  moment  past 
I  was  your  representative. 

Sard,  Then  sheathe 
Your  swords. 

CArteeca  and  Salemenes  retnm  their  aworda  to  the  acaJibardi. 

SaL  Mine's  sheathed:  I  pray  you  sheathe  not  yours; 
lis  die  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

Sard,  A  heavy  one;  the  hilt,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 
Ob  aG«ard)  Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon  back.  We]l,slrs, 
What  doth  this  mean? 

Btieses.  The  prince  must  answer  that 


SaL  Truth  upon  my  part,  treason  upon  theirs. 

Sard,  Treason  ^  Arbaces ! .  treachery  and  Hcleses  1 
That  were  an  union  I  will  not  believe. 

BeUtes,  Where  is  the  proof? 

SaL  ril  answer  that,  if  once 
The  king  demands  your  fellow-traitor's  sword. 

Arbaeet,  (to  Saiemenea)  A  sword  which  hatli  been  drawn 
Against  his  foes.  [as  oft  as  thine 

SaL  And  now  against  his  brother, 
And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 

Sard.  That  is  not  possible:  he  dared  not;  no— 
No — I'll  not  h^ar  of  such  things.  These  vain  bickerings 
Are  spawn'd  in  .courts  by  base  intrigues  and  baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men's  lives. 
You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

Sal,  First 
Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty, 
And  I  will  answer  alL 
'  Sard.  Why,  if  I  thought  so  — 
Bu^  no,  it  canfl^t  be ;  the  Mede  Arbaoes— 
The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier  —  the  best  captaui 
Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations — No, 
ru  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  him  render 
The  scimitar  to  me  he  never  yielded 
Unto  our  enemies.  Chief,  keep  your  weapon.        [signet 

Sal,  (deiiverinf  iwck  the  aifnet)  Monarch,  take  back  your 

Sard,  No,  retain  it; 
But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

SaL  Sire, 
I  used  it  for  your  honour,  and  restore  it, 
Because  I  cannot  keep  it  with  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

Sard,  So  I  should: 
He  never  ask'd  it 

SaL  Doubt  not,  he  will  have  it 
Without  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect 

BeUses,  I  know  not  what  hatli  prejudiced  the  prince 
So  strongly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  none 
Have  been  more  sealous  for  Assyria's  weal. 

SaL  Peace,  ihetious  priest  and  faithless  soldier!  thou 
Unit'st  in  tliy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
For  those  who  know  thee  not  Thy  fellow's  sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  temper'd 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 

Beletes,  Hear  him. 
My  liege  •*-  the  son  of  Belus !  he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

Sard,  Oh!  for  that  I  pray  you 
Let  him  have  absolution.  I  dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men;  feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race 
From  whence  I  sprung  are  —  what  I  see  them  —ashes. 

Bele$e».  King!  Do  not  deem  so:  they  are  with  the 
And—  ^  [stars, 

Smrd.  You  shall  join  them  there  ere  they  will  rise, 
If  you  preach  farther.  —  Why,  this  is  rank  treason, 

SaL  My  lord! 


444 


SARDANAPALUa 


ACT  n. 


Sard,  To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 
Assyria's  idols !  Let  him  be  released  — 
Give  liim  his  sword. 

SaL  My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 
I  pray  ye  pause. 

Sard.  Yes,  and  be  sermonized, 
And  dinn'd,  and  deafen'd  with  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  all  Cbaldea*s  starry  mysteries. 

Beleses.  Monarch !  respect  them. 

Sard.  Oh!  for  that  —  I  love  them; 
( love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault. 
And  to  compare  them  with  my  Myrrha's  ejres; 
1  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates*  wave. 
As  the  light  breeze  of  midnight  crisps  tlie  broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 
Which  fringe  his  banks;  but  whether  they  may  be 
Gods,  as  some  say,  or  tlie  abodes  of  gods. 
As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  night, 
Worlds,  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I  know  nor  care  not 
There's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
I  would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore; 
Besides,  I  know  of  these  all  clay  can  know 
Of  aught  above  it,  or  below  it     nothing. 
I  see  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty  -^ 
When  they  shiue  on  my  grave  1  shall  know  neither. 

.  Belese*.  For  neither,  sire,  say  6ett€r, 

Sard.  I  will  wait. 
If  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 
In  the  mean  time  receive  your  sword,  and  know 
That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry — not  loving  either.  [save  him, 

SaL  (aside)  His  lusts  have  made  him  mad.  Then  most  I 
Spite  of  himself. 

Sard,  Please  you  to  hear  me.  Satraps ! 
And  chiefly  tliou,  my  priest,  beoause  I  doobt  thee 
More  tlian  the  soldier,  and  would  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  thou  not  half  a  warrior :  let  us  part 
In  peace  -  I'll  not  say  pardon— which  must  be 
Earn'd  by  the  guilty ;  this  Til  not  pronounce  ye, 
Altliough  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own;  and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 
But  fear  not  —  for  that  I  am  soft,  notfearfol  — 
And  so  live  on.  Were  I  the  thing  some  think  me. 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  high  gates 
Of  this  our  palace  into  the  dry  dust. 
Their  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crown'd  to  reign  o'er  -<  let  that  pass. 
As  I  have  said,  I  will  not  deem  ye  guilty. 
Nor  doom  ye  guiltless.  Albeit,  better  men 
Than  ye  or  I  stand  ready  to  arraign  you ; 
And  shoold  I  leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges. 
And  prooft  of  all  kinds,  I  might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe'er  they  now  are,  were 
Onoe  honest  Ye  are  free,  sirs. 
,    Arbacet,  Sire,  this  clemency  >- 

Beletet.  (interrapUnc  him)  Is  worthy  of  yourself;  and. 
We  thank  —  [although  innocent, 

Sard*  Priest !  keep  yoor  thanksgivings  for  Belos ; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 


Beleses.  Bat,  being  innocent  — 

Sard,  Be  silent  —  Guilt  is  loud.  Ifye  are  loyal. 
Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not  grateluL 

Beleses,  So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always  done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent;  but  innocence 
Must  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favour. 

Sard,  Thaf  s  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily. 
Though  not  for  this  occasion.  Prithee  keep  it 
To  plead  thy  sovereign's  cause  before  his  people? 

Beleses,  I  trust  there  is  no  cause. 

Sar<L  No  caicfe,  perhaps ; 
But  many  causers :  ~  if  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquintive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  the  stars. 
Which  are  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note. 
That  there  arc  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and  heaven 
Than  him  who  ruleth  many  and  slays  none ; 
And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows 
Enough  to  Sparc  even  those  who  wonid  not  spare  him. 
Were  they  once  masters  —  but  that's  doubtfiiL  Satraps! 
Vour  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty 
To  use  them  as  ye  will  —  but  from  this  hour 
I  have  no  call  for  either.  Salemenes ! 
Follow  me. 

[Rxeant  Kardtfiftpsnt,  SaicmeBM,  and  the  Tnia,  teavlii^ 
ArlMcet  Abd  Belews. 

Arbaces,  Beleses) 

Beleses,  Now,  what  think  you? 

Arbaces.  That  we  are  lost 

Beleses,  That  we  have  won  Che  kingdom. 

Arbaces,   What  ?  thus  suspected  —  with   the  sword 
slung  o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering 
To  be  blonii  down  by  his  unpi'rious  breath. 
Which  spared  us—  why,  I  know  not 

Beleses,  Seek  not  why ; 
Hut  let  us  profit  by  the  inter\'al. 

The  hour  is  still  oilr  own  —  our  power  the  same 

The  night  the  same  we  destined.  Hr  hath  changed 
Nothing  except  uur  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 

Arbaces,  And  yet — 

Beleses,  What,  doubting  still? 

Arbaces,  He  spared  our  lives  —  nay,  more, 
Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

Beleses.  And  how  long 
Will  he  so  spare?  till  the  first  drunken  minnte. 

Arbaces  Or  sober,  rather.  Yet  he  did  it  nobly; 
Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
Basely  — 

Beleses,  Say  bravely. 

Arbaces.  Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 
Bnt  it  has  touch'd  me,  and,  whate'er  betide, 
I  will  no  further  on. 

Beleses,  And  lose  the  world! 

Arbaces,  Lose  any  thing,  except  my  own  esteem. 

Beleses,  I  blush  that  we  should  owe  oar  lives  to  9oA 
A  king  of  distaffs! 

Arbaces,  Bntnokas  weowetliem; 


ACT  U. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


445 


And  I  should  blash  fkr  more  to  take  the  grantor's  I 

Seleses.  Thou  mayst  endure  whate'er  thou  wiK,  the 
Have  written  otherwise.  [stars 

Arbaees.  Though  they  came  down, 
And  marshaird  me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

BeUses.  This  is  weakness  —  worse 
Than  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead. 
And  wakiAg  in  the  dark. — Go  to — go  to. 

Arbacci.  Methoughtbelook'd  likeNimrodas  bespoke, 
Erea  as  the  proad  imperial  statue  stands 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  sivays,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  temple,     [him, 

Beieses,  I  told  you  tliat  you  had  too  much  despised 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him. 
What  then  ?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

Arbaees.  But  we 
The  meaner :  —  would  he  had  not  spared  us  I 

Seleses.  So  — 
Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 

Arbaees,  No — but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

Seleses,  Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men ! 
Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery  —  and,  behold,  upon  the  sudden, 
Because,  for  something  or  for  nothing,  tliis 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
Twixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  turned 
Into— what  shall  I  say  ?  —  Sardanapalus ! 
1  know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

Arhaees*  But  * 

An  hour  ago,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly — as  it  is, 
(  must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us  » 
Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it.  [dom, 

Seleses.  No — the  queen  liked  no  sharers  of  the  king- 
Not  even  a  husband. 

Arbaees,  I  must  serve  him  truly — 

Seleses.  And  humbly  2 

Arbaees.  No,  sir ,  proudly  —  being  honest 
I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 
Tou  may  do  your  own  deeming  —  you  have  codes, 
And  mysteries,  and  corolfairies  of 
R^t  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  my  direction, 
And  must  pursue  but  what  a  plain  heart  teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 

BaUses,  Have  you  finished? 

Arbmces.  Yes  — 
Wi^you. 

Seleses,  And  would,  periiaps,  betray  as  well 
As  quit  me? 

Arbaees.  Thafs  a  sacerdotal  tbotight, 
And  not  a  soldier's. 

Seleses.  Be  it  what  you  will—* 
Tfvre  widi  these  wrangliags,  and  but  bear  one. 

Arbaees,  No  — 
There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a  phalanx. 

Seleses.  If  it  must  be  SO — 
nioa 


Arbaees.  Alone!  ' 

Seleses.  Thrones  hold  but  one. 

Arbaees.  But  this  is  fiU'd. 

Seleses.  With  worse  than  vacancy  — 
A  despised  monarch.  Look  to  it,  Arbaees : 
I  have  still  aided,  cherish'd,  loved,  and  urged  you ; 
Wa?  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  and  save  Assyria.  Heaven  itself 
Secm'd  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly. 
Even  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a  shallow  softness ;  but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  languish,  I  will  be 
Her  saviour  or  tJie  victim  of  her  tyrant. 
Or  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one : 
And  if  I  win,  Arbaees  is  my  servant 

Arbaees.   ypvr  servant! 

Seleses.  Why  not?  better  than  be  slave, 
The  pardon' d  slave  of  she  Sardanapalus. 

EDt«r  Panu. 

Pania.  yij  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

Arbaees.  It  is  obey'd  ere  spoken. 

Seleses.  Notwithstanding, 
Let* s  hear  it 

Pania.  Forthwith,  on  tliis  very  niglit, 
Repair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Of  Babylon  and  Media. 

Seleses.  With  our  troops  ? 

Pania.  My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household-train. 

Arbaees.  But  — 

Seleses,  It  must  be  obey'd ; 
Say,  we  depart 

Pania.  My  order  is  to  see  you 
Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 

Seleses.  (ui<ie)Ay! 
Well,  sir,  we  will  accompany  you  hence. 

Pania.  I  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  (he  guard 
Of  honour  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Your  leisare,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not     [fizu  Panu. 

Seleses.  iVofo  then  obey! 

Arbaees.  Doubtless. 

Seleses.  Yes,  to  the  gates 
That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison. 
No  ftirther. 

Arbaees.  Thou  hast  harp'd  the  truth  indeed ! 
The  realm  itself,  in  all  Its  wide  extension, 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

Seleses,  Grayest 

Arbaees.  If  I  tliought  so,  this  good  sword  should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

Seleses,  It  shall  have  work  enough : 
Let  me  hope  better  than  thou  augurest ; 
At  present  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Thou  dost  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

Arbaees.  Why,  what  Other 
Interpretation  should  it  bear?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient-monardis  — 
Pardon  and  poison  ->  favours  and  a  sword  — 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  eternal  sleep. 


446 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACT  IL 


How  many  satraps  in  his  fatlier's  time — 
For  he  1  o wo  is,  or  at  least  wat,  bloodless  — 

Beletet,  Bat  will  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

Arhaces,  I  doubt  it 
How  many  satraps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties. 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path !  I  know  not  how. 
But  they  ail  sickened  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

Beletes,  Let  us  but  regain 
The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we'll  shorten 
The  journey. 

Arbaces,  'Twill  be  shorten'd  at  the  gates, 
It  may  be. 

Belei€s,  No;  tliey  hardly  will  risk  that 
They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city-walls, 
Where  we  are  known  and  may  have  partisans : 
If  they  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  the  living.  Let  us  hence. 

Arbacet,  If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  iife  — 

Beletei,   Fool !  hence  —  what  else  should  despotism 
alarm'd 
Mean  ?  Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 

Arbaces.  Towards  our  provinces? 

Beleset.  No;  towards  your  kingdont.  [means. 

There's  time,  there's  heart,  and  hope,  and  power,  an<! 
Which  their  half-measures  kavc  us  in  full  scope.  -^ 
Away! 

Arbacet,  And  I,  even  yet  repentiQg,  most 
Relapse  to  guilt! 

Beletes.  Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 
Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.  Away,  1  say  1 
Let's  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and  choking. 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-shade ;  hence ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  council. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  departure  liinders  our  good  eseort, 
The  worthy  Pania,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  henoe: 
Nay,  tliere's  no  other  choice  but — hence,  I  say. 

[Exit  with  Arbaces,  wAo  Mtows  r«|«ctaDtl> . 
Enter  Sardanapalub  and  SALBJiB.NXs. 

Sard.  Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed,  ' 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a  remedy ; 
We  are  now  secure  by  these  men's  exile. 

Sal.  Yes, 
As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 

Sard,  Why,  what  wouldst  have  me  do? 

SaL  Undo  what  you  have  done. 

Sard,  Revoke  my  pardon? 

Sal.  Replace  the  crown  now  tottering  on  your  temples. 

Sard,  That  were  tyrannical. 

SaL  But  sure. 

Sard.  We  are  so. 
What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  frontier? 

SaL  They  are  not  there  yet  —  never  should  they  be  so, 
Were  I  well  listen'd  to. 

Sard.  Nay,  I  have  listen'd 


Impartially  to  thee — why  not  to  them  ? 

SaL  You  may  know  that  hovafter;  ajitis, 
I  take  my  leave,  to  order  forth  the  guard. 
SartL  And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet? 

SaL  Sure, 
Dispense  with  me  —  I  am  no  wassailer: 
Command  me  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchant's. 

Sard.  Nay,  but  'tis  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 

SaL  And  lit  that  some  should  watch  for  those  whoretd 
Too  oft.  Am  I  permitted  to  defiart? 

Sard.  Yes  —  Stay  a  moment,  my  good  Satemenes, 
My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 
Than  I  am  king.  You  should  have  been  the  monarcli. 
And  1  —  I  know  not  what,  and  care  not;  but 
Think  not  I  am  insensible  to  all 
Thine  honest  wisdom,  and  thy  rough,  yet  kind. 
Though  oft  reproving,  sufferance  of  my  follies. 
If  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel. 
That  is,  their  lives  —  it  is  not  that  I  doubt 
The  advice  was  sound ;  but,  let  them  live:  we  will  not 
Cavil  about  their  lives—  so  let  them  mend  them. 
Their  banishment  will  leave  me  still  sound  sleep. 
Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 

SaL  Thus  you  run 
The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors  — 
A  moment's  pang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  (hem  be  made  quiet 

Sard.  Tempt  me  not: 
My  word  is  past 

SaL  But  it  may  be  recall'd. 

Sard.  'Tis  royal. 

SaL  And  should  therefore  be  decisive* 
This  half-indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke —a  pardon  should  be  fuU^ 
Or  it  is  none. 

Sard.  And  who  persuaded  me 
After  I  had  repeal'd  them,  or,  at  least,  • 

Only  dismiss'd  them  from  our  presence,  who 
.  Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  ? 

Sal.  True;  that  I  had  forgotten;  that  is,  sire, 
(f  they  e'er  reach  their  snitrapies  —  why,  tfaeu. 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  adviee. 

Sard.  And  if 
They  do  not  reach  them  —  look  to  it !  —  in  safety, 
(n  safety,  mark  me  —and  security  — 
Look  to  thine  own. 

SaL  Permit  me  to  depart ; 
Their  ttifet^  shall  be  cared  for. 

Sard.  Get  thee  hence,  then ; 
And,  pritliee,  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 

SaL  Sire,  I  shall  ever  duly  serve  my  sovereign. 

CKxk 

Sard.  (sokO  That  man  is  of  a  temper  too  severe: 
Hard  but  as  lofty  as  the  rock,  and  free 
From  all  the  taints  of  common  earth,  while  I 
Am  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  flowers : 
But  as  our  mould  is,  must  the  produce  be. 
If  I  have  err^d  this  time,  'tis  on  the  side 
Where  error  sits  most  lightly  on  that  sease^ 
I  know  not  what  to  call  it;  but  it  reckons 
With  me  ofttimes  for  pain,  and  sometimes  plcasore; 


4CT  n. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


447 


A  spirit  wbich  seema  placed  about  my  heart 
To  count  its  throbs,  not  quicken  them,  and  ask 
Qaestioiis  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask  me. 
Nor  Baal,  thou^  an  oracolar  deity  — 
Albeit  his  marble-fiicc  majestical 
Frowns  as  the  sliadows  of  the  evening  dim 
ffis  brows  to  changed  expression,  till  at  times 
I  think  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 
Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  I  will  be  joyous  — 
And  here  comes  Joy's  true  herald. 

Enter  Mtbhra. 

Myrrha.  King!  the  sky 
Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder, 
In  clouds  that  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
In  forked  flashes  a  commanding  tempest 
Win  you  then  quit  the  palace? 

S^rd.  Tempest,  sayst thou! 

M^frrha.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Sard.  For  my  own  part,  I  should  be 
Not  ill  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene, 
And  watch  the  warring  elements ;  but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garments  and 
Smooth  faces  of  onr  festive  friends.  Say,  Myrrba, 
Art  tiion  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of  clouds  ? 

Mgrrka.  In  my  own  country  wc  respect  their  voices 
As  auguries  of  JoTe. 

Sard,  Jove  —  ay,  your  Baal  - 
Ours  also  has  a  property  in  thunder, 
And  ever  and  anon  some  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity,  and  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

Myrrhti.  That  were  a  dread  omen. 

Sard.  Yes— for  the  priests.  Well,  we  will  not  go  forth 
Beyond  the  palace-wails  to-night,  but  make 
Onr  feast  within. 

Sfyrrka  Now,  Jove  be  praised!  that  he 
Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear.  The  gods 
Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyself, 
And  Oash  this  storm  between  thee  and  thy  foes, 
To  shield  thee  irom  them. 

Sirrd.  Child,  ifthcre  be  peril, 
Methinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  river's  brink. 

Bfyrrka,  Not  so,  these  walls 
Are  high  and  strong,  and  guarded.  Treason  has 
To  penetrate  ttrongh  many  a  winding  wRy, 


And  massy  portal !  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

Sard.  No,  nor  in  the  palace. 
Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus,  where  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefls,  if  treachery  be :  ' 

Even  as  tiie  arrow  finds  the  airy  king, 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.  But  be  calm: 
The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banished,  and  fkr  upon  their  way. 

Myrrha,  They  live,  then? 

Sard^  So  sanguinary?  Tfiou! 

Mjfrrka,  I  would  not  shrink 
From  just  infliction  of  due  punishment 
On  those  who  seek  your  life:  wcr*t  otherwise, 
I  should  not  merit  mine.  Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Salemenes. 

Sard,  This  is  strange; 
The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  botii  against  me, 
And  urge  me  to  revenge. 

Myrrha.  'Tis  a  Greek  virtue. 

Sard,  But  not  a  kingly  one  —  I'll  none  on't;  or, 
If  ever  I  indulge  in 't,  it  shall  be 
With  kings  ~  my  equals. 

Myrrha,  These  men  sought  to  be  so. 

Sard.  Myrrha,  this  is  too  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear— 

Myrrha.  For  you. 

Sard.  No  matter  -  still  'tis  fear. 
I  have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wralh, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  1  would  not  copy. 
I  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  women. 

.  Myrrha.  My  lord,  I  am  no  boaster  of  my  love, 
Nor  of  my  attributes;  I  have  shared  your  splendour. 
And  will  partake  your  fortunes.  You  may  live 
To  find  one  slave  more  true  than  subject  myriads; 
But  this  the  gods  avert!  I  am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel. 
Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs. 
Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  ofmine. 

Sard.  Grief  cannot  come  where  perfect  love  exists. 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  whidi  it  could  not  scare  away.  Lefs  in  — 
The  hour  approaches,  and  wc  must  prepare 
To  meet  the  invited  guests  who  grace  our  feast     [Exeaat 


448 


BARDANAPALUg. 


MCrVL 


ACT     ni. 


SCENE  L 

The  Hall  of  the  Palace  lUuminaled  —  Saroanapalus  and  his  Gaests  it 

Tabled  —  A  itorin  withoat,  and  thander  occaiioBaUy  heard  dniiog 

the  BiuqaeL 

Sard,  Fill  full!  Why  this  is  as  it  should  be :  here 
Is  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair !  Here  sorrew  cannot  reach.        [sparkles. 

Zames,  Nor  elsewhere  —  where  the  king  is,  pleasure 

Sard,  Is  not  this  better  now  than  Nimrod's  huntings, 
Or  my  wild  grandam's  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 
She  could  nOt  ke^p  when  conquer'd  ? 

Aliada.  Mighty  though 
They  were,  as  all  thy  royal  line  have  been. 
Yet  none  of  those  who  went  before  have  reach 'd 
The  acm^  of  Sardanapalus,  who 
Has  placed  his  joy  in  peace  —  the  sole  true  glory. 

Sard,  And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which  glory 
Is  but  the  patlk.  What  is  it  that  we  seek  ? 
Enjoyment !  We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  it, 
And  not  gone  tracking  it  through  human  ashes. 
Making  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 

Zames,  No; 
AJl  hearts  are  happy,  and  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  in  jubilee. 

Sard,  Art  sure  of  that?  I  have  heard  otherwise; 
Some  say  tliat there  be  traitors. 

Zamei,  Traitors  they 
Who  dare  to  say  so!  —  'Tis  impossible. 
What  cause? 

Sard,  What  cause?  true,  —  fill  the  goblet  up; 
We  will  not  think  of  them :  there  are  none  such, 
Or  if  tlicre  be,  they  are  gone. 

Altada,  Guests,  to  my  pledge! 
Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a  measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king  —  the  monarch,  say  I  ? 
The  god  Sardauapalus  I 

[Zames  and  (he  Ovests  kneel,  and  exclaim  — 

Mightier  than 
His  fother  Baal,  the  god  Sardauapalus ! 

[It  thanders  as  they  kneel ;   some  start  np  in  confasion. 

Zames.  Why  do  ye  rise,  my  friends  ?  In  that  strong 
His  father-gods  consented.  [petil 

Myrrha,  Menaced,  rather. 
King,  wilt  thou  bear  this  mad  impiety  ? 

Sard,  Impiety  ?  —  nay,  if  the  sires  who  reign'd 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I'll  not  disgrace 
Their  lineage.  But  arise,  my  pious  friends ; 
Hoard  your  devotion  for  the  thnoderer  there : 
I  seek  but  to  be  loved,  not  worshipped. 

AUada.  Both - 
Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 


Sard,  Methinks  the  thunders  still  increase:  it  if 
An  awful  nigiit 

M^rrka.  Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 
No  palace  to  protect  their  worshippers. 

Sard.  That's  true,  my  Myrrha;  and  could  I  oonvert 
My  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  tlie  wretched, 
I'd  do  it 

Myrrha,  Thou'rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 
Able  to  work  a  will  so  good  and  general, 
As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

Sard,  And  your  gods,  then. 
Who  eaut  and  do  not  ? 

Myrrha,  Do  not  speak  of  that, 
Lest  we  provoke  them. 

Sard,  True,  they  love  not  censure 
Better  than  mortals.  Friends,  a  thought  has  strock  me: 
Were  there  no  temples,  would  there,  think  ye,  be 
Air- worshippers  —  that  is,  when  it  is  angry, 
And  pelting  as  even  now  ? 

Myrrha,  The  Persian  prays 
Upon  his  mountain. 

iSsr^l  Yes,  when  the  sun  shines. 

Myrrha,  And  I  would  ask  if  this  your  palace  were 
Unroofd  and  desolate,  how  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  Jay  low  ? 

Altada.  The  fair  Ionian  is  too  sarcastic 
Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  welt ; 
The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their  king's, 
And  homage  is  their  pride. 

Sard.  Nay,  pardon,  guests. 
The  fair  Greek's  readiness  of  speech. 

Altada,  Pardanl  sire: 
We  honour  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 
Hark!  what  was  that? 

Zames.  That!  nothing  but  the  jar 
Of  distant  portals  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Altada,  It  sounded  like  the  clash  of —  hark  agaui! 

Zames,  The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 

Sard,  No  more. 
Myrrha,  my  love,  hast  thou  thy  shell  in  order  ? 
Sing  me  a  song  of  Sappho,  her,  thou  knowst. 
Who  in  thy  country  threw  — 

Eater  Panu,  with  bU  aword  and  ganncnta  Moody,  and  diaordcrcd.  1^ 
Onests  rise  in  cunftuion. 

Pamia  (to  the  gnrds).  Look  to  the  portals; 
And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  walls  without. 
Your  arms !  To  arms!  The  king's  in  danger.  MoDaich! 
Excuse  this  haste  —  'tis  faith. 

Sard^  Speak  on. 

Pania,  It  is 
As  Salcmettes  fear*d ;  the  faithless  satrapa  — 


MCY  tlV 


SARDANAPALUS. 


449 


SareL  Toa  are  woQnded  —  give  some  wine.   Take 
breath,  good  Pania. 

Punui,  Tis  nothing  — a  mere  flesh-woand.  I  am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign, 
Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 

Mjfrrkm,  WeU,  sir,  the  rebels? 

Pmma,  Soon  as  Arbaoes  and  Seleses  reach'd 
Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 
To  march :  and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 
Which  I  was  delegated  with,  they  caU'd 
Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

Mgrrka.  AU? 

Pmnuu  Too  many. 

Smrd.  Spare  not  of  thy  firee  speech 
To  spare  muv  cars  the  truth. 

Pamia.  My  own  slight  guard 
Were  faithful  —  and  whaf  s  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

Myrrktu  And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful? 

PtmuL.  No  — 
The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  stlU  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs, 
Are  nnmerons,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 
Ofo  besiutes)  I  am  charged  to  — 

Mj/rrkm.  *Tis  no  time  for  hesitation. 

Panim,  Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  the  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment. 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers :  his 
Sole  presence  in  tiiis  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

Strd.  What,  ho  I 
My  armour  there. 

Mjfrrhtu  And  wilt  thoa? 

S^riL  Will  I  not? 
Ho,  there ! — But  seek  not  for  the  buckler ;  'tis 
Too  heavy:  —  a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 
Where  are  the  rebels? 

Pmtda.  Scarce  a  furlong's  length 
From  the  outward  wall  the  fiercest  conflict  rages, 

Smrd,  Then  I  may  charge  on  horseback.  Sfero,  ho! 
Order  my  horse  out  —  There  is  space  enough 
Bven  in  our  courts,  and  by  tiie  outer  gate, 
To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

C£»t  Sfero  for  tho  annow. 

Myrrhs  How  I  do  love  thee  I 

Sturd,  I  ne'er  doubted  it 

Myrrha,  But  bow  I  know  thee. 

SMTiL  (to  bb  Attendtfit)  Bring  down  my  spear»  too.  — 
Where's  Salemenes? 

Pmmtu  Where  a  soldier  should  be, 
Inthetiiickoftiiefight 

Sard,  Then  hasten  to  him  — Is 
The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
licft  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

P4aua,  Twas 
When  I  late  left  him,  and  I  have  no  fear : 
Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  phalanx  form'd. 

Sard,  Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the  present) 


And  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own  —  and  say, 
I  come. 

Pania,  There's  victory  in  the  very  word.       tBxitPtau. 

Sard,  Altada  -  Zames  —  forth,  and  arm  ye!  There 
Is  aU  in  readiness  in  the  armoury. 
See  that  the  women  are  bestow'd  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments :  let  a  guard 
Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  lives  ~ command  it,  Zames. 
Altada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here  ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 

[Exeant  Zaanes,  Aluda,  and  all  urt  Myrrh*. 
Enter  Svmo  and  other*  with  Uie  King^f  Arms. 

I^ero,  King!  your  armour.  [baldric;  now 

Sard,  (aniline  himieu)   Give  me  the  cuirass  —  so:  my 
My  sword :  I  had  forgot  the  helm,  where  is  it ? 
That's  well  —no,  'tis  too  heavy;  you  mistake,  too  - 
It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it 

Sfero.  Sire,  I  decm'd 
That  too  conspicuous  from  the  predo^s  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath  —  and,  trust  me. 
This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 

Sard,  Tou  deem'd !  Are  you  too  tnrn'd  a  rebel  ?  Fellow  1 
Your  part  is  to  obey :  return,  and  —  no  - 
It  is  too  late—  I  will  go  forth  without  it 

Sfero,  At  least,  wear  this. 

Sard,  Wear  Caucasus !  why,  'tis 
A  mountain  on  my  temples. 

I^ero,  Sire,  the  meanest 
Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  battle. 
AU  men  will  recognize  you  —  for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her  brightness. 

Sard,  I  go  forth  to  be  recognised,  and  thus 
Shall  be  so  sooner.  Now — my  spear!  I'marm'd. 

[In  going  itops  short,  and  tami  to  Sfero. 

Sfero  —  I  had  forgotten  —  bring  the  mirror. 

Sfero,  The  mirror,  sire? 

Sard,  Ye«,  sir,  of  polish'd  brass, 
Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India  —  but  be  speedy. 

fExft  Sftro, 

Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 

Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels? 

Myrrha,  Because  my  place  is  here. 

Sard,  And  when  I  am  gone — 

Myrrha,  I  follow. 

Sard.   You/  to  battle? 

Myrrha,  Ifitwereso, 
'Twere  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 
I  will  await  here  your  return, 

Sard,  Theplaoe 
Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail;  and,  ifit  should  be  so. 
And  I  return  not — 

Myrrha,  Still,  we  meet  again. 

Sard,  How? 

Myrrha,  In  the  spot  where  all  mast  meet  at  last-* 
In  Hades  t  if  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  i^  Styx;  and,  if  there  be  not. 
In  ashes. 

28 


450 


SARDANAPALUS. 


icr  m. 


Sard.  Dar'st  fhoa  so  much  ? 

Mfrrka,  I  dare  all  things. 
Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
A  rebers  booty :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest 

Re-enter  Swjulo  with  the  mirror. 

Sard,  (looking  at  himseu)  This  cuirass  fits  me  well,  the 
baldric  better, 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.  Methinks,  I  seem 

Cflioga  awex  the  helmet  after  trying  it  again.  <— • 

Passing  well  in  these  toys ;  and  now  to  prove  them. 
Altada!  Where's  Altada? 

j^ero.  Waiting,  sire, 
Without :  he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

Sard,  True ;  I  forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 
Myrrha,  embrace  me;  yet  once  more—  once  more  ^— 
Love  me,  whatever  betide.  My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love« 

Myrrha,  Go  forth,  and  conquer ! 

[Bmennt  SardanapaiaA  and  Sfero. 
Nowy  I  am  alone. 
All  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.  Let  him  but  vanquish  and 
Me  perish  !  If  he  vanquish,  not,  I  perish ; 
For  1  will  not  outlive  him.  He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  how  nor  why. 
Not  for  that  he  is  king;  for  now  his  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave; 
And  yet  1  love  him  more.  Oh,  mighty  Jove ! 
Foigive  this  monstrous  love  for  a  barbarian. 
Who  knows  not  of  Olympus :  yes,  I  love  him 
Now,  now,  far  more  than  —  Hark  —  to  the  war-shout! 
Methinks  it  nears  me.  If  it  should  be  so, 

[ihc  draws  forth  a  amall  Tiaf.  — 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  father 
Learn'd  to  compound  on  Buxine  shores,  and  taught  me 
How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me !  It  had  freed  me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 
I  half  forgot  I  was  a  slave:  —  where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude, 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 
In  the  degree  of  bondt^c,  w|  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.  Again  that  shout !  and  now  the  clash 
Of  arms  —  and  now  —  and  now  — 

Enter  Altada. 

Altada,  Ho,  Sfero,  hoi  [How 

Myrrha.  He  is  not  here;  what  wouldst  thou  with  him  ? 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ? 

Altada,  Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

Myrrha.  And  the  king? 

Altada,  Like  a  king.  I  must  find  Sfero, 
And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  helmet. 
He  fights  till  now  bare-headed,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.  The  soldiers  knew  his  face, 
And  the  foe  too;  and,  in  tlic  moon's  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.  Every  arrow 


Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hak  and  fair  features. 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

Myrrha.  Ye  gods, 
Who  fulminate  o'er  my  fathers'  land,  protect  him  \ 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king  ? 

Altada,  BySalemenes, 
Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge, 
Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  soTereigfi. 
The  king!  the  king  fights  as  he  revels!  ho! 
What,  Sfero!  I  will  seek  the  armoury  — 
He  must  be  there.  [sxk  iiuiU. 

Myrrha.  'Tis  no  dishonour  —  no  — 
'Tb  no  dishonour  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.  IfAlcidcs 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale*s 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaflf;  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once. 
Nursed  in  cfieminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood. 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour. 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument  How  goes  the  strife,  sir? 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.  Lost, 
Lost  almost  past  recovery.  Zames!  Where 
Is  Zames? 

Myrrha.  Posted  with  the  guard  appointed 
To  watch  before  the  apartment  of  tlie  women.  CexU  omm. 

Myrrha.  He*s  gone;  and  told  no  more  than  thatall'j 
What  need  have  I  to  know  more  ?  In  those  words,  post! 
Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  tliousands,  and  the  fortune  of  all  left 
With  life,  are  merged :  and  I,  too,  with  the  great, 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shall  be  nothing.  At  the  least. 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping :  no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  Pania. 

Pania.  Away  with  me, 
Myrrha,  without  delay ;  we  must  not  lose 
A  moment  —  all  that's  left  us  now. 

Myrrha.  The  king? 

Pania.  Sent  me  here  to  conduct  yon  hence,  beyond 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

Myrrha,  Then 
He  lives  — 

Pania.  And  charged  me  to  secure  your  life. 
And  beg  you  to  live  on  for  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

Myrrha.  Will  he  then  give  way? 

Pania.  Not  till  the  last  Still,  still  he  does  wbaU\-r 
Despair  can  do;  and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

Myrrha.  They  are  here,  then : — ay, 
Their  shouts  come  ringing  through  the  ancient  halls, 
Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 


ACT  UL 


SARBANAPALUS. 


451 


TItb  fatal  night  Farewell,  Assyria's  line! 

Farewell  to  allof  Nimrod!  Even  the  name 

Is  DOW  no  more. 

Pania.  Away  with  me  —  away  \  [king 

Mifrrha,  No;  I'll  die  here!  — Away,  and  tell  your 

1  loved  him  to  the  last 


Sasdamapalus   and  salbmbnis    with    Soldiers.     Pakia    quits 
Mybkba,  and  ranges  himself  with  them. 

Sard.  Since  it  is  thus, 
We'll  die  where  we  were  born  —  in  our  own  halls. 
Serry  your  ranks      stand  firm.  I  have  despatch'd 
A  trusty  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 
All  fresh  and  faithful;  the/ii  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over.  —  Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[Pania  retnrns  towards  Myrrha. 

SaL  We  have  breathing-time:  yet  one  more  charge, 
One  for  Assyria !  [my  friends  — 

Sard.  Rather  say  for  Bactria  I 
Afy  faithful  Bactrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we'll  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

SaL  Hark!  they  come ^ they  come. 

Enter  Bilksbs  and   arbacbs  with  the  Rebels. 

Arhaees,  Set  on,  we  have  them  in  tlie  toil.  Charge ! 

Charge! 
BeUtet,  On!  on!  —  Heaven  fights  for  us  and  with 

as.  -  On! 

CThe>-  charge  the  King  and  Salenienes  with  their  Troops,  who  de- 
fend ihemselvei  till  the  arrival  of  Zames  with  the  Gaard  before 
mentioned.  The  Rebels  are  then  driven  off;  and  parsaed  by 
Salenieiies,  etc  Aa  Che  King  Is  going  to  Join  the  pursnit,  Se- 
leses crosses  liim. 

BeUses,  Ho!  tyrant  —  2  will  end  this  war. 

Sard.  Even  so, 
^fy  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  trusty  subject :  —  yield,  I  pray  thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fitter  doom. 
Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood, 

Beleset.  Thine  hour  is  come. 

Sard.  No,  thine.  —I've  lately  read, 
Though  but  a  young  astrologer,  the  stars ; 
And,  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  prodaima 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crushed. 

BeUset.  But  not  by  thee. 

[They  llgbt)  Beleaes  Is  wonnded  and  diaarmed. 

Sard,  (raising  his  sword  to  despatch  blm,  ezclaima^) 
Now  call  upon  thy  planets,  will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky  to  preserve  their  seer  and  credit? 

CA  party  o<  Rebels  enter  and  rescue  fieleseaw  They  aaiaii  the  King, 
who,  in  tnrn,  U  rescued  by  a  party  of  his  Soldiera,  who  drive 
the  Rebels  off*.  , 

The  villain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 

Upon  tfaem  —  ho !  there  —  victory  is  ours.  [Exit  tn  pnrsait. 

Mifrrha  (to  pania).  Pursue!   Why  standst  thou  here, 
and  leavest  the  ranks 
Of  fellow-soldiers  conquering  without  thee? 

Pama.  The  king's  command  was  not  to  quit  thee. 

Siyrrka.  Me! 
Think  not  of  me  — a  single  soldier's  atrm 


Must  not  be  wanting  now,  I  ask  no  guard, 

I  need  no  guard :  what,  with  a  world  at  stake. 

Keep  watch  upon  a  woman?  Hence,  I  say, 

0  r  Uiou  art  shamed !  Nay,  then,  /  will  go  forth, 

A  feeble  female,  'midst  tbeir  desperate  strife, 

And  bid  tliee guard  me  Mere  ~  where  thou  shouldst  shield 

Thy  sovereign.  [exU  Myrn.a. 

Pania,  Yet  stay,  damsel!  She  is  gone. 
If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  better  I 
Had  lost  my  life.  Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearei;  than  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  tliat  too;  and  can  I  do  less  than  he, 
Who  never  flash'd  a  scimitar  till  now  ? 
AEyrrlia,  return,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch.  [Exit  Pani* 

Enter  ALTiba  and  Smo  by  an  opposite  door. 

Altada.  Myrrha! 
What,  gone  ?  yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged, 
And  Pania  also.  Can  aught  have  befallen  them  ? 

Sfero.  I  saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels  fled : 
They  probably  are  but  retired  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem.  % 

Altaila,  If  the  king 
Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must. 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom'd 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 

i^ero.  Let  us  trace  them; 
She  cannot  be  fled  far  ^  and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soA  sovereign 
Than  his  recover'd  kingdom. 

Altada.  Baal  himself 
Ne'er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it:  he  defies 
All  augury  offoes  or  friends;  and  like 
The  closeand  sultry  summer's  day,  which  bodes 
A  twilight-tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 
The  man's  inscrutable. 

i^ero.  Not  more  than  others. 
All  are  the  sons  of  oircomstanoe ;  away  — > 
Let's  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  to  be 
Tortured  for  his  infatuation,  and 
Condemn'd  without  a  crime.  [e  sea  at 

Enter  SAUCMmNRS  and  Soldiers. 

SaL  The  triumph  is 
Flattering:  tliey  are  beaten  backward  from  the  palace. 
And  we  have  open'd  regular  access 
To  the  troops  station'd  on  the  other  side 
Euphrates,  who  may  still  be  true;  nay,  must  be. 
When  they  hear  of  our  victory.  But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  where's  the  king? 

Enter  Sardanapaum,  cnja  rais^  and   Mybbua. 

Sard.  Here,  brother. 

Sal,  Unhurt,  I  hope. 

Sard.  Not  quite;  but  let  it  pass. 
We've  clear'd  the  palace — 

Sal.  And,  I  trust,  the  city. 
Our  numbers  gather ;  and  I  have  order'd  Onward 


452 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACT  IIL 


A  cloud  of  Parthians,  hitherto  reseired^ 
AH  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  pour'd  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  fli(^ht 

Sard.  It  is  ah-eady,  or  at  least  they  march'd 
Faster  than  I  could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 
Who  spared  no  speed.  I  am  spent;  gire  me  a  seat 

Sal,  There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

Sard,  'Tis  no  place  to  rest  on, 
For  mind  nor  body :  let  me  have  a  couch, 

[They  place  ■  feat 

A  peasant's  stool,  I  care  not  what:  so— now 
I  breathe  more  freely. 

Sal,  This  great  hour  has  proved 
The  brightest  and  most  glorious  of  your  life. 

Sard,  And  the  most  tiresome.  Where's  my  cup-bearer  ? 
Bring  me  some  water. 

Sal,  (imiiinc)  'Tis  the  first  time  he 
Ever  had  such  an  order:  even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

Sard.  Blood— doubtless. 
But  there's  enough  of  that  shed ;  as  for  wine, 
I^ave  leam'd  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  element : 
Thrice  have  1  drank  of  it,  and  thrice  rcnew'd, 
With  greater  strength  than  the  grape  ever  gave  me, 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.  Where's  the  soldier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  helmet ! 

One  of  the  Guards,  Slain,  sire! 
An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  act 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 

Sard.  Slain!  unrewarded! 
And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst:  that's  hard,  poor  slave  !— 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold:  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
The  pleasure  of  that  draught ;  for  I  was  parch'd 
As  I  am  now.  [They  iniug  waeer— be  drinks.  I  live  again  — 
The  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love,    [Grom  henceforth 
But  war  on  water. 

Sal.  And  that  bandage,  sire, 
Which  girds  your  arm? 

Sard,  A  scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

Myrrha.  Oh!  he  is  wounded! 

Sard,  Not  too  much  of  that; 
And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful. 
Now  I  am  cooler. 

Myrrha,  You  have  bound  it  with — 

Sttrd,  The  fillet  of  my  diadem:  the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me, 
Save  an  incumbrance. 

Myrrha  (to  the  Attendants).  Summon  speedily 
A  leech  of  the  most  skilful :  pray,  retire; 
I  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it 

Sard.  Do  so, 
For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently :  but  what 
Knowst  thou  of  wounds?  yet  wherefore  do  I  uik? 
Knowst  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
This  minion  ? 

Sal.  Herding  with  the  other  females, 
Like  frighten'd  antelopes? 


Sard.  No:  like  the  dam 
Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 
(^  And  femininely  meanetfa  furiously. 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female) 
Against  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub. 
She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers 
In  the  pursuit 

SaL  Indeed! 

Sard,  You  see,  this  night 
Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.  I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek; 
Her  large  black  eyes,  that  flash'd  through  her  long  hair 
As  it  stream 'd  o'er  her ;  her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow ;  her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry;  her  lips 
Apart;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din. 
As  a  lute's  pierceth  through  the  cymbal's  dash, 
Jarr'd  but  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  brattling;  her 
Waved   arms,    more  dazzlii^  with   their  own>bon 

whiteness 
Than  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  cac^t  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp;  all  these  things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself. 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Sat.  (adide)  This  is  too  much: 
Again  the  love-fit's  on  him,  and  all's  lost, 
Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 

(Aloud.)  But  pray  thee,  sire. 
Think  of  your  wound — you  said  even  now  'twas  padafaL 

Sard,  That's  true,  too;  but  I  must  not  think  of  it 

Sal,  I  have  look'd  to  alt  things  needful,  and  win  now 
Receive  reports  of  progress  made  in  such 
Orders  as  I  had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

Sard,  Be  it  so. 

Sal.  (in  retirfaif)  M^yrrha! 

Myrrha.  Prince! 

Sal.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to-night. 
Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord  —  But  now 
I  have  no  time:  thou  lov'st  the  king? 

Myrrha.  I  lore 
Sardanapalus. 

SaL  But  wottldst  have  him  king  still  t         [should  bf . 

Myrrha,   I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  lie 

Sal.  Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be:  to  have  him  iwe 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellioii 
Raging  without:  look  well  that  he  relapae  D<yt. 

Myrrha,  There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemeocs 
To  urge  me  on  to  this:  I  will  not  fiuL 
All  that  a  woman's  weakness  can  ~ 

Sal,  Is  power 
Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his ; 
Exert  it  wisely.  [Exit  Saim  mm. 

Sard,  Myrrha!  what  at  whispers. 
With  my  stern  brother  ?  I  shall  soon  be  jealous. 


ACT  IT. 


SAKDANAPALUa 


453 


Jlfyrrka  (ouiing).  Yoa  have  cany,  sure;  for  on  the 
earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love — 
A  aolflier's  trust  —  a  subject's  reverence  — 
A  king-'s  esteem  —  the  whole  world's  admiration ! 

StunL  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.  I  mast  not 


Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  angfat 
That  throws  me  into  shade;  yet  you  speak  truth. 

Myrrka.  And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound  look'd  to. 
Pray,  lean  on  me. 

Sard,  Yes,  love!  but  not  from  pain.         [Bseaac  omnea. 


ACT      IV. 


SCENE  L 

ftAADASiAPAuro  difco^rcd  ileeplng  upon  a  conch,  und  occMiondly  dis- 
tarbcd  Id  hb  •Inmbera,  with  Myrrha  watching. 

Myrrka,  I  have  stolen  upon  liis  rest,  if  rest  it  be, 
Which  thus  convulses  slnmber:  shall  I  wake  him  ? 
No,  he  seems  calmer.  Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet! 
Whose  reign  is  o'er  seal'd  eyelids  and  soft  dreams, 
Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfothom'd. 
Look  like  thy  brother.  Death  —  so  still  —  so  stirless  — 
For  then  we  are  happiest,  as  it  may  be,  we 
Are  happiest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stem,  silent,  and  un  wakening  twin. 
Again  be  moves — again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calm 
Beneath  the  mountain-shadow ;  or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  autumn-leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Faintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 
I  must  awake  him  —  yet  not  yet :  who  knows 
From  what  I  rouse  him?  It  seems  pain;  but  if 
I  quicken  him  to  heavier  pain  ?  The  fever 
Of  this  tumultuous  night,  the  grief  too  of 
His  wound,  though  slight,  may  cause  all  this,  and  shake 
Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suifer.  No : 
Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means. 
And  I  await  to  second,  not  disturb  her.  [stars, 

StLtdL  (iwakeninK)  Not  80  —although  ye  multiplied  the 
And  gave  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  you  and  with  you  I  I  would  not  so  purchase 
The  empire  of  eternity.  Henc^— hence  — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes  1  and  ye. 
Who  hunted  fellow-ereatnres  as  if  brutes ! 
Onoe  bloody  mortals —and  now  bloodier  idols, 
if  your  priests  lie  not !  And  diou,  ghastly  beldame  I 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde— away  I  away! 
Where  am  I?  Where  the  spectres?  Where— No— that 
Is  no  false  phantom:  I  should  know  it  'midst 
All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 
Fiom  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living.  Myrrha! 

AfyrrAa*  Alas!  thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow  tiie 
Gather  like  night-dew.  My  beloved,  hush  —  [drops 
Cahn  thee.  Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world 


And  thou  art  lord  of  this.  Be  of  good  cheer; 
AilwillgowelL 

Sard,  Thy  hand— so — 'tis  thy  hand ; 
'Tis  flesh ;  grasp —clajip  -  yet  closer,  till  I  feel 
Myself  that  which  I  was. 

Myrrha.  At  least  know  me 
For  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be — thine. 

Sard,  I  know  it  now.  I  know  this  life  again. 
Ah,  Myrrha !  I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

Myrrha,  My  lord! 

Sard,  I've  been  i'  the  grave  —  where  worms  are  lords, 
And  kings  are  —  but  I  did  not  deem  it  so ; 
I  thought  'twas  nothing, 

Myrrha,  So  it  is;  except 
Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be. 

Sard.  Oh, Myrrha! if 
Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  disclose?  . 

Myrrha.  1  know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  life 
Has  not  ahready  shown  to  those  who  live 
Embodied  longest.  If  there  be  indeed 
A  shore,  where  mind  survives,  'twill  be  as  mind, 
All  uninoorporate :  or  if  there  flits 
A  shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay. 
Which  stalks,  methiuks,  between  our  souls  and  heaven^ 
And  fetters  us  to  earth  -  at  least  the  phantom, 
Whate'er  it  have  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 

Sard.  I  fear  it  not;  but  I  have  felt  —  have  seen  — 
A  legion  of  the  dead. 

Myrrha.  And  so  have  I. 
The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive, 
And  wretched.  But  proceed:  what  hast  thou  seen? 
Speak  it,  'twill  lighten  thy  dimm'd  mind. 

Sard.  Methougfat  -  [hausted;  all 

Myrrha,  Yet  pauae,  thou  art  tired  —  in  pain— ex- 
Which  can  impur  both  strength  and  spirit :  seek 
iRather  to  sleep  again. 

Sard  Not  now  —  I  would  not 
Dream;  though  I  know  it  now  to  be  a  dream 
What  I  have  dreamt :  —  and  canst  thou  bear  to  hear  it? 

Myrrha,  I  can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or  death, 
Which  I  participate  with  you,  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

Sard,  And  this  look'd  real, 


454 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACT  n 


I  tell  yoa:  after  that  these  eyes  were  open, 
I  saw  them  in  their  flight  —  for  then  they  fled. 

M^rrha.  Say  on. 

Sard,  I  saw,  that  is,  I  dream'd  myself 
Here  — here— even  where  we  are,  g^uests  as  we  were, 
Myself  a  host  that  deem'd  himself  but  gaest, 
Wiiling  to  equal  all  in  social  freedom ; 
But,  on  my  right  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thee  and  Zames,  and  our  custom'd  meeting, 
Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a  haughty,  dark. 
And  deadly  face  —  I  could  not  recognise  it, 
Yet  I  had  seen  it,  though  I  knew  not  where; 
The  features  were  a  gianf  s,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  lighted;  his  long  locks  curl'd  down 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  huge  quiver  rose 
With  shaft-heads  feathcf'd  from  the  eagle's  wbg, 
That  peep'd  up  bristling  through  his  serpent-hair. 
1  invited  him  to  fill  the  cup  which  stood 
Between  us,  but  he  answer'd  not  —  I  filfd  it  — 
He  took  it  not,  but  stared  upon  me,  till 
I  trembled  at  the  fix'd  glare  of  his  eye : 
I  frown'd  upon  him  as  a  king  should  frown  — 
He  frown'd  not  in  his  tum«  but  look'd  upon  me 
With  the  same  aspect,  which  appalt'd  me  more, 
Because  it  changed  not,  and  I  turn'd  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the  right, 
Where  thou  wert  wont  to  be.  But —  [He  pauses. 

Mifrrha,  What  instead  ? 

Sard,  In  thy  own  chair —thy  own  place  in  the  banquet — 
I  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle  —  but 
Instead  —  a  gray-hair'd,  wither'd,  bloody-eyed, 
And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing. 
Female  in  garb,  and  crown'd  upon  the  brow, 
Furrow'd  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust, 
Sate:  —  my  veins  curdled. 

Mifrrha.  Is  this  aU? 

Sard.  Upon 
Her  right  hand  —  her  lank,  bird-like  right  hand  —  stood 
A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood ;  and  on 
Her  left,  another,  fill'd  with  —  what  I  saw  not. 
But  turn'd  from  it  and  her.  But  all  along 
The  table  sate  a  range  of  crowned  wretches. 
Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

Mt/rrha,  And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  ? 

Sard.  No: 
It  was  so  palpable,  I  could  have  touch'd  them. 
I  turn'd  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I  knew 
Ere  I  saw  theirs:  but  no  —  all  tum'd  upon  me. 
And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but  stared, 
TiH  I  grew  stone,  as  they  secm'd  half  to  be. 
Yet  breathing  stone,  for  I  felt  life  in  them. 
And  life  in  me :  there  was  a  horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  as,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a  part  of  death  to  come  to  me, 
And  I  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
We  were  in  an  existence  all  apart 
From  heaven  or  earth  -  And  rather  let  me  see 
]>eatk  all  than  such  a  being! 

MyrrhtL  And  the  end? 


Sard.  At  last  I  sate  marble  as  they,  when  rose 
The  hunter,  and  the  crone ;  and  smiling  on  me  ~ 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of  i 

The  hunter  smiled  upon  me  ~  I  should  say. 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not—  and  the  woman's 
Thin  lips  relaxed  to  something  like  a  smile. 
Both  rose,  and  the  crown'd  figures  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades  — 
Mere  mimics  even  in  death  — but  I  sate  still: 
A  desperate  f)onrage  crept  through  every  limb. 
And  at  the  last  I  fear'd  them  not,  but  laugh'd 
Full  in  their  phantom-faces.  But  then  —  then 
The  hunter  laid  his  hand  on  mine :  I  took  it. 
And  grasp 'd  it—  but  it  melted  from  my  own; 
While  he  too  vanished,  and  left  nothing  but 
The  memory  of  a  hero,  for  he  look'd  so. 

Myrrha,  And  was :  the  ancestor  of  heroes,  too. 
And  thine  no  less. 

Sard.  Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman. 
The  female  who  remain'd,  she  flew  upon  me. 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses, 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Methought  their  poisons  flow'd  around  us.  till 
Bach  form'd  a  hideous  river.  Still  she  clung; 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues. 
Stood  dull  as  in  our  temples ;  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  shrunk  from  her,  as  if. 
In  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 
Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest 
Then  —  then  —  a  chaos  of  all-loathsome  things 
Throng'd  thick  and  shapeless :  I  was  dead,  yet  flpeling  — 
Buried,  and  raised  again  —  consumed  by  worms. 
Purged  by  the  flames,  and  wither'd  in  the  air! 
I  can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thoughts, 
Save  that  I  long'd  for  thee,  and  sought  for  ihee. 
In  all  these  agonies,  and  woke  and  found  thee. 

Myrrha.  So  shalt  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side. 
Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  be. 
But  think  not  of  these  tilings  —  the  mere  creations 
Of  late  events  acting  upon  a  frame 
Unused  to  toil,  yet  over- wrought  by  toil 
Such  as  might  try  tlie  sternest 

Sard.  I  am  better. 
Now  that  I  see  thee  once  more,  what  wat  seen 
Seems  nothing. 

Enter  SALitsBjfn. 

Sal.  Is  the  king  so  soon  awake  ? 

Sard.  Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  I  had  not  slept; 
For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  Hue 
Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  mc  down  to  them. 
My  fother  was  amongst  them,  too ;  but  he, 
I  know  not  why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  me 
Betiveen  the  hunter-founder  of  our  race. 
And  her,  the  homicide  and  husband-kilter^ 
Whom  your  call  glorious. 

Sal.  So  I  term  you  also. 
Now  you  have  shown  a  spirit  like  to  hers. 
By  day-break  I  propose  that  we  set  forth. 
And  charge  once  more  the  rebel-crew,  who  still  ' 

Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite  queli'd. 

Sard.  How  wears  the  n^t? 


SARDANAPALUa 


455 


Sat.  There  yei  renMuaJome  hoQrs 
>f  darknesfl :  nae  item  for  your  further  rest 

SartL  No,  notto-oig^htyif'tisiiotfoue:  methought 
[  pajs'd  hours  in  that  Yuioii. 

Myrrhtu  Scarcely  one; 
[  watch'd  by  you :  it  waj  a  heavy  hour, 
Sttt  an  hoar  only. 

iSsrdL  Let  us  then  hold  council ; 
ro-morrow  we  set  forth. 

SmL  But  ere  that  time, 
[  had  a  grace  to  seek. 

Smrd.  'Tis  granted. 

SmL  Hear  it 
Sre  you  reply  too  readily;  and 'tis 
?OTyour  ear  only. 

Myrrha.  Prince,  I  take  my  leave.  [Exit  ifyrrhc 

Sat,  That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

Sard,  Freedom  only? 
fhat  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 

Sat,  Your  patience  — 
Tis  not  yet  vacant,  and  'tis  of  its  partner 
[  come  to  speak  with  you. 

Sard,  How!  of  the  queen? 

Sal,  Even  so.  I  judged  it  fitting  for  their  safely, 
rhat,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  diikhreu 
For  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
SoTcms ;  and  there  at  all  events  secure 
Wy  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with  tlietn 
rheir  just  pretensions  to  the  crown,  in  rase  — 

Sard.  I  perish  >-  as  is  probable:  well  thought  — 
Let  them  set  forth  with  a  sure  esiM>rt 

Sat.  That 
Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
fo  drop  down  the  Euphrates ;  but  ere  they 
Oepart,  will  you  not  sec  — 

Sard,  ^fysons?  It  may 
rnman  my  heart,  and  the  poor  boys  will  weep; 
Kad  what  can  I  reply  to  comfort  them, 
Save  with  some  hollow  hopes,  and  ill-worn  smiles? 
fou  know  I  cannot  feign. 

SaL  But  you  can  feel ; 
It  least,  I  trust  so :  in  a  word,  the  queen 
Requests  to  sec  you  ere  you  part  —  for  ever. 

Sard.  Unto  what  end?  what  purpose?  I  will  grant 
laght  —  all  that  she  can  ask  —  but  such  a  meeting. 

Sal.  You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  enough  of  women, 
fioce  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily, 
Fbat  what  they  ask  in  aught  that  towAes  Oft 
rhe  hear^  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
rheir  Ihncy,  than  the  whole  external  world. 
[  think  as  you  do  of  my  sister'a  wish ; 
Bttt  'twas  her  widi  -*  abe  ii  my  sister  —  yoo 
9er  hosband  —  wiU  yon  grant  it? 

tSard.  'TwiUbenseiefs: 
But  let  her  come. 

Sai.  I  go.  CExit  f  >tc»Mei. 

Sard.  We  have  lived  asnnder    - 
too  long  to  meet  again  —  and  now  to  meet  I 
lave  I  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 
to  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows, 
l^ho  have  oeased  to  minglQ  love? 


Re-enter  Salsmbiiis  and  Zamiiia. 

Sat.  My  sister!  Courage: 
Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembling,  but  remember 
From  whence  we  sprung.  The  queen  is  present,  sire. 

Zarma.  I  pray  thee,  brother,  leave  me. 

SaL  Since  you  ask  it  [Bxie  Sxiemcne*, 

Zarma.  Alone  with  him!  How  many  a  year  has  past. 
Though  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have  met. 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart 
He  loved  me  not :  yet  he  seems  little  changed  -:r 
Changed  to  me  only  —  would  the  change  were  mutual ! 
He  speaks  not — scarce  regards  me — not  a  word  — 
Nor  look  —  yet  he  was  soft  of  voice  and  aspect. 
Indifferent,  not  austere.  My  lord! 

Sard,  Zaiina! 

Zarina.  No,  not  Zarina  —  do  not  say  Zarina. 
That  tone  —  that  word  —  annihilate  long  years, 
And  things  which  make  them  longer. 

Sard.  'Tis  too  late 
To  think  of  these  past  dreams.  Let's  not  reproach  - 
That  is,  reproach  me  not  ~  for  the  last  time — 

Zarina.  And Jirtt.  I  ne'er  reproach'd  you. 

Sard,  'Tis  most  true; 
And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 
Than  —  But  our  hearts  are  not  in  our  own  power. 

Zarina.  Nor  hands;  but  I  gave  both. 

Sard.  Your  brother  said. 
It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  yon  went 
From  Nineveh  with  —  (lie  heiitatM.) 

Zarina,  Our  cliildren :  it  is  true, 
I  wishM  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  all  that's  left  it  now  to  love  — 
Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  look  like  you. 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  look'd  upon  me 
Once  —  But  they  have  not  changed. 

Sard.  Nor  ever  will. 
I  fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

Zarina.  Irherish 
Those  infants,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Of  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  fond  woman :. 
They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  ns. 

Sard,  Deem  not 
I  have  not  done  you  justioe  :  rather  make  them 
Resemble  your  own  line,  than  their  own  sire. 
I  trust  them  with  you  —  to  you :  fit  them  for 
A  throne,  or,  if  that  be  denied  —  Yon  have  heard 
Of  this  nighf  s  tamults? 

Zarina.  I  had  half  foigotten. 
And  could  have  welcomed  any  gric^  aava  yours. 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  yonr  hue  a^ain. 

&irdL  The  throne  —  I  say  it  not  iq  Icar  -*  but  *tis 
In  peril ;  they  perhaps  may  never  aaonnt  it: 
But  let  them  not  for  this  lose  sight  of  it: 
I  will  dare  aH  thugs  to  beiiaealii  k  Ihen; 
But  if  I  fhil,  then  they  oMisi  win  it  back 
Bravely  -  and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 

Zarina.  They  ne'er 
Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  honour 
Their  father's  memory. 

Sard.  Rather  let  them  hear 


456 


8ARDANAPALU& 


ACT  It. 


The  truth  from  yon  than  from  a  trampling  world. 

If  they  be  in  adversity,  they'll  learn 

Too  soon  the  soorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princes, 

And  find  that  all  tlieir  father's  sins  are  theirs. 

My  boys !  —  I  could  have  borne  it  were  I  childless. 

Zarina.  Oh!  do  not  say  so  —  do  not  poison  all 
My  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
A  father.  If  thou  conquerest,  they  shall  reign, 
And  honour  him  who  saved  the  realm  for  them. 
So  little  cared  for  as  his  own;  and  if  — 

Sard,  'Tis  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  ont,  thank  your  father ! 
And  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse. 

Zarina,  That  they  shall  never  do;  but  rather  honour 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king. 
In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  memoiy, 
Than  majiy  monarchs  in  a  length  of  days^ 
Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no  annals. 

Sard,  Our  annals  draw  perchance  unto  their  close; 
But  at  the  least,  whatever  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning— memorable. 

Zarina.  Yet,  be  not  rash  —  be  careful  of  your  life. 
Live  but  for  those  who  love. 

Sard,  And  who  are  they  ? 
A  slave,  who  loves  from  passion  —  I'll  not  say 
Ambition  —  she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves ; 
A  few  friends,  who  have  revel  fd  till  we  are 
As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  1  fall ; 
A  brother  I  have  iigured  -  children  whom 
I  have  neglected,  and  a  spouse  — 

Zarina,  Who  loves. 

Sard,  And  pardons? 

Zarina,  I  have  never  thought  of  this. 
And  cannot  pardon  till  I  have  condemned, 

Sard,  My  wifel 

Zarina,  Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  woid! 
I  never  thought  to  hear  it  more  —  from  thee. 

Sard,  Oh !  thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  subjects.  Yes 
These  slaves,  whom  I  have  nurtured,  pamper 'd,  fed. 
And  swoln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  till 
They  reign  themselves  —  allmonarchs  in  their  mansions  - 
Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a  jubilee; 
While  the  few  upon  whom  I  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful !  This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

Zarina,  'Tis 
Perhaps  too  natural;  for  benefits 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

Sard,  And  good  ones  make 
Good  out  of  evil.  Happier  than  the  bee, 
lEI^iich  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

Zarina,  Then  reap 
The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  'tis  derived. 
Be  satisfied  —  you  are  not  all  abandoned. 

Sard,  My  life  insures  me  that  How  long,  betliink  you, 
Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal  ? 
That  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  tbey  must  be. 

Zarina,  I  know  not.  But  yet  live  for  my—  tliat  is, 
Your  children's  sake! 

Sard,  My  gentle,  wrong*d  Zarina! 
I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 
And  impulse  —  borne  away  with  every  breath ! 


>fisptaoed  upon  the  throne  —  mispbeed  in  fife  — 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be  —  let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee :  if  I  was  not  form'd 
To  prise  a  love  like  thine,  a  mind  like  thine, 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty  —  as  I've  doted 
On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  aach 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch);  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last  —  that  none 
E'er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 
To  profit  by  them  ~  asthe  miner  lights 
Upon  a  vein  of  virgin-ore,  discovering 
That  which  av  ails  him  nothing :  he  hath  found  it, 
But  'tis  not  his  —  but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ;  nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on,  upturning 
The  sullen  earth. 

Zarina,  Oh!  if  thou  hast  at  length 
Discover'd  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
I  ask  no  mure  —  but  let  us  hence  together. 
And  /  ->  let  me  say  we — shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  ail  tlie  earth  —  we'll  find 
A  world  out  of  our  own  —  and  be  more  blest 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 

Enter  BALMwmn, 

SaL  I  must  part  ye  — 
The  moments,  which  must  not  be  lost,  are  passing. 

Zarina,  Inhuman  brother!  wilt  thou  thus  wc^gh  ont 
Instants  so  high  and  blest? 

Sai,  Blest! 

Zarina,  He  hath  been 
So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

Sal,  So  —  this  feminine  farewell 
Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 
1  thought  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.  But  it  must  not  be. 

Zarina,  Not  be? 

Sal,  Remain,  and  perish  — 

Zarina,  With  my  husband  ^-^ 

SaL  And  children. 

Zarina,  Alas! 

SaL  Hear  me,  sister,  like 
My  sister:  —  all's  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes. 
'Tis  not  a  single  question  of  mere  feeling. 
Though  that  were  much  —  but  'tis  a  point  of  state: 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seise  upon 
The  offspring  of  tlieir  sovereign,  and  so  cmsh  ~ 

Zarina,  Ah!  do  not  name  it 

SaL  Well,  then,  mark  me:  when 
They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the  rebels 
Have  miss'd  their  chief  aim  —  the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.  Though  the  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

Zarina.  But  could  not  I  remain,  akme? 


ACT  IT. 


SAKDANAPALUS. 


457 


SmL  Whut!  leave 
Toar  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans  — 
In  a  strange  land  —  so  young,  so  distant  ? 

Zarma,  No  — 
Bf  J  heart  will  i>reak. 

SmI,  Now  you  know  all  —  decide. 

Sard,  Zarina,  he  bath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Most  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all ;  departing, 
You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left 
To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingxloms. 

Sal.  The  time  presses. 

Smrd.  Go,  then.  If  e'er  we  meet  again,  perhaps 
I  may  be  worthier  of  you  —  and,  if  not. 
Remember  that  my  faults,  though  not  atoned  for. 
Are  ended.  Yet,  I  dread  thy  nature  will 
Grieve  more  above  the  blighted  name  and  ashes 
Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assyria  —  than  — 
But  I  grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not; 
I  must  learn  sternness  now.  My  sins  have  all 
Been  of  the  softer  order  —  hide  thy  tears  — 
I  do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  them  —  'twere 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart  — 
But  let  me  not  behold  them;  they  unman  me 
Here  when  I  had  re-mann'd  myself.  My  brother, 
Lead  her  away. 

ZinMa.  Oil,  GodI  I  never  shall 
Behold  him  more ! 

SaL  (Mriviof  to  conduct  her)  Nay,  sister,  I  ntttf^  be  obejr'd. 

Zarina,  I  must  remain — away !  you  shall  not  hold  me. 
T^Hiat,  shall  he  die  alone  J—  /live  alone? 

SaL  He  shall  not  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  yon 
Have  lived  for  years. 

Zarina.  That's  false  I  *[  knew  he  lived. 
And  lived  upon  his  image  —  let  me  go ! 

&l/.  (eonduetiug  her  off  the  btagc) 

Nay,  then,  I  must  use  some  fraternal  force, 
Which  you  will  pardon. 

S^arintu  Never.  Help  me  I  Oh! 
Sardanapalns,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Tom  from  thee? 

SaL  Nay — then  all  is  lost  again, 
If  that  this  moment  is  not  gain'd. 

Zarina.  My  brain  turns  — 
My  eyes  fail  ->  where  is  he?  [She  hints. 

Sard,  (advuciag)  No  —  set  her  down  — 
She's  dead  —  and  you  have  slain  her. 

SaL  *T\s  the  mere 
Faintness  of  o'er- wrought  passion:  in  the  air 
She  will  recover.  Pray,  keep  back.  —  [Atide.]  I  must 
A?ail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  embark'd, 
r  Oe  royal  galley  on  the  river.  C8«icm«aet  bevs  her  off. 

Sard.  (Miof )  This,  too  — 
And  this  ioo  must  I  suffer  —  I,  who  never 
Inflicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang  I  But  that  is  false  — 
She  loved  me,  and  I  loved  her.  Fatal  passion! 
Why  dost  thou  not  expire  at  onee  in  hearts 


Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once?  Zarina! 

I  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 

Now  brought  upon  thee.  Had  I  never  loved 

But  thee,  I  should  have  been  an  unopposed 

Monarch  of  honouring  nations.  To  what  gulfs 

A  single  deviation  from  the  track 

Of  human  duties  leads  even  those  who  claim 

The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  bom  due, 

And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  I 

'    Enter  Mykkha. 

Sard.  Yowhere!  Whocall'dyou? 

Myrrha.  No  one  —  but  I  fieard 
Far  off  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation. 
And  thought  — 

Sard,  It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 
To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

Myrrha,  Though  I  might, 
Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Although  they  too  were  chidinff),  which  reproved  me, 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude, 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  Injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncall'dfor:  I  retire. 

Sard,  Yet,  stay  —  being  here. 
I  pray  yon  pardon  me:  events  have  soured  me 
Till  I  wax  peevish  —  heed  it  not :  I  sliall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

Myrrha,  I  wait  with  patience, 
What  I  shall  see  with  pleasure. 

Sard,  Scarce  a  moment 
Before  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina« 
Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

Myrrha.  Ah! 

Sard,  Wherefore  do  you  start? 

Myrrha.  Did  I  do  so? 

Sard,  'Twas  well  you  enter'd  by  another  portal, 
Else  you  bad  met  That  pang  at  least  is  spared  herl 

Myrrha.  I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

Sard.  That  is  too  much, 
And  beyond  nature  —  'tis  nor  mutual, 
Nor  possible.  You  cannot  pity  her. 
Nor  she  aught  but  — 

Myrrha.  Despise  the  favorite  slave  ? 
Not  more  than  I  have  ever  sconi'd  myself. 

Sard.  Scorn'd !  what,  to  be  the  envy  of  your  sex, 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ?    [worlds — 

Myrrha,  Were  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand 
As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway'd  — 
I  did  abase  myself  as  much  in  being 
Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peasant  — 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

Sard,  Yon  talk  it  well  -.  « 

Myrrha,  And  truly. 
Sard,  In  the  hour 
Of  man's  adversity  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  the  foiling ;  but  as  I  am  not 
Quite  follen,  nor  now  disposed  to  bear  reproaches, 
Perhaps  because  I  merit  them  too  often. 
Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  us. 

Myrrha.  Part! 

29* 


458 


SARDANAPAJUUS. 


ACT  IT 


Sard.  Have  not  all  past  hnman  beings  parted, 
And  most  not  all  the  present  one  day  part? 

M^rrha.  Why? 

Sard.  For  your  safety,  which  I  will  have  look'd  to, 
With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land ; 
And  such  gifts,  as,  if  you  had  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall  make  your  dowry  worth  a  kingdom. 

Myrrha,  I  pray  yon  talk  not  thus. 

Sard.  The  queen  is  gone: 
You  need  not  shame  to  follow.  I  would  fall 
Alone  —  I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

Myrrha.  And  I  no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not 
You  shall  not  force  me  from*you. 

Sard,  Think  well  of  it  — 
It  soon  may  be  too  late. 

Myrrha.  So  let  it  be; 
For  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you.  • 

Sard.  And  will  not;  but  I  thought  you  wish'd  it 

Myrrha.  1 1 

Sard.  You  spoke  of  your  abasement 

Myrrha.  And  I  feel  it 
Deeply  —  more  deeply  than  all  things  but  love. 

Sard.  Then  tiy  from  it 

Myrrha.  'Twill  not  recall tlie past  — 
'Twill  not  restore  my  honour,  nor  my  heart 
No  —  here  I  stand  or  fall.  If  that  you  conquer, 
I  live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph ;  should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I'll  not  weep,  but  share  it 
You  did  not  doubt  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

Sard.  Your  courage  never  —  nor  your  love  till  now ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it  save  yourself. 
Those  words  — 

Myrrha.  Were  words.  I  pray  you,  let  the  proofs 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing. 
Beside,  wherever  yon  are  borne  by  fate. 

Sard.  I  am  content ;  and,  trusting  in  my  cause. 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors,  and  return 
To  peace  —  the  only  victory  I  covet 
To  me  war  is  no  glory  —  conquest  no 
Renown.  To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  right. 
Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  all  the  wrongs 
These  men  would  bow  me  down  with.  Never,  never 
Can  I  forget  this  night,  even  should  I  live 
To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  others. 
I  thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 
An  era  of  sweet  peace  'midst  bloody  annals, 
A  green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries. 
On  which  the  future  would  turn  back  and  smile, 
And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 
RecallSardanapalus'  golden  reign. 
I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise, 
A^d  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 
I  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  love—  the  breatn 
Of  friends  for  truth  —  the  lips  of  woman  for 
My  only  guerdon—  so  they  are,  my  Myrrha:  [H«kiaet  ber. 
Kiss  me.  Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and  life ! 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  thee! 

Myrrha.  No, never! 
Mon  may  despoil  his  brother-man  of  all 
That's  great  or  glittering:  kingdoms  fall  -  hosts  yield — 


Friends  fail  —  slaves  fly  —  and  ail  betray  —  «nd,  morr 

Than  all,  the  most  indebted  —  but  a  heart 

That  loves  without  self-love  i  'Tis  here  —  now  prove  it 

Bnter  Salbmbubc 

Sal.  I  sought  you  —  How !  # Ac  here  again  ? 

Sard.  Return  not 
Now  to  reproof:  metfainks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

Sal.  The  only  woman  whom  it  much  imports  me 
At  such  a  moment  now,  is  safe  in  absence  — 
The  queen's  embark'd. 

Sard.  And  well  ?  say  that  much. 

Sal.  Yes. 
Her  transient  weakness  has  past  o'er ;  at  least. 
It  settled  into  tearless  silence:  her 
Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a  glance 
Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  still  fi&'d 
Upon  the  palace-towers  as  the  swift  galley 
Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  the  starligfat; 
But  she  said  nothing. 

Sard.  Would  I  felt  no  more 
Than  she  has  said! 

Sal  'Tis  now  too  late  to  feel ! 
Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a  sole  pang; 
To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sure  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  nuirahall'd 
By  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again;  and,  serrying  their  ranks. 
Prepare  to  attack :  they  have  apparently 
^9een  join'dliy.  oOier  satraps. 

Sard.  What!  mar^ rebels? 
Letusbefirst,  tlienr  ' 

Sal  ThatwcRihardlyf¥a^ent 
Now,  thongh  it  was  our  first  intention.  It 
By  no«i  to-morrow  We  are  join'tf  by  those 
I've  sent  for  by  sure  messengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack. 
Ay,  and  pursuit  too ;  but  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset 

Sard.  I  detest 
That  waiting;  though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew 'd  to  receive  them,  still  I  like  it  not  — 
My  soul  seems  lukewarm ;  hot  when  I  set  on  them* 
Though  they  were  piled  on  moontains,  I  would  have 
A  pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood !  -- 
Let  me  then  charge! 

Sal  You  talk  like  a  young  soldier. 

Sard.  I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  OMin:  speak  not 
Of  soldiership,  I  loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it;  bat  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  thenL 

Sal  You  must  spare 
To  expose  your  life  too  hastily ;  'tis  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject's  breath: 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it  —  with  it ;  this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it  — 
Prolong  it  —  end  it 

Sard.  Then  let  us  end  both! 


ICTV. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


459 


Twere  better  thus,  periiaps,  than  prolongs  either; 
rm  sick  of  one,  percfaeace  of  both. 

[A  trumjiet  «oattd«  wlthoat. 

&tL  Hark! 

Sard.  Let  oa 
Reply,  not  listen. 

Sal,  And  yoor  wound? 

&trd.  'Tia  bound  — 
Tis  heal'd  —  I  had  forgotten  it  Away  I 
A  leech's  lancet  would  have  scratched  me  deeper; 


The  slave  that  gave  It  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

Sal.  Now,  may  none  this  hour 
Strike  with  a  better  aim ! 

SartL  Ay,  if  we  conquer; 
Jlut  if  not,  they  will  only  leave  to  me 
A  task  they  might  have  spared  their  king.  Upon  them ! 

[Tnivpet  soanrls  k^ain. 

Sal.  I  am  with  you. 

Sard.  Ho,  my  arms!  again,  my  arms !  [Bxennr. 


A    C    T      V. 


SCENE  I. 

The  same  Hall  of  tbe  Palac«. 

Myk»ma  and  Balba. 
JIfyrrka  (ac  a  window).  The  day  at  last  has  broken.  What 
Hath  osher'd  it!  How  beautiful  in  heaven  I  [aniglit 

Tkoogh  varied  with  a  transitory  storm. 
More  beautiful  in  that  variety ! 
How  hideous  upon^arth !  where  peace  and  hope, 
And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  homan  passions  to  a  human  chaos. 
Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements.  — 
lis  warring  still!  And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 
80  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vipoors  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky, 
With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains, 
And  bilkiws  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 
la  lieaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth. 
So  likc^  we  almost  deem  it  permanent, 
80  fleeting,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a  vision ;  'tis  so  transiently 
Bcatter'd  along  |he  eternal  vault :  and  yet 
It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 
And  blends  itself  into  the  soul>  until 
Baarise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love;  which  they  who  mark  not, 
Kaow  not  the  realms  where  those  twin-genii 
(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts, 
Bo  that  we  would  not  change  their  sweet  rebukes 
Por  all  the  boisterous  joys  that  ever  shook 
fhe  air  with  clamour)  build  the  palaces 
Where  their  fond  votaries  repose  and  breathe 
Briefly ;  ^  but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 
BaoQgfa  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 
rhe  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours, 
lad  dream  them  through  in  placid  sufferance ; 
fhongfa  seemingly  employed  like  idl  the  rest 
Ktoiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks 
Of  pain  or  pleasure,  tw0  names  for  ont  feeling, 
Rliidi  ov  internal,  restless  agony 


Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 
Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 

Balea,  You  muse  right  calmly ;  and  can  you  so  watch 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ? 

Mifrrha.  It  is 
Therefore  that  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more. 
For  having  looked  upon  it  oft,  too  oft, 
Without  the  reference  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  firagile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.  Come,  look  upon  it, 
The  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  I  gaze  upon, 
I  grow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 
.  Balea.  As  now  he  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
He  sway'd. 

Myrrha.  He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then;  never 
Had  eartlily  monarch  half  the  power  and  glory 
Which  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 

Balea,  Surely  he  is  a  god ! 

JKfyrrAo.  So  we  Creeks  deem  too ; 
And  yet  I  somedmes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.  Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  light 
That  shuts  the  world  out  I  can  look  no  more. 

Balea.  Hark!  heard  you  not  a  sound? 

Myrrha.  No,  'twas  mere  fancy; 
They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 
As  in  late  midnight-conflict  in  the  very 
CJiambers :  the  palace  has  become  a  fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour;  and  here,  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proportions. 
Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penetrate  to  where  they  then  arrived. 
We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

BaUa.  But  they  reaoh'd 
Thus  far  before. 

Mifrrha,  Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 


460 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Acrt 


Beat  back  by  valour;  now  at  onoe  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  as. 

Balem,  May  they 
Prosper  I 

Myrrha.  That  is  the  prayor  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more :  it  is  an  anxious  hoar; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.  Alas! 
How  vainly ! 

Baleiu  It  is  said  the  king's  demeanour 
In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appali'd 
The  rebels  than  astonish'd  his  true  subjects. 

Myrrha,  'Tis  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 
The  vulgar  mass  which  moulds  a  horde  of  sfaives; 
But  he  did  bravely. 

Balea,  Stew  he  not  Bcleses? 
I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 

Myrrhn,  The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  rescued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquished  him 
Iikiight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril. 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  risk'd  a  crown. 

Balea,  Hark!  [slowly. 

Myrrha,  You  are  right ;  some  steps  approach,  but 

Eater  Soldiers,  bcarlDg  in  SALunrwBs  wouoded,  with  a  broken  JiTelin 

In  bU  Bide;  tbey  aeat  hiin  npon  one  of  tlic  coacfact  which  Ikmbh  tiic 

aparCnicnc. 

BIyrrlui,  Oh,  Jove  I 

Balea,  Then  all  is  over. 

SaL  That  is  false. 
Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier.        [terfly, 

Myrrka*  Spare  him  •—  he's  none:  a  mere  court -but- 
That  Butters  in  tlic  pageant  of  a  monarch. 

SaL  Let  him  live  on,  then. 

Myrrka.  So  wilt  thou,  I  trust 

SaL  I  foin  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event, 
But  doubt  it.  Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here  ?         [you. 

Soldier.  By  the  king's  order.  When  the  javelin  struck 
You  fell  and  fainted;  'twas  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sa(.  'Twas  not  ill  done: 
For,  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 
The  sight  might  sliake  our  soldiers  —  but  ^'tis  vain. 
I  feel  it  ebbing! 

Myrrka.  Let  me  see  the  wound; 
f  aoi  not  quite  skilless:  in  my  native  land 
'Tis  part  of  onr  instruction.  War  being  constant, 
We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things. 

Soldier.  Best  extract 
The  javelin. 

Myrrka.  Hold!  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

SaL  I  am  sped,  then! 

Myrrka.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 
The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 

SaL  And  I  not  death.  Where  was  the  king  when  you 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken  ? 

Soldier.  Upon  tlic  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  bad  seen  you  fall,  and  falter'd  back. 

SaL  Whom  heard  ye 
Named  next  to  the  command  ? 

Soldier.  I  did  not  hear. 


SaL  Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  'twas  my  last  reqvcal 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  tbe  junction. 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay 'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.  Leave  me  here :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

Soldier.  But,  prince  — 

SaL  Hence,  I  say!  Here's  a  courtier  and 
A  woman,  the  best  chamber-company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I'll  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick-couch.  Hence!  and  do  my  bidding! 

[Exeuc  cb«  SoMim. 

Myrrka.  Gallant  and  glorious  spirit!  must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee? 

SaL  Gentle  Myrrha, 'tis 
The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  bad  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this. 
As  'tis,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

Myrrka,  You  wax  paler. 

Sal.  Your  hand ;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  bear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  Skmo^nAWAun  rad  Soldien. 
Sard.  My  best  brother! 
SaL  And  the  battle 
Is  lost  ? 

Sard.  (despoBdhittiy)  You  see  me  kere. 
SaL  I'd  rather  see  yon  tAicf.' 

[ilc  draws  out  ibe  weapon  ft-om  the  wonnd.  and  diet 

Sard.  And  tkm  I  will  be  seen ;  unless  the  suceoor, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguer'd  hopes, 
Arrive  uitli  Ofratanes. 

Myrrka.  Did  you  not 
Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  brother, 
Appointing  Zames  chief? 

Sard.  I  did. 

Myrrka.  Where's  Zames? 

Sard.  Dead. 

Myrrka.  AndAltada? 

Sard.  Dying. 

Myrrka.  Pania?Sfero? 

Sard.  Pania  yet  lives;  but  Sfero's  ficd,  or  captive. 
I  am  alone. 

Myrrka,  And  is  all  lost  ? 

Sard.  Our  walls, 
Though  thinly  mann'd,  may  still  hold  out  against 
Their  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery : 
But  i' the  field  — 

Myrrka.  I  thought  'twas  the  intent 
Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
'Till  ye  were  strengthen'd  by  tlie  expected  saoconrs. 

Sard.  I  over-ruled  him. 

Myrrka.  Well,  the  fault's  a  brave  one. 

St^d.  But  fatal.  Oh,  my  brother  1 1  would  gire 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  ornament. 
The  sword  and  shield,  the  sole-redeeming  honour. 
To  call  back  —  But  I  will  not  weep  for  tliee; 
Thou  shalt  be  moum'd  for  as  tlioa  wonkUt  be  moum'i 


ICTY. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


461 


It  ^eves  me  most  that  thou  oonidst  quit  thb  life 
Bdieving  that  I  ooald  rarvive  what  thou 
Hast  died  for  —  our  longr  royalty  of  race. 
If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 
Ofthoasaods,  tears  of  miUions,  for  atonement 
(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already), 
If  not,  we  meet  again  soon,  if  the  spirit 
Within  us  lives  beyond:  —  thou  readest  mine. 
And  dost  me  justioe  now.  Let  me  once  clasp 
That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart 

CBrabraecfl  tbt  body. 

To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.  Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 

Soldier.  Where? 

Sard,  To  my  proper  chamber. 
Phce  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there:  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  forther  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

CExeanC  Soldier*  with  Ui«  body  of  SalemeDes. 

Boter  Pania. 

SSfrdL  ,Well,  Pania!  have  you  placed  the  guards,  and 
The  orders  fix'd  on ?  [issueil 

Pmm.  Sire,  I  hav«-obey'd. 

Sard,  And  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts  up? 

Pmua.  Sire? 

Sard,  rmanswer'd!  When  a  king  asks  twice,  and  has 
A  question  as  an  answer  to  his  question, 
It  if  a  portent  What,  they  are  disheartcnM? 

Panui.  The  death  of  Salcmenes.  and  the  shouts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall, 
Have  made  them  ^ 

Sard,  Rage  —  not  droop — it  should  have  been. 
We'll  find  tlie  means  to  rouse  them. 

Pania.  Such  a  loss 
Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

Sard.  Alas! 
Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel?  but  yet, 
Though  ooop'd  within  these  walls,  they  are  strong,  and  we 
Have  those  without  will  break  their  way  through  hosts, 
To  make  their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it  was  — 
A  palace;  not  a  prison,  nor  a  fortress. 

Soter  an  Officer,  faudly. 

Sard.  Thy  face  seems  ominous.  Speak! 

Officer.  I  dare  not 

Sard.  Dare  not? 
While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand! 
That's  strange.  I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  ahock  its  sovereign ;  we  can  hear 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 

Panim.  Proceed,  thou  hearest 

Offiter.  The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  die  Buphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises. 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'erfloods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroy'd  the  bulwark. 

Pamm.  That's  a  black  augury !  it  has  been  said 
For  ages,  ^hat  tho  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  nan,  until  fiie  river  grew  its  foe." 


Sard.  I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  mudi  is  swept  down  of  the  wall? 

Officer.  About 
Some  twenty  stadii. 
^  Sard.  And  all  this  is  left 
Pervious  to  tlie  assailants? 

Officer,  For  the  present 
The  river's  fury  must  impede  t)ic  assault; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 
And  may  be  crossed  by  the  accustom'd  barks, 
The  palace  is  tlieir  own. 

Sard.  That  shall  be  never. 
Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and  omens. 
Have  risen  up  'gainst  one  who  ne'er  provoked  them, 
My  fathers'  house  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  to  horde  and  howl  in. 

Pama.  With  your  sanction 
I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit 

Sard.  About  it  straight. 
And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  pemiit. 
Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 

Of  waters.  [Exennt  pania  and  the  Officer 

Myrrha.  Thus  the  very  waves  rise  up 
A^inst  you. 

Sard.  They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl, 
And  may  be  pardon'd,  since  they  can't  be  punl^h'd. 

Mijrrha.  I  joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you  not 

Sard.  I  am  past  the  fear  of  portents :  Ihcy  can  ^ell  me 
Nothing  I  have  not  told  myself  since  midnight: 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 

Myrrha,  Despair! 

Sard.  No;  not  despair  precisely.  When  we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 
Word  than  this  is  to  give  it  utterance. 
But  what  are  words  to  us  ?  wc  have  well  nigh  done 
With  them  and  all  things. 

Myrrha,  Save  one  deed  —  the  last 
And  greatest  to  all  mortab ;  crowning -act 
Of  all  that  was  —  or  is  —  or  is  to  be  — 
The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind. 
So  difierent  in  their  births,  tongues,  sexes,  natures. 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intellects. 
Without  one  point  of  union  save  in  tliis. 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we're  born,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery,  call'd  life.  [cheerful.  ^ 

Sard.  Our  clew  being  well  nigh  wound  out,  let's  be 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear,  may  well 
Indulge  a  smile  at  that  which  once  appall'd ; 
As  children  at  discover'd  bugbears. 

Re -enter  PiNU. 

Pania.  'Tis 
As  was  reported :  1  have  order'd  there 
A  double  guards  withdrawing  firom  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  ocrasion'd  by  the  waters. 

Sttrd,  You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully  and  aA 


462 


SARDANAPALU6: 


ACT  f. 


My  worthy  Pania  1  fnrtber  ties  between  us 

Draw  near  a  close.  I  pray  you  take  this  key.   [Gives  a  key. 

It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 

Behind  the  coach  in  my  own  chamber  (now 

Press'd  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore  ~ 

Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 

Along  its  golden  lErame  —  as  bearing  for 

A  time  what  late  was  Salemencs) ;  search 

The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you; 

'Tis  full  of  treasure;  take  it  for  yourself 

And  your  companions:  there's  enough  to  load  ye, 

Though  ye  be  many.  Let  the  slaves  be  freed,  too ; 

And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 

Whatever  sex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour. 

Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  onee  form'd  for  pleasure. 

And  now  to  serve  for  safety,  and  embark. 

The  river's  broad  and  swoln,  and  uncommanded 

(More  potent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 

Fly!  and  be  happy  I 

Pania.  Under  your  protection ! 
So  you  accompany  your  faithful  guard. 

Sard,  No,  Pania  I  that  must  not  be;  get  thee  hence, 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 

Pania,  'Tis  the  first  time 
I  ever  disobey'd :  but  now  — 

Sard,  So  all  men 
Dare  beard  me  now,  and  insolence  within 
Apes  treason  from  without  ?  Question  no  further ; 
'Tis  my  command,  my  last  command.  Wilt  thou 
Oppose  it?  thou! 

Pania,  But  yet  —  not  yet 

Sard.  Well,  tiien. 
Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

PanuL  With  a  heavy  but  true  hearty 
I  promise. 

Sard,  'Tis  enough.  Now  order  here 
Faggots,  pine-  nuts,  and  wither'd  leaves,  and  sucli 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole  spark; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 
And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a  tall  pile; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  tlie  pyre;  4^ 

And  heap  them  round  you  throne. 

Pania.  My  lord! 

Sard,    I  have  said  it, 
And  you  have  sworn. 

Pania,  And  could  keep  my  faith 

Without  a  VO  W.  [Exit  Paoia. 

Myrrha,  What  mean  you? 
Scfd,  You  shall  know 
Anon  —  what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget.  • 

Panu,  retorning  with  a  Herald. 

Paikia,  My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty. 
This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 
An  audience. 

Sard,  Let  him  speak. 

Herald,  The  King  Arbaces  — 

Sard,  What^crown'd  already?^  But  proceed. 


Herald.  Beleses, 
The  anointed  high  -  priest  — 

Sard,  Of  what  god,  or  demon? 
With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.  But,  proceed; 
You  are  sent  to  prate  yonr  masters'  will,  and  nbt 
Reply  to  mine. 

Herald.  And  Satrap  Ofratanefl — 

Sard.  Why,A«isMcr«. 

Herald  (•hovise  a  riac).  Be  nore  tiiat  he  u  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  oonquerort;  behold 
His  signet -ring. 

Sard.  'Tis  his.  A  worthy  triad! 
PoorSalemenes!  thou  hast  died  in  time 
To  see  one  treachery  the  less :  this  man 
Was  thy  trae  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subject 
Proceed! 

Herald,  They  offer  titee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  residenoe 
In  any  of  the  further  provinces. 
Guarded  and*  watch'd,  but  not  confined  in  person. 
Where  thou  shalt  pass  thy  days  in  peace ;  but  on 
Condition  that  the  three  yoong  princes  are 
Given  up  as  hostages. 

;Sarct  (ironkaUy).  The generona  victors! 

Herald.  I  wait  the  answer. 

Sard.  Answer?  slave!  How  long 
Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings? 

Herald.  Since  they  were  free. 

Sard.  Mouthpiece  of  mutiny! 
Thon  at  the  least  shalt  learn  the  penalty 
Of  treason,  though  its  proxy  only.  Psinia  1 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  withiB 
The  rebels'  lines,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 

Away  with  him !  LPanla  and  the  Ouur^  Miibc  h 

Pania,  I  never  yet  obey'd 
Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the'preaent 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers !  do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore; 
Put  him  to  rest  without 

Herald.  A  single  word: 
My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

Sard.  And  what 's  mm«.' 
That  thon  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  ? 

Herald,  I  but  obey'd  my  orders. 
At  the  same  peril  if  refused,  as  now 
Ineurr'd  by  my  obedience. 

Sard,  So,  there  are 
New  monarchs  of  an  hour's  growtit  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood ! 

Herald,  My  life  waits  your  breath. 
Yours  (I  speak  humbly)  —  but  it  may  be  —  yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent: 
Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Such  as  is  tiiat  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  pca&fnl  herald,  unarm'd,  in  his  office } 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man  —  bat  that 
More  holy  tie  whidi  Jinks  %u  witii  tlie  gods? 


kcr  ▼. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


463 


SmrtL  He's  right  —  Let  him  go  free.  —  My  life's  last 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.  Here,  fellow,  take  [aet 

[Oives  bim  a  golden  cap  from  »  Ubie  neir. 

This  golden  gpobiet,let  it  hold  your  wine. 

And  think  of  me;  or  melt  it  into  ingots, 

And  think  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and  value. 

Hermid,  I  thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and  this 
Moat  gorgeous  gift,  which  renders  it  more  precious. 
Bat  must  I  bear  no  answer  T 

Sard.  Yes,  — I  ask 
An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 

Herald,  But  an  hour's  ? 

tSard.  An  hour's :  if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms. 
And  act  befittingly. 

Herald,  I  shall  not  fail 
To  be  a  Ikithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 

Sard.  And,  hark !  a  word  more. 

Herald,  I  shall  not  forget  it, 
Whatc'er  it  be. 

Sard,  Commend  me  to  Beleses ; 
And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Hira  hence  to  meet  me. 

Herald,  Where? 

Sard,  At  Babylon. 
At  least  from  thence  he  will  depart  to  meet  me. 

Herald,  I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.  [Sxit  Herald 

Sard,  Pauia!  — 
Now  ,  my  good  Pania !  —  quick !  with  what  I  order'd. 

PmuL  My  lord,  —  the  soldiers  arc  already  charged. 
Aud,  see !  they  enter. 

[Sotdien  enter,  and  form  a  Pile  about  the  Throne. 

Sard,  Higher,  my  good  soldiers. 
And  tliicker  yet;  and  see  that  tlie  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame;  nor  yet  be  quench'd 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;  I  would  not 
LeaTC  that,  save  fraught  with  fire  unquendiable. 
To  the  new  comers.  Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'Twere  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.  Now  it  bears  an  aspect! 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

Pama,  Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 
I  underitand  you  now. 

Sard,  And  blame  me? 

Pmmeu  No  — 
Let  me  but  fire  the  pile  and  share  it  with  you. 

Mgrrha,  That  duty 's  mine. 

Pmma,  A  woman's ! 

Mgrrhm.  'Tis  the  soldier's 
Fart  to  die/or  bis  sorereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman's  with  her  lover? 

Pania,  Tis  most  strange! 

9fyrrka,  But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou  thinkst  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  live  thou.  —  Farewell !  the  pile 
b  ready. 

PmmtL  I  should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 


With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

Sard,  Too  many  far  have  heralded 
Me  to  the  dust  already.  Get  tliee  hence ; 
Enrich  thee. 

Pania,  And  live  wretched ! 

Sard,  Think  upon 
Thy  vow ;  —  'tis  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

Pania,  Since  it  is  so,  fhrewell. 

Sard.  Search  well  my  chamber. 
Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold; 
Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Wlio  slew  me:  and  when  you  have  borne  away 
All  safe  off  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 
The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  frt>m  its  bank.     Then  fly , — 
And  as  you  sail,  turn  back ;  but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates :  if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Say  what  you  «aic7  at  parting,  and  request   * 
That  she  remember  what  I  smd  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  still. 

Pania,  Thatroy^lhandl 
Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and 
Would  fain  die  with  you ! 

[The  Soldiers  and  Paoia  throng  round  hin,  kissing  hU  band  and  th<- 
hcm  of  his  robe. 

Sard,  My  best !  my  last  friends ! 
Lef  s  not  unman  each  other  —  part  at  once: 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments. 
And  clog  tiie  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy:  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Now  to  be  pitied ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ;  —  for  the  future,'tis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be:  I  shall  know  soon.  Farewell  —  fareweH. 

CBxennt  Pania  and  the  Soldiers. 

Myrrha,  These  men  were  honest:  it  is  comfbrt  still 
That  our  last  looks  shall  be  on  loring  fhces. 

Sard,  And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful !  — but  hear  me ! 
If  at  this  moment,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feelst  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  flame  into  the  fUture,  say  it: 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less ;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature ;  and  there's  time 
Tet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myrrhh  ShaUIIight 
One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without. 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall? 

Sard,  Do  so.  Is  that  thy  answer? 

Myrrka,  Thou  shalt  see.  CBaiiM>rrha. 

Sard,  (solus)  She's  firm.  My  fathers!  whom  I  will  rejoin, 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some 
Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being. 


464 


SARDANAPALU& 


ACT  V. 


I  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 

To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen ; 

If  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 

As  ye  bequeathed  it,  this  bright  part  of  it. 

Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 

Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 

In  which  they  would  have  reveli'd,  I  bear  with  me 

To  you  in  tliat  absorbing  clement, 

Which  most  personifies  the  soul,  as  leaving 

The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 

Its  fiery  workings :  —  and  the  light  of  this 

ISIost  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 

Not  a  mere  pillar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 

A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day, 

y\nd  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 

To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 

Voluptuous  princes.   Time  shall  quench  full  many 

A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts; 

Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 

Of  empires,  into  nothing;  but  even  then 

Shall  spare  tliis  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 

A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 

Despise  —  but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 

Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 

Mybrba  reCarns  with  n  lighted  Torch  in  on«  Hand,  and  a  Cup  Id 
the  other. 

Myrrha.  Lo! 
I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sard.    And  the  cup  ? 

Mifrrha,  'Tis  my  country's  custom  to 
Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sard,  And  mine 
To  make  libations  amongst  men.  I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom;  and  although  alone. 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past 

[Sardanapalas  takes  the  cnp»  and  after  drinking  and  tinkling  the  re- 
Teraed  cap,  ai  a  drop  AUs,  exclaims  <— 

And  this  libation 

Is  for  the  excellent  Seleses. 

Myrrhtu  Why 
Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 

Sard.  The  other 
Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a  friend's  hand ;  the  other 
Is  master -mover  of  his  warlike  puppet: 
But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind.  —  Yet  pause 
My  Myrrlia !  dost  thou  truly  follow  me,       ^• 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 


Myrrka,    And  dost  thou  think 
A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  I 

Sard,  Then 
We  but  await  the  signal, 

Myrrha,  It  is  long 
In  sounding. 

Sard^  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

JJdyrrha,  Embrace,  but  not  the  last;  there  is  one  more. 

Sard,  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our  aslies. 

Myrrha,  And,  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall  they. 
Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 
2^Iix  pale  witli  thine.  A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

Sard,  Say  it 

Myrrha,  It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 
The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

Sard,  The  better: 
Rather  let  tliem  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter'd  into  air. 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors.  In  this  blazing  palace^ 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin. 
We  leave  a  nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick-mountains,  o'er  dead  kin^. 
Or  Am«,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis : 
So  much  for  monimients  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record! 

Myrrha.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth! 
And  loveliest  spot  of  earth !  farewell,  Ionia! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation !  My  last  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  an^,  were  of  thee ! 

&ir<f.  And  that? 

Myrrha,  Isyours, 

£The  tnunpcC  of  Pania  coonda  vilkoal 

Sard.  Hark 

Myrrha,  Now! 

Sard.  Adieu,  Assyria! 
I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land. 
And  better  as  my  country  tlian  my  kingdom. 
I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward!  and  now  I  owe  thee  notliiug. 
Not  even  a  grave.  [iie  sKmbu  cbc  piJc. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myrrha,  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Sard.  As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp.         CMyrrba  srei  ibe  ^ 

Myrrha.  'Tis  fired!  I  come. 

[A*  Myrrha  springs  Ibrward  to  throv  herself  into  the  IImmc%  the 

Curtain  fails. 


465 


WERNER, 


A   TRAGEDY. 


TO 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 

BT     ONB    or     HIS    HUMBLBST     ADMIRBRS     THI4     TRAOBDr     IS     OBUICITBD. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  drama  is  tal^en  entirely  from  the  ^^Ger- 
wum's  Tale,  Kruitzner,"  published  many  years  ago  in 
*Lee'$  Canterbury  Tales*';  written  (I  believe)  by  two 
sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  story  and  an- 
other, both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  the  re- 
aainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted  the  characters, 
pbn,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts  of  this  story. 
Some  of  the  characters  are  modified  or  altered,  a  few  of 
flie  names  changed,  and  one  character  ( Ida  of  Stralen- 
hrim)  added  by  myself:  but  in  the  rest  the  original  is 
chiefly  followed.  When  I  was  young  (about  fourteen,  I 
think)  I  first  read  this  tale,  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
•ion  upon  me;  and  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  contain  the 
ferm  of  much  that  I  have  since  written*  I  am  not  sure 
fliat  it  ever  was  very  popular;  or,  at  any  rate,  its  popu- 
larity has  since  been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great  wri- 
ters in  the  same  department  But  I  have  generally  found 
that  those  who  had  read  it,  agreed  with  me  in  their  esti- 
mate of  the  singular  power  of  mind  and  conception  which 
it  developes.  I  should  also  add  conception,  rather  than 
execution;  for  the  story  might,  perhaps,  have  been  more 


developed  with  greater  advantage.  Amongst  those  whose 
opinions  agreed  with  mine  upon  this  story,  I  could 
mention  some  very  high  names;  but  it  is  not  necessary, 
nor  indeed  of  any  use;  for  every  one  must  judge  accord- 
ing to  his  own  feelings.  I  merely  refer  the  reader  to  the 
original  story,  that  he  may  see  to  what  extent  I  have  bor- 
rowed from  it;  and  am  not  unwilling  that  he  should  find 
much  greater  pleasure  in  {perusing  it  than  the  drama 
which  is  founded  upon  its  contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as  1815 
(the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen  years 
old,  called  **Ulric  and  Ilvina**  which  I  had  sense  enough 
to  burn),  and  had  nearly  completed  an  act,  when  I 
was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  This  is  somewhere 
amongst  my  papers  in  England;  but  as  it  has  not  been 
found,  I  have  re- written  the  first,  and  added  the  subse- 
quent acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any  shape  adap- 
ted, for  the  stage. 

February,  1822. 


90 


466 


WERNBIL 


DRAMATIS   PERSONJB. 


act: 


MEN. 

WCKNER. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

Idenstein. 

Gador. 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arnhbim. 

Meister. 

RODOLPH. 
LUDWIO. 


SCENE   L 


WOMEN. 


JOSEPRINB. 

Ida  Stralbnhbiii. 

Scene  —  partly  on  the  frontier  of  Silesia,  and  parlif 
in  Siegendorf- Castle,  near  Pra^e. 

Time  —  the  dose  of  the  thirty  years'  war. 


ACT 


Th€  Uali  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  nnall  Town  on  the  northen  frooder 
orSilciia— the  Nigbt  tcnip€«tuou«. 

Wbrnkr    and   Joscphinb   hli    wife. 

Josephine,  My  love,  be  calmer! 

Werner.  I  am  calm. 

Josephine,  Tome  — 
Yes,  but  not  to  thyself:  thy  pace  is  hurried. 
And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  happy, 
And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower ; 
Jiuthere! 

Werner,  'Tis  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves :  my  blood  is  frozen. 

Josephine,  Ah,  no ! 

Werner  (smiling).  Why !  wouldst  thou  have  it  so? 

Josephine,  1  would 
Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

Werner,  Let  it  flow 
Until  'tis  spilt  or  chcck'd  —  how  soon,  I  care  not 

Josephine,  And  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart? 

TTemer.  All  —  all.  [break  mine? 

Josephine,  Then  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which  must 
Werner  (approaching  her  slowly).  Butfor  tkee  I  had  been  — 
no  matter  what, 
Bat  much  of  good  and  evil ;  what  I  am, 
Thou  knowest ;  what  I  might  or  should  have  been. 
Thou  knowest  not :  ba%till  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us.  * 

[Werner  walks  on  abraptly,  and  then  approacbea  Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night, 
Perhaps,  affects  me;  I'm  a  thing  <^fecUngs, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas  I 
Thou  knowst  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  my  love! 
In  watching  me. 

Josephine,  To  see  thee  well  is  much  — 
To  see  thee  happy  — 

Werner,  Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 
Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest! 


Josephine,  But  think 
How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 
Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  eartli. 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

Werner.  And  thafs  not  the  worst:  who  cares 
For  chambers?  rest  is  all.  The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest  —  ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.  I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hunter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talkst  oL 

Josephine,  And  art  thou  not  now  sheltered  from  thea 

Werner,  Yes.  And  from  these  alone.  [all! 

Josephine,  And  that  is  something. 

Werner.  True  —  to  a  peasant 

Josephine,  Should  the  nobly  bom 
Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life? 

Werner,  It  is  not  that,  thou  knowst  it  is  not;  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I'll  not  say  patiently, 
Except  in  thee  —  but  we  have  borne  it 

Josephine,  Well?  (though 

Werner.  Something  beyond  our'  outward  saffenQp 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seised  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wasted  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means. 
And  leaves  us,  —  no !  this  is  beyond  me!  —  but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy  —  thou  been  happy  — 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain  *d  -^  my  name  — 
My  father's  name  —  been  still  upheld;  and,  more 
Than  those  -^ 

Josephine  (abraptiy).  My  son  —  oor  son  —  our  Ubk^ 
Been  clasp'd  again  in  these  Iong«empty  arms. 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisfied. 
Twelve  years  1  he  was  but  eight  then :  —  beautiful 


ICT  I. 


WBRNBR. 


467 


Be  was,  and  beaatiftil  he  must  be  now. 
ICyUlric!  my  adored! 

Werner,  I  have  beea  full  oft 
The  chase  of  Fortone;  now  she  hath  o'ertakcn 
If  y  spirit  where  it  cannot  torn  at  bay,  — 
Biek,  poor,  and  lonely. 

Josephine,  Lonely!  my  dear  hosband  ? 

Werner.  Or  worse  —  inyoWing  all  I  love,  in  this 
Fir  worse  than  solitude.  Alone,  I  had  died, 
And  all  l>een  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

Joeephme,  And  I  had  notontlived  thee;  bnt  pray  take 
Comfort!  We  have  struggled  long;  and  they  who  strive 
With  Fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last. 
So  that  they  find  the  goal,  or  cease  to  feel 
Farther.  Take  comfort,  -  we  shall  find  onr  boy. 

Werner,  We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 
Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sorrow  — 
And  to  be  baffled  thus  1 

Joeephine,  We  are  not  baffled. 

Werner.  Anr  we  not  penny  less? 

Josephine.  We  ne'er  were  wealthy.  [power; 

Werner,  But  I  was  born  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and 
Eajoy'd  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas !  abused  them, 
And  fbrfated  them  by  my  fiither's  wrath. 
In  my  o'er-fervent  youth ;  bnt  for  the  abuse 
Long  sufferings  have  atoned.  My  father's  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  witliout  snares. 
This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept  me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

Josephine,  Who  knows?  our  son 
May  have  returned  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee? 

Werner,  'Tis  hopeless. 
Snoe  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  father's, 
Bntailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  bis  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation;  but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stem  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  foUies.  [yet 

Josephine,  I  must  hope  better  still,  —  at  least  we  have 
Baffled  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim.  [sickness, 

Werner,  We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal 
More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady, 
Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace : 
Bven  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 
By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend;  — 
How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here? 

Josephine,  He  does  not  know  thy  person ;  and  his  spies. 
Who  so  long  watch'd  thee,  have  been  left  at  Hamburgh. 
Oar  unexpected  j  ourncy ,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leaves  all  discovery  far  behind : 
None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 

Werner.  Save  what  we  seem !  save  what  we  are  — 
Even  to  our  very  hopes.  —  Ha !  ha ! 
sick  beggars, 


Josephine.  Alas! 
That  bitter  laugh! 

Werner.  )f%o  would  read  in  this  form 
The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line? 
I  Vho,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
Who,  in  this  sunken^  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry  ?  in  this  worn  cheek, 
And  iaraine-hollow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls, 
Wliich  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals? 

Josephine,  You 
Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things. 
My  Werner!  when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile. 

Werner.  An  exile's  daughter  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a  fit  marriage;  but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  born  for. 
Your  ftither's  house  was  noble,  though  decayed, 
And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours.  [noble ; 

Josephine,  Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though  'twas 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deem'd  it  whkt  it  is. 

Werner,  And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes? 

Josephine,  All  which  it 
Has  done  in  our  behalf,  —  notliing, 

Werner,  How,  —  nothing? 

Josephine,  Or  worse ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning:  but  for  this, 
We  had  not  felt  our  poverty,  but  as 
Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerftiUy ; 
But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers. 
Thou  migbtsthave  earn'd  thy  bread  as  thousands  earn  it; 
Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 
Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes. 

Werner  (ironically).  And  been  an  Hanseatic  biu#her  ? 
Excellent! 

Josephine.  Whatever  thou  mightst  have  been,  to  me 
thou  art, 
What  no  state,  high  or  low,  can  ever  change, 
My  heart's  first  choice ;->  which  chose  thee,  knowing 

neither 
Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride;   nought,  save  thy 

sorrows : 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them ; 
When  tliey  end,  let  mine  end  with  tliem,  or  thee! 

Werner,  My  better  angcl !  such  I  have  ever  found  thee; 
Tliis  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper. 
Ne'er  raised  a  thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine. 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes:  my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire. 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance;  but  now, 
Chasten'd,  subdued,  out-worn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself,  —  to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  tbcc! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring. 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires 
(For  I  was  then  the  last),  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved -exclurion:  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  Gorgon's  round  mc.      [A  knocking  u  beard. 


468 


W£RN£R. 


ACT  I 


Josephine,  Hark! 

Werner,  A  knocking! 

Josephine,  Who  can  it  be  at  this  lonc  hour  ?  weha?e 
Few  visitors. 

Wenier,  And  poverty  bath  none, 
Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

£WerD«r  pab  bit  hand  into  bb  bosom,  as  If  to  search  for  sone 

weupoo. 

Josephine,  Ob!  do  not  look  so.  I 
Will  to  the  door.  It  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation  — 
The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[Sbc  foes  to  th«  door. 
Enter  Idbnstbj!i. 

Idenst  A  fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostess 
And  worthy  ~  what's  your  name,  my  friend? 

Werner.  Are  you 
Not  afraid  to  demand  it? 

Idenst  Not  afraid? 
Egad!  I  am  afraid.  You  look  as  if  , 

I  ask'd  for  something  better  than  your  name, 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it 

Werner,  Better,  sir ! 

Idenst,  Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony:  what 
Shall  I  say  more?  You  have  been  a  guest  this  month 
Here  in  the  Prince's  palaoe  —  (to  be  sure, 
His  Highness  had  resigned  it  to  the  ghosts 
And  rats  these  twelve  years  —  but  'tis  still  a  palace)  — 
I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 
We  do  not  know  your  name. 

Werner,  My  name  is  Werner. 

Idenst,  A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name, 
4s  e'er  was  gih  upon  a  trader's  board ; 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same.  He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 
Surgeon's  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon), 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business. 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative  ? 

Werner,  To  yours? 

Josephine,  Oh,  yes;  we  are,  but  distantly. 

CA»i«te  10  Wenwr. 
Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip  till 
We  learn  his  purpose? 

Idenst.  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that; 
I  thought  so  all  along;  such  natural  yearnings 
PUy'd  round  my  heart  —  blood  is  not  Water,  oonain; 
And  so  lef  s  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance :  relatives  should  be 
Friends. 

Werner,  You  appear  to  have  drank  enough  already, 
And  if  you  had  not,  I've  no  wine  to  offer, 
Blse  it  were  yours ;  but  this  you  knoiv,  or  should  know : 
You  see  I  am  poor  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  alone;  but  to  your  business  1 
What  brings  you  here? 

Idenst.  Why,  what  should  bring  me  here? 

Werner,  I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 

Josephine  (aside).  Patience,  dear  Werner  I 


Idenst.  You  don't  kaow  what  has  happened,  then! 

Josephine,  How  should  we? 

Idenst,  The  river  has  o'orflow'd. 

Josephine,  Alas!  we  have  known 
That  to  our  sorrow,  for  these  five  days ;  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

Idenst,  But  what  you  don't  know  is. 
That  a  great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream,  and  three  postillions'  wishes. 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  posthorses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastiff,  and  a  valet 

Josephine,  Poor  creatures  1  are  you  sure? 

Idenst,  Yes,  of  the  monkey. 
And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  Bxcellem^  's  dead 
Or  no ;  your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown. 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be; 
But,  what  is  certain,  is,  that  he  has  swallow'd 
Bnough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants ; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller. 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
It  may  turn  out  with  tlie  live  or  dead  body. 

Josephine,  And  where  will  you  receive  him?  here,  I 
If  we  can  be  of  service  —  say  the  word.  [hope, 

Idenst,  Here  ?  no ;  but  in  the  Prince's  own  apartauit, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest;  'tis  damp,  bo  doubt. 
Not  having  been  inhabited  tliese  twelve  years; 
But  then  he  comes  from  a  much  damper  place. 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in't,  if  he  be 
Still  liable  to  cold  —  and  if  not,  why 
He'll  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow :  nc'ertiieless, 
I  have  order'd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst  —  that  is. 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

Josephine,  Poor  gentleman ! 
I  hope  he  will,  with  all  ray  heart 

Werner,  Intendant, 
Have  you  not  learn'd  his  name?  My  Josephine, 

(Asidriehb«ii» 

Retire :  TU  sift  this  fooL  [Exit  /oscfyR 

Idenst,  His  name? oh  Lord! 
Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no  ? 
'Tis  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he's  able 
To  give  an  answer;  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.  Metb  ought 
Just  now  yon  chid  me  for  demanding  names? 

Werner,  True,  true,  I  did  so ;  you  say  wdl  and  wisely 

Enter  Gabob. 

Gahor,  Ifl  intrude,  I  crave  — 

Idenst.  Oh,  no  intrusion! 
This  is  the  palace ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;  I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home: 
But  Where's  his  Excellency,  and  how  fares  he? 

Gahor,  Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril ; 
He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage 
(Where  I  dofl'd  mine  for  these ,  and  f:ame  on  hither), 
And  has  almost  recover'd  from  his  drenching. 
He  will  be  here  anon. 


ACT  L 


WBRNSR. 


469 


IdensL  Whathoytiierelbiutlel 
Without  there,  Herman,  Weilbnrg,  Peter,  Conrad  1 

CGivet  directions  to  different  ■enmato  wlio  eotir. 

k  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-ni^ht  —  see  that 

All  is  in  order  in  the  damask-ohamber  -^ 

Keep  up  the  stove  —  I  will  myself  to  the  cellar  — 

And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  oonsort,  stranger,) 

SbaJI  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel;  for, 

To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 

Within  the  palace-precincts,  since  his  Highness 

Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.  And  then 

His  Excellency  will  sop,  doubUess  ? 

Gidufr,  Faith! 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  aAer 
His  soaking  in  your  river :  but  for  fear 
Yoor  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 

idtAsL  But  are  you  sure 
His  Excellency  —  but  his  namet  what  is  itZ 

Gthor.  I  do  not  know. 

LUusL  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

Gabon  I  helped  my  friend  to  do  so* 

IdtML  Well,  that's  strange, 
To  save  a  man's  life  ivhom  you  do  not  know. 

Gabon  Not  so;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

IdensL  Pray, 
Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

Gahor,  By  my  family, 
Huugarian. 

IdensL  Which  is  call 'd  ? 

Gabon  It  matters  little. 

Umut,  (uide)  I  think  that  all  the  world  are  grown  ano- 
nymous, 
8inoe  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he's  call'd ! 
Pray,  has  his  Bxcellency  a  large  suite? 

Gabon  Sufficient 

Umtt,  How  many? 

Gahor.  I  did  not  count  them. 
We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  Just 
In  time  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage-window. 

IdansU  Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man ! 
No  doubt  you'll  have  a  swinging   sum  as  recompense. 

Gahor.  Perhaps. 

IdmuU  Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

Gahor.  1  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale : 
In  the  mean  time,  my  b^t  reward  would  be 
A  glass  of  your  Hockheimer,  a  ^rean  glass. 
Wreathed  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 
O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage; 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Ron  hazard  of  being  drown'd  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you), 
ril  pull  you  out  for  nothing.  Quick,  my  friend. 
And  tl^nk,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  tlic  less  may  roll  above  your  head.  [dry 

IdoML  (uide)  I  don't  much  like  tliis  fellow —  close  and 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not;  however. 


Wine  he  shall  have;  if  that  unlocks  him  not, 

I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity.  £Bxit  idenstein. 

Gahor  (to  Werner).  This  master  of  the  ceremonies  IS 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume  ? 
'Tis  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

Wamar.  The  apartment 
Design'd  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest 

Gabon  I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

Werner (qnUMy).  Sir! 

Gabon  Pray 
Bxcuse  me:  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you? 

Werner.  Nothing:  but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other. 

Gabor.  And  thaf  s  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so : 
I  thought  our  bustling  host  without  had  said 
Ton  were  a  chance-and  passing<guest,  the  counterpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

Werner.  Very  true. 

Gabor.  Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  least  to  me)  by  asking  yon  to  share 
The  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

Werner.  Pray,  pardon  me ;  my  health  — 

Gahor.  Bven  as  you  please. 
I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

Wemen  I  have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

Gabon  In  what  service? 
The  Imperial  ?  [ —  no  —  I  mean 

Werner  (quickly,  and  then  fnttrrnptioK  himseli).  I  commanded 

I  served;  but  it  is  many  years  ago, 

Wlien  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 

The  Austrian. 

Gabor,  Well,  that's  over  now,  and  peace 
Has  turn'd  some  tliousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  tliey  best  may ;  and,  to  say  truth. 
Some  take  tlie  shortest 

Wemen  What  is  that? 

Gabon  Whate'er 
They  lay  their  hands  on.  AH  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Theb  maintenance :  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle-walls  —  beyond  them  'tis  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  Count  or  full-blown  Baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

Wemen  Audi  —  nothing. 

Gahor,  That's  harder  still.  You  say  yon  were  a  soldier 

Wemer.  I  was. 

Gtibon  You  look  one  still.  All  soldiers  are 
Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  eltemies. 
Our  swords,  when  drawn,  must  cross,  our  enipncs  aim 
(While  leveU'd)  at  each  other's  hearts ;  but  when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  wc  are  brethren. 
You  are  poor  and  sickly  —  I  am  not  rich,  but  healthy ; 


470 


WERNER. 


ACTl 


I  want  for  uothiof^  which  I  cannot  want ; 

You  seem  devoid  of  this  —  wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabor  polU  oat  hU  parte. 

Werner,  Who 
Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  1 

Gabor.  You  yourself, 
In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace-time. 

Werner  (lookiDg  at  him  with  Bospidon). 

You  know  me  not? 

Gabor.  I  know  no  man,  not  even 
Myself:  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

Werner.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 
Your  offer 's  noble  were  it  to  a  friend. 
And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Though  scarcely  prudent ;  but  no  less  I  thank  you. 
I  am  a  beggar  in  all  save  hb  trade, 
iVnd  when  I  beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  asking.  Pardon  me «  [Exit  w«rner. 

Gabor  («oina).  A  goodly  fdlow  by  his  looks,  though  worn, 
As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time : 
I  scarce  know  which  most  quickly  ;  but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not 
Who  has  seen  yesterday  ?  —  But  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine;  however. 
For  the  cup's  sake,  I'll  bear  the  cupbearer. 

Enter  Idknstbin. 

Idenst.  'T'ls  here !  the  supernaculum !  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if 'tis  a  day. 

Gabor.  Which  epoch  makes 
Young  women  and  old  wine,  and  'tis  great  pity 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years. 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full  —  Here's  to  our  hostess  —  your  fair  wife ! 

[Takes  the  giaM. 

Idenst.  Fair!  —  Well,  I  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is 
To  that  you  shew  for  beauty ;  but  I  pledge  you  [equal 
Nevertheless. 

Gabor,  Is  not  the  lovely  woman 
I  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have  better 
fiescem'd  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days 
(Though  in  a  garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  return'd  my  salutation  — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse? 

Idenst.  I  would  she  were  I 
But  you're  mistaken  —  that's  the  stranger's  wife. 

Gabor.  And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's : 
Though  time  hath  touch'd  her  too,  she  still  retains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

Idenst.  And  that 
Is  more  than  I  calTsay  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty :  as  for  majesty. 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared  —  but  never  mind  I 

Gabor,  I  don't  But  who 
May  be  this  stranger  ?  He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 


IdentU  There  I  differ. 
He's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient;  but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him. 
Except  his  name  (and  that  I  only  learn'd 
To-night),  I  know  not 

Crabor.  But  how  came  he  here? 

Idenst,  In  a  most  miserable  old  caledie. 
About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 
Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.  He  should  have  ified. 

Gabor,  Tender  and  true!  —  but  why? 

Idenst.  Why,  what  is  life 
Without  a  living?  He  has  not  a  stiver. 

Gabor,  In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a  person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

Idenst  Thafstme;  but  pity,  as  yon  know,  <{o«t  mskf 
One's  heart  commit  these  follies ;  and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time. 
Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  present  hour; 
And  so  I  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace-rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  fire-wood. 

Gabor,  Poor  souls! 

Idenst,  Ay, 
Exceeding  poor. 

Gahor.  And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 
If  I  mistake  not  Whither  were  they  going?  [itself. 

Idenst,  O !  Heaven  knows  \%  here ,  unless  to  hearea 
Some  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
For  Werner. 

Gabor,  Werner!  I  have  heard  the  name: 
But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

Idenst,  Like  enough! 
But  hark !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torches  from  without  As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  Excellency  's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post:  will  you  not  join  me^ 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door? 

Gabor,  Idragg'dhim 
From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  bis  gurgling  throat 
He  has  valets  now  enough :  they  stood  aloof  then. 
Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 
AH  roaring,  "Help!"  but  offering  none;  and  as 
For  duty  (as  you  call  it)  I  did  mine  tken^ 
Now  do  yours.  Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him  here! 

Idenst,  /cringe!  —  but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity  — 
Plague  take  it  I  he'll  be  here,  and  I  not  there! 

[Exit  Ideufeia,  ha^Htg. 
Re-enter  Wbknkk. 
Werner  (to  himseii).  I  heard  a  noise  of  wheeb  and  voior& 
A 11  sounds  now  jar  roe !  [How 

(Peireiviiig  Gabor)  Still  here  !  Is  he  not 
A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?  His  frank  offer, 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 


ACT  1. 


WBRNER 


471 


Gmhor.  Sir,  yon  seem  rapt ; 
And  yet  the  time  U  not  akin  to  thought 
nieae  old  walla  will  be  noiay  aoon.  The  Baron, 
Or  Count  (or  whataoe'er  this  half-drown'd  noble 
Bfay  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village,  and 
Its  lone  inhabitants,  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  oome. 

IdensL  (wiihoat)  This  way  — 
This  way,  your  ExoeUency :  —  have  a  care, 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay 'd ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  lugfa  a  guest  —  pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord! 

Batcr  STBALMwax,  lontmic,  and  Attendtntt,    paiHy    bit  own, 
ud  partly  rcteiDtn  oftlic  drauio,  of  which  lonfTBiN  b  InlmidaBC. 

Siralenk,  lH  rest  me  here  a  moment 

IdensL  (i»  the  Mrraniv)  Hol  a  chair! 
Instantly,  knaves !  DStmeBheim  Miu  down. 

Werner  (wAdte).  'Tishel 

SiralenJL  Fm  better  now. 
Who  are  these  strangers? 

IdeneL  Please  you,,  my  good  lord. 
One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Werner  (■toad  and  hutiiy).  IFlo  says  that  t 

[They  look  at  him  with  MirprfM. 

IHen$U  Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  !  —  but 
Here's  one  his  Excellency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  Gabor. 

Ouhor,  I  seek  not  to  disturb 
His  noble  memory. 

Stralenk,  I  apprehend 
This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
I  owe  my  rescue.  Is  not  that  the  other?  [Fointinf  to  Werner. 
My  state,  when  I  was  suocour'd,  must  excuse 
Uy  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  90  much. 

IdensL  He!  —  no,  my  Lord !  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it  'Tis  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel-tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dream'd  to  risci 

&ralenL  Methought 
That  there  were  two. 

Gebor.  There  were,  in  company; 
But  in  the  service  rendered  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one^  and  he  is  absent 
The  diief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd, 
WasAif:  it  was  his  fortune  to  he  first 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripped  me;  therefore  do  not  waste 
Tour  thanks  on  me.  I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 

Sirdenh.  Where  is  he? 

An  Attendant.  My  Lord,  hetarried  in  thecottage,  where 
Your  Excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

Strnlenk.  TiU 
That  hour  arrives,  I  ^  but  offer  thanks, 
And  then  — 

Gobor,  I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.  My  comrade  may  speak  for  bimselC 

Strmteuk,  (Miog  hi«  eye*  opon  Werner:  then  a^idc).  It  cannOt 

be!  and  yet  he  must  be  look'd  to. 


'TIs  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 

These  eyes ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 

Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 

My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 

Suspicion  of  my  plan.  Why  did  I  leave 

At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurance 

If  this  be  he  or  no?  I  thought,  ere  now, 

To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 

In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 

To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 

May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till  ~ 

Die  penset  and  loolcs  at  Warner;  then  renames. 

This  man  must 
Bewatch'd.  If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed. 
His  fhther,  rising  from  his  grave  again. 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.  I  must  be  wary; 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

Idenst  Your  Lordship  seems 
Pensive.    Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on? 

Stroienh.  'Tis  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh'd- 
An  outward  show  of  thought  I  will  to  rest  [down  spirit 

Idenst,  The  Prince's  chamber  is  prepared  witii  all 
The  very  furniture  the  Prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(Aftide)  Somewhat  tatter'd , 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torch-light ; 
And  that's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'neath  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 

Siridenk*  (ri»log,  and  taming  to  Gabor). 

Good  night,  good  people!  Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  aptcr  to  requite  your  service. 
In  the  meantime,  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

Gabor,  I  attend  you. 

Stralenk*   Uftcr  a  dew  ttepi,  paniet,  and  calU  Warner).  Friend ! 

Werner.  Sir! 

IdensL  Sir  I  Lord  ^  oh,  Lord!  Why  don't  you  say 
His  Lordship,  or  his  Excellency?  Pray, 
My  Lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breeding : 
He  hath  not  been  accustom'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

Stridenk.  (toidenai).  Peace,  intendaut ! 

IdensL  Oh! 
I  am  dumb. 

StrtdenA.  (to  WtmorXHave  you  been  long  here  ? 

Werner.  Long? 

StralenA.  I  sought 
An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

Werner.  You  may  seek 
Both  from  the  walls.  I  am  AOt  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I  know  not 

Stralenk.  Indeed!  ne'er  the  less 
Y'ou  might  reply  with  courtesy  to  what 
Is  ask'd  in  kindness. 

Werner.  When  I  know  it  such, 
I  vill  requite  —  that  is,  reply  —in  unison. 

Stralenk.  The  intendant  said,  you  had  b(*en  detained 
by  sickness  — 
If  I  could  aid  you  —  joumcjring  the  same  way  ? 


472 


WMINEB. 


ACT? 


Wemer  (qnUMy),  lamnotjoimeyisigrtliesaiiieway! 

Stralenk,  How  know  ye 
That,  ere  you  know  my  route? 

Werner,  Because  there  is 
But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Togetlier.  You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I  some  days ;  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  though  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

Straienh,  Your  language  is  above 
Your  station. 

FFtfmer  (bitteriy).  Is  it? 

StraUnh,  Or,  at  least,  beyond 
Your  garb. 

Werner.  'Tis  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
<  As  sometimes  happens  to  the  better-clad. 
But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

Straienh.  (surUed).!? 

Werner,  Yes  —  you !  Yon  know  me  not,  and  question 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not  —  not  knowing  [me, 

HCy  inquisitor.  Explain  what  you  would  have , 
And  then  I'll  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

Straienh,  I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve.. 

Werner.  Many  have  such :  —  Have  you  none  ? 

Straienh,  None  which  can 
Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

Werner.  Then- forgive 
The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  rinnaiu  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  witli  him. 

Straienh.  Sir, 
I  wilt  not  balk  your  humour,  thougli  untoward : 
I  only  meant  you  service  —  but,  good  night ! 
Intendant,  show  the  way !  (to  Gabor}.8ir,  you  will  with  me? 

[ExMiit  Straleiihcini  «nd  Attendtnts;  Id«nstein  and  Gabur. 

Werner  (»pini).  'Tis  he !  I  am  taken  in  the  toils.  Before 
,  T  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  bis  late  steward, 
Informed  me,  that  he  had  obtained  an  order 
From  Braodenburgh's  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  I  then  bore),  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  the  free  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom  —  till  I  left 
Its  walls  —  fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them !  But 
I  deem'd  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure, 
Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit 
What 's  to  be  done  ?  He  knows  me  not  by  person ; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 
Have  recognised  Atm,  after  twenty  years, 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.  But  those  about  him  1  Now  I  can 
Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who. 
No  doubt,  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralenhcim's , 
To  sound  and  to  secure  me.  Without  means ! 
Sick,  poor  —  begirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers, 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  witli 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men's  lives,  — 
How  can  I  hope?  An  hour  ago  methought 
Mj  state  beyond  despair;  and  now,  'tis  such, 
The  past  seems  paradise.  Another  day. 
And  I'm  detected,  —  on  the  very  eve 


Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  infaeritanoe. 
When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  stiB 
In  fiivouring  an  escape. 

Bntcr  iDnwraiM  «Dd  Fbits  So  cOBTerauioa. 

J^^.  Immediately. 

Idenet,  I  tell  you, 'tis  impossible. 

FHtz,  It  must 
Be  tried,  however;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant 

Idemt,  I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Fritz,  And  recollect 
To  spare  no  trouble ;  you  will  be  repiud 
Tenfold. 

Idenet,  The  Baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

Fritz.  He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  i 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers ;  and  has  order'd 
He  may  not  be  dislurb'd  until  eleven, 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

IdentU  Before 
An  hour  is  past  I'll  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

Fritz,  Remember!  tExitF^itK 

Idenet.  The  devil  take  these  great  men !  they 
Think  ail  things  made  for  them.  Now  here  must  I 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
Fr«>m  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  lives,  despatch  them  o'er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort  Metliinks  the  Baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feoltng: 
But  no,  ^it  muet"  and  there's  an  end.  How  now? 
Are  you  there.  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

Werner.  You  have  left 
Your  noble  guest  right  f{uickly. 

Idenst.  Yes  —  he's  dozing. 
And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  time :  Good  night !  [Exit  idnstein. 

Werner.  "To  Frankfort  l" 
So,  so,  it  thickens !  Ay,  '^the  commandant" 
This  tallies  well  with  alt  tlie  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.  No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress.  -— '  Sooner  than 

This  CWemer  look*  aronnd,  and  raatches  ap  a  knll^  lyteg  ob  a  talilifa 


Now  I  am  master  of  mjrself  at  least 
Hark,  ^  footsteps  I  How  do  I  know  that  Straksheui 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects  ra e  's  certain.    I'm  alone ; 
He  with  a  numerous  train ;  I  weak ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority; 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain ; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  bnigfcers 
Than  they  oould  do  elsewhere^  Hark !  nearer  atill  I 
I'll  to  the  secret  passage,  which  oommoitaifes 


ICT  L 


WERNBR* 


473 


Wkb  the  ~  No !  all  iB  iQoDt  — 'twas  my  iluicj ! — 

Still  as  the  breathlesa  intenral  between 

The  flash  and  thunder :  —  I  mast  hush  my  soul 

Asudst  its  perils.  Yet  I  will  retire. 

To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 

1  wot  of:  It  will  serve  me  as  a  den 

Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst 

CWemcr  drawi  «  {mbmI  and  exit,  elotlnf  It  alter  him. 
Enter  Gabor  and  Jomphinb. 

G^her.  Where  is  your  husband  I 

JowpkmM,  /fere,  I  thought :  I  left  him 
Not  long  since  in  his  chamber.  But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

Gtihor.  Baron  Stralenheim 
Pat  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  welL 

J0$epkm9.  Alas! 
What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  Baron  and  the  unknown  Werner  ? 

Gaior.  That  you  know  best 

Josepkme.  Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 
Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf. 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

G^bor.  I  help'd  to  save  him,  as  in  peril;  but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  ta  serve  him  in 
Oppression.  I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up  when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak :  — < 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

Jotepkme,  It  would  be 
Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Your  good  intentions. 

Guher,  Is  he  so  suspicious? 

Jotepkine,  He  was  not  once;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

Gubor,  I'm  sorry  for  it 
Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armour,  and 
With  its  own  weight  impedes  mo/e  than  protects. 
Good  night !  I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  daybreak. 

CKxttGabor. 

Re-cai«r  lomtTiruf  aad  aone  PeaMnt^  JounnNB  retires  vp  the  Hall. 

Fh-tt  PemManU  But  if  Vm  drown'd  ? 

/<2rnst  Why,  you'll  be  well  paid  for't, 
Aod  have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as  much, 
I  doubt  not 

S§eoud  PeastaU,  But  our  wives  and  Aim i lies  ? 

UenH.  Cannot  be  worse  off  than  tiiey  are,  and  may 
Bebetter. 

Tkhrd  PemitaU,  I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

IdniMU  Thafs  right  A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  he 
A  soldier.  Fll  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
b  the  Prince's  body-guard  —  if  you  succeed ; 
And  you  shall  have  besides  in  sparkling  coin 
TwotiialerB. 

Third  PeasmtL  No  more  ? 

Idnut,  Out  upon  your  aivarlcel 


Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition? 
I  tell  thee^  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Bo  not  &fe  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler  ? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

T^rd  PeoMoni,  Never  — -  but  ne'er 
The  less  I  must  have  three. 

Idenst,  Have  you  forgot 
Whose  vassal  you  were  bom,  knave  ? 

Third  PeasanL  No  —  the  Prince's, 
And  not  the  stranger's. 

Idenst,  Sirrah!  in  the  Prince's 
Absence,  I'm  sovereign ;  and  the  Baron  is 
My  intimate  conneiuon:  —  <*Cousin  Idenstein ! 
(Quoth  he)  you'll  order  out  a  dosen  villains.'' 
And  so,  you  villains,  troop  —  mardi  —  march,  I  say : 
And  if  a  single  dog's  ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder  —  look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch'd  as  parchment  on  a  drum, 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alann  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  can  not  effect 
Impossibilities  —  Away,  ye  earth-worms ! 

[BxH,  drivfos  Ihem  oat 

Josephine  (eomlac  forward).  I  foin  would  shun  these  scenes, 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims ;     [too  oft  repeated, 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Bven  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot. 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still  —  the  pride  of  rank " 
In  servitude,  o'er  something  still  more  servile; 
And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A  tatter'd  splendour.  What  a  state  of  being! 
In  Tu8i*any,  my  own  dear  sunny  land. 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 
Like  Cosmo.  We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As  these ;  and  our  all  -ripe  and  gushing  valleys 
l^Iadc  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 
Was  in  itself  a  meal,  and  every  line 
Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad  « 
The  heart  of  man;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and,  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 
Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple. 
But,  here !  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice- wind  of  their  clime. 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 
To  wring  his  soul  —  as  the  bleak  elements 
His  form.  And  'tis  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 
My  husband  pants!  and  such  his  pride  of  birth  — 
That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Father,  born  in  a  humble  state,  itould  nerve 
His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal. 
Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature; 
But  I,  bom  nobly  also,  from  my  fether's 
Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.  Father ! 
May  thy  long -tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 
Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 
30* 


474  WBRN13R. 


JICTH 


Ulric !  I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me  I 

What's  that?  Thou,  Werner  I  can  it  be?  and  thus? 

Knter  Wcrnrr  liMtily,  with  th«  knlTe  is  bis  hand,  by  tfc«  accrct  pQimcl, 
which  he  clos««  harriecUy  aAer  bini. 

Werner  (not  at  fine  recognislni;  her)* 
Discovered !   tiien  I'll  stab  —  (recogalalnc  h*r). 

Ah!  Josephine, 
.  Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  I 

Josephine.  What  rest.'  My  God! 
What  doth  this  mean? 

Werner  (showing  a  roviean).  Here's  ^Id— gold,  Joteplune, 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

Josephine,  And  how  obtain'd?  —  that  knife ! 

Werner.  'Tis  bloodless  —  y«/. 
Away  —  we  must  to  our  chamber. 

Josephine.  But  whence  comest  thou? 


Werner.  Asknotl  botietutthiiikwlhereweslHdlfO-^ 
This  —  this  will  make  us  way  —  («bowfaiK  tte  goid>  — 
ni  fit  them  now. 

Josephine.  I  dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

Werner.  Dishonour! 

Josephine.  I  have  said  it 

Werner,  Let  us  hence: 
'Tis  the  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here 

Josephine.  And  not  the  wor«t,  1  hope. 

Werner.  Hope!  ImakeMcrf. 
But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Josephine.  Yet  one  question  — 
What  hast  dioa  done? 

Werner  (fiercely).  Left  one  thing  wn^mw,  which 
Had  made  all  well :  let  me  not  think  of  it! 
Away  I 

Josephine.  Al«i,  that  I  ahouM  doobt  of  Acel      (Bxc«c 


ACT       II. 


SCJ3NE  L 


A  Hall  ill  the  same  Pulnce. 


Enter  Iobnstrin   and  Others. 

Idensl.  Fine  doings!  goodly  doings !  honest  doings ! 
A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace! 
Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  of. 

Fritz,  It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

Idenst  Oh !  tliat  1  e'er  should  live  to  see  this  day  I 
The  lionour  of  our  city's  gone  for  ever. 

Fritz.  Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent; 
The  Baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

IdensL  And  so  am  L 

Friu.  But  whom  do  you  suspect? 

Idenst.  Suspect!  all  people 
Without — within — above  —  below  —  Heav(*n  help  me ! 

Frit  z.  Is  tliere  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 

Idenst.  None  whatsoever. 

Frilz,  Are  you  sore  of  that?  [birth, 

Idenst  Certain.  I  liave  lived  and  served  here  since  my 
And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  beard  of  such, 
Or  seen  it 

Fritz.  Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

IdensU  Doubtless. 

Fritz.  Themancaird  IFerjitfr 'spoor! 

Idenst,  Poor  as  a  miser. 
But  lodged  so  for  off,  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  tliere's  no  conmiunicatton  with 
The  Baron's  cliamber,  that  it  can't  be  he: 
Besides,  I  bade  him  *<good  night"  in  the  liall, 
Almost  a  mile  off>  and  which  only  leads 


To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  tame 
When  this  burglarhius,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  oommittecL 

Fritz.  There's  another  — 
The  stranger  — 

IdensU  The  Hungarian? 

Fritz.  He  who  help'd 
To  iish  the  Baron  from  tlie  Oder. 

Idensl.  Not 
Unlikely.  But,  hold  —  might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite? 

Fritz,  How?   We,  Sir! 

Idenst.  No  ^  noiyou. 
But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.  Ton  say 
The  Baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair  — 
The  velvet  chair  —  in  his  embroider 'd  night-gown; 
His  tcHlet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold;  of  which  one  only 
Has  disappear'd:  —  the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

Friu.  Good  Sir, 
Be  not  so  quick ;  the  honour  of  the  corps. 
Which  forms  the  Baron's  household,  's  unimpcadi'd. 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fiur  wnj 
Of  peculation;  such  as  in  aooompts, 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cdlar,  bultory, 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey ;  aa  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents. 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnirii  noble  masters : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery. 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-  wages:  then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 


ACT  li 


WERNHR. 


475 


HavebeensopooraiiRiritaBtohanrcl        « 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swoop'd  all ; 
Abo  the  cabiaet,  if  portable. 

/finut  There  is  some  sense  in  that  — 

jFHtr,  No,  Sir;  be  sure 
Twas  none  of  our  corps;  but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 
The  only  question  is  —  Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 

IdemsL  You  don't  mean  me? 

FHtz,  No,  Sir;  I  honour  more 
Your  talents  — 

IdensL  And  my  principles,  I  hope.  [done? 

firiU.  Of  course.    But  to  the  point:  What's  to  be 

IdensL  Nothing — but  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We'll  offer  a  reward;  move  heaven  and  earth, 
And  the  police  (though  there's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort) ;  post  notices  in  manuscript 
(For  we've  no  printer]) ;  and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We'll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets;  also,  to  arrest 
AH  gipsies,  and  ill-Kslothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we'll  have  at  least,  if  not  tlie  culprit ; 
And  for  the  Baron's  gold  •—  if  'tis  not  found, 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting*  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.  Here's  alohymy 
For  your  lord's  losses ! 

FriU,  He  hath  found  a  better. 

Idmut  Where? 

FrUz,  In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 
The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman. 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

IdensL  Was  there  no  heir? 

Friu,  Ob,  yes;  but  he  has  disappeared 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perhaps  the  world. 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Adused  to  kill  the  fetted  calf;  and,  therefore. 
If  fiving,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.  But 
The  Baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him. 
Were  he  to  re -appear:  he's  politic, 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court 

IdensL  He's  fortunate. 

FHtz,  'Tis  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 
Whom  the  late  Count  redaim'd  from  his  son's  hands, 
And  educated  as  his  heir;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

IdensL  How  so? 

Fritz,  His  sire  made 
A  left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark -eyed  daughter: 
Noble,  they  say,  too;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  Siegendorf  s.  Tlie  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  tlie  alliance;  and  could  ne'er  be  brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

IdensL  If  he's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 
Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 
Punle  your  Baron  to  unravel. 


IMtx.  Why, 
For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough;  they  say. 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  qualities,  —  impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter;  but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear'd 
Some  months  ago. 

IdsnsL  The  devil  he  did  I 

Fritz.  Why, yes; 
It  must  have  been  at  Ifis  suggestion,  at 
An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the  old  man's  deatli,  whose  heart  was  broken  by  it. 

IdensL  Was  there  no  cause  assign'd  I 

Fritz,  Plenty,  no  doubt, 
And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.  Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents ;  some,  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him) ; 
A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war. 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure, 
He  might  have  since  return'd,  were  that  the  motive ; 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in  him. 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature. 
He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 
Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero- system 
Of  bandit-warfare;  each  troop  with  its  chief. 
And  all  against  mankind. 

IdensL  That  cannot  be. 
A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes! 

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows! 
But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise. 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.  After  all, 
Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Your  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim'd, 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  it  on  their  own  account  Here  comes 
The  Baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 


Enter  Stkaunrkui  and  Ulbic. 

Stralenh,  Since  you  have  reftised 
All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  IJicm, 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words, 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude. 
They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  wliat 
Your  oburteous  courage  did  m  my  bebalC 


470 


WERNBR. 


ACT  D. 


Vlrie.  I  pray  yoa  press  the  theme  no  farther. 

StruUnk,  Bat 
Can  I  not  serve  you?  Yoa  are  yoong,  and  of 
That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes;  fair  in  fhvour; 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so; 
And,  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart, 
Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 
In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite  element 
You  are  made  for  the  service ;  I  have  served; 
Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends. 
Who  shall  be  yours.  Tis  true,  this  pause  of  peace 
Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily; 
But  'twill  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring ; 
And,  after  thirty  years  of  confiict,  peace 
Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  tmoe. 
War  will  reclaim  his  own ;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  ensure 
A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  (hil  not 
To  rise.  I  speak  of  Brandenbucgh,  wherein 
I  stand  well  with  the  elector;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

Ulric,  You  perceive  my  garb 
Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.   If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  'tis  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it 

Strulenh,  Why,  this  is  mere  usury ! 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  yon  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

Ulrie,  You  shall  say  so  when 
I  claim  the  payment 

Strcienh,  Well,  Sir,  nnoe  you  will  not  -^ 
You  are  nobly  born? 

Vlric.  I've  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 

Sirulenh.  Your  actions  show  it  Migfatlask  your 

Vlrie,  Uliio. 

Sirmlenk,  Your  house's? 

Uirie.  When  I'm  worthy  of  it, 
ril  answer  you. 

StraUnh.  Md^.&Iost  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  frontiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

CAlovd  to  Frits  «od 

So,  Sirs !  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  reseaiohes  ? 

IdensL  Indifferent  well,  your  Excellaicy. 

Str^lenk.  Then 
I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught? 

/dleiMt  Humph  I  ~  not  exactly. 

Strul^nk,  Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

Idemsi,  Oh !  for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected. 

Siralenk  Who  may  he  be? 

Id^nst  Why,  don'tyoM  know,  my  Lord? 

Stralenh,  How  should  I  ?  I  was  fhst  asleep. 

IiUmt,  And  so 


Was  I,  and  (haf  •  theeaaae  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  BaeeUenoy. 

Slrulenk.  Bolt  I 

Idenst  Why,  if 
Your  Lordship,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognise 
The  rogue;  how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd,  identily 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?  In  the  crowd. 
May  it  please  your  Bxoellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better: 
'Tis  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features ; 
But  ril  engage,  that  if  seen  tfiere  but  onoe, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no. 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

Sirmlenk.  (to  Priu).  Prithee,  Frits,  infbrm  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow? 

Fntz.  Faith!     ' 
My  Lord,  not  much  as  yet,  esusept  conjecture.  [mr 

StriUenk,  Besides  the  loss  (which,  I  must  own,  alects 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  oould  ereep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  tighted  ehambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scaroe<closed  eyes,  would  soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough.  Sir  Intendant! 

IdensL  True; 
If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  Lord. 

Ulrie.  Whatis  all  this? 

Slralenk,  You  join'd  us  but  this  morning. 
And  have  not  heard  that  I  was  robb'd  last  night 

Ulric.  Some  rumour  of  it  reach'd  me  as  I  pans'ft 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

Straienh,  It  is  a  strange  business : 
The  intendant  can  inform  yon  of  the  fhcts. 

IHentt.  Most  willingly.  You  see  — 

Straiemk,  fimiMtienay).  Defer  your  tale. 
Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 

iebfut  That 
Can  only  be  approved  by  proofe.  You  see — 

Str^lenk.  (aKaln  latamipciBf  falm,  aad  addrcfoiat  Virie). 

In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 

My  cabinet  before  me,  witii  some  gold 

Upon  it  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose. 

Though  in  part  only) :  some  ingenious  person 

Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendants 

Besides  those  of  the  plaoe,  and  bore  away 

A   hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 

I  would  be  fain,  and  there's  an  end ;  perhaps 

You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint)  would  add 

To  yesterday's  great  obligation  this. 

Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 

(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  In  recovering  it? 

Vine,  Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time  — 
(To  ideiuteio).  CoDic  hither.  Mynheer  I 

IdensL  But  so  much  haste  bodes 
Right  little  speed,  and  — 

Ulrie.  Standing  motionless, 
None ;  so  lef  s  march,  we'll  talk  as  wc  go  on. 

Idenst.  But  — 


ACT  n. 


WBRNER. 


477 


Vlric.  Show  the  ipot,  and  then  111  answer  yoa. 
Priix,  I  will.  Sir,  with  his  Exoellency's  leave. 
StrmUiUu  Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  aaa  with  you. 
Fritx,  Hence! 
VlrU,  Ck>me  on,  old  oraele,  expound  thy  riddle  I 

[Sxil  ^Ui  Ideiisleln  and  Fritt. 

Sirmlmih.  (mW.A  stalwart,  active,  soldier  -  looking: 
Handsome  as  Hercales  ere  his  first  labour,        [stripling. 
And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.  I  wish,  I  could  engage  him ; 
I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now. 
For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle. 
And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  lyithout  one, 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.  The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold  one; 
Bat  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  in  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 
Champion  his  claims:  that's  well.  The  ikther,  whom 
For  years  I've  track'd,  as  does  the  Uood-honnd,  never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  foult;  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that* s  better. 
It  must  be  Atf !  All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 
And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it. — Yes! 
The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival  and  die  time ;  the  account,  too, 
The  intendant  gave  (for' I  have  not  beheld  her) 
Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect : 
Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met. 
As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  each  other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either; 
All  —  all  -  confirm  it  to  my  mind :  however, 
Well  grapple,  ne'ertheless.  In  a  few  hours 
The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 
Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  fhvours 
Their  quick  abatement),  and  I'll  have  him  safe 
Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  estate  and  name;  and  there's  no  harm  done. 
Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.    This  robbery 
(Save  for  the  actual  loss),  is  hicky  also : 
He*s  poor,  and  that's  suspicious —  he's  unknown, 
And  that's  defenceless.  -  True,  we  have  no  proofs 
Of  g:iult,  but  what  hath  he  of  innocence? 
Were  be  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects. 
In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 
The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  something  which  I  lilce  not ;  and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 
Fbottliar  to  the  chamber. 

Batcr  Gamni. 

Friend ,  how  fhre  you  ? 
^sfter.  As  those  who  fhre  well  every  where,  when  they 
Have  supp'd  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how  — 
And  yon,  my  Lord? 

StrmUnk.  Better  in  rest  than  purse: 
ICiie  inn  is  like  to  cost  oie  dear. 
Gtikor,  I  heard 


Of  your  late  loss :  but  'tis  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

Stralenh.  Yon  would  hardly  think  so. 
Were  the  loss  yours. 

Gabor,  I  never  had  so  much 
(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.  But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turn'd  back  —  I  have  outstript  them. 
In  my  return. 

StraUnh.  You!  —  Why? 

Gabor,  I  went  at  daybreak. 
To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river. 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  check'd'like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

Str'alenk,  Would  the  dogs  were  in  it! 
Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage? 
I  order'd  this  at  all  risks. 

Gabor.  Could  you  order 
The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream),  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

SlrnUnk.  I  must  see  to  it : 
The  knaves !  the  slaves !  —  but  they  shall  smart  for  this. 

[Bxlc  Stralcnbdm. 

Gubar  (soint).  There  goes  my  noMe,  feudal,  self-will'd 
Epitome  of  w hat  brave  chivalry  [baron ! 

The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
Have  left  us.    Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer. 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  filled  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half-way  through  the  window 
Of  his  o'erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance; 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  doseen  wretches 
Because  they  love  their  lives  too!  Yet,  he's  right : 
'Tis  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may  put  them 
To  hasard  at  his  pleasure.  Oh !  thou  world ! 
Thou  art  indeed  a  mekincholy  jest !  [Exk  Oabor. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Apartment  of  WERNER,  in  the  Palace. 
Entar  Jountihu  and  uliiic. 

Joiepkine,  Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again ! 
My  Ulric !  —  my  beloved  I  —  can  it  be  — 
After  twelve  years? 

Ulrie.  My  dearest  mother! 

Josepkine,  Yes! 
My  dream  is  realized  —  how  beautifbl  — 
How  more  than  all  1  sigh'd  for !  Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks !  —  a  motlier's  tears  of  joy ! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work !  —  At  such  an  hour,  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son,  but  saviour. 

Uhic.  If  such  a  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten,  from  my  heart, 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld)  —  forgive  me ! 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fhult. 


478 


WERNBR. 


ACT  U 


Josephine,  I  know  it. 
But  cannot  tliink  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  'tis  so  daszled  from 
My  memory^  by  this  obliyious  transport  I  — 
My  son! 

Enter  WmMsa. 

Wemtr.  What  have  we  here,  more  strangers  ? 

Josephine,  No! 
Look  upon  him !  What  do  you  see  ? 

Wemen  A  stripling, 
For  the  first  time  — 

Vlric  (knwHng).  For  twelve  long  years,  my  father ! 

Werner,  Oh,  God! 

Josephine,  He  faints! 

Werner,  No  —  I  am  better  now  — 

Ulric!  (EinbracM  him). 

Ulric,  My  father,  Siegendod ! 

Werner  (itartiug).  Hush!  boy — 
The  walls  may  hear  that  name! 

Ulnc.  Whattlien? 

Warner.  Why,  then  — 
But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.  Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.  Come ! 
Come  to  my  arms  again!  Why,  thou  lookst  all 
]  should  have  been,  and  was  not    Josephine ! 
Sure  'tin  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me  ; 
But  had  I  seen  Uiat  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youths  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
Tills  for  my  sou! 

Vlrie,  And  yet  you  knew  me  not! 

Werner,  Alas !  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

Vlric,  My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly ;  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught;  and  oft-times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of —  (I'll  not  name  them. 
As  you  say  that  'tis  perilous),  but  i'  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire*s  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 
To  tlie  Bohemian  mountams  many  a  sunset, 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  tliee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

Werner,  I  know  not  that 
Arc  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Ulric,  Oh  heavens  !  I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.  'Twas  scarce  three  months  since. 

Werner,  Why  did  you  leave  him  1 

Josephine  (embracing  Ulric).  Can  you  ask  that  question? 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

Werner,  True ;  he  hath  sought  Ills  parents, 
And  found  them ;  but,  oh !  how,  and  in  what  state ! 

Ulric,  All  shall  be  better'd.  What  we  have  to  do 
Is  to  pro<!eed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 
Or  rather  yours ;  for  I  wave  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 
So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form : 
But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 
I 


^Wem^r.  HsveyoanotheMdofSlrafeiiiicim? 

Ulric,  Isared 
His  life  but  yesterday:  he's  here. 

Werner.  You  saved 
The  serpent  who  will  sting  um  all ! 

Ulric,  You  speak 
Riddles :  what  is  this  Sirnlgnhem  to  us  ? 

Werner,  Every  thiflg.One  whoclaimsoorfiither'siaBdi: 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

Ulric,  I  never  heard  lus  name  till  now.  The  Comity 
Indeed,  spoke  sometifloes  of  a  kinsman,  who. 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remote! j 
Involyed  in  the  snooession ;  but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me ;  and  what  then? 
His  right  must  yield  to  ours. 

Werner,  Ay,  if  at  Prague : 
But  here  he  is  all-powerful;  and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father  ,which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

Ulrie.  Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 

Werner,  No;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray'd  last  night;  and  I,  perhaps. 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

Ulric,  I  think  you  wrong  him 
(Excuse  me  for  the  plirase) ;  but  Stralenhetm 
Is  not  what  yon  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so. 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present; 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me : 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  too,  since  he  came  hither; 
Is  sick ;  a  stranger ;  and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him  ; 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so ;  and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross, 
My  own  whole  treasure  ->  you,  my  parents! 

Werner  (agiutediy).  Who 
Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  ^'villain?" 

Ulnc.  What 
More  noble  name  beloqgs  to  conunon  thieves? 

Werner,  Who  taught  you  tlius  to  brand  an  unknowa 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ?  [beiqg 

Ulric,  My  own  feelings 
Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds,     [boy !  that 

Werner,  Who  taught  you,  long-  sought,  and  iUrfound 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  sou  to  insult  me  ? 

Ulric,  I  named  a  villain.  What  is  there  in  common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father  ? 

Werner,  Everything! 
That  ruffian  is  thy  father ! 

Josephine,  Oh,  my  son! 
Believe  him  not  —  and  yet!  —  (Her  voice  falter^). 

Ulric  (SuurU,  looks  cvDertly  at  Wcmer,  and  Uten  aaya  alowly)  Afid 

you  avow  it? 
Werner,  Ulric !  before  you  dare  despif  e  your  father. 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.  Youn^, 
Rash,  neyr  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap. 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force. 
Or  misery's  temptation  ?  Wait  —  (not  long. 
It  cometh  like  the  night,  and  quickly)  —  Wait!  — 


ACT  n. 


WERNSR. 


479 


Wait  tin,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  bliglited  >-  till 

Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  yoar  cabin ; 

Famine  and  poverty  yoor  guests  at  table; 

Despair  your  bed-fellow  —  then  rise,  but  not 

From  sleep,  and  judge !  Should  that  day  e'er  arrive  — 

Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  coil'd 

Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 

Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 

With  but  hit  folds  between  your  steps  and  happiness, 

When  he,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 

Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 

Chance  your  conductor;  midnight  for  your  mantle; 

The  bare  knife  in  your  band,  and  earth  asleep, 

Even  to  your  deadliest  foe ;  and  he  as  'twere 

Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 

His  death  alone  can  save  you:  --  Thank  your  God! 

If  then,  like  me,  content  witih  petty  plunder. 

You  turn  aside  —  I  did  so. 

Ulne.  But  - 

IFenier  (abrapdy).   Hear  me  I 
1  will  not  brook  a  human  voice  —  scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still)  — 
Hear  me!  you  do  not  know  this  man  —  I  do. 
He's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.  You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave;  but  leorn 
Hone  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.  My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  ooueh'd  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife! 
An  instant  —  a  mere  motion  ~  the  least  impulse  — 
Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 
He  waa  within  my  power  —  my  knife  was  raised  — 
Withdrawn  —  and  I'm  in  his ;  are  you  not  so? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not?  Who  says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you?  or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon  ? 

[He  pansea. 

Vlric,  Proceed  — proceed! 

Werner.  Me  he  hath  ever  known,  [fortune  — 

And  hunted  through  each  change  of  time  —  name  — 
And  why  not  you?  Are  you  more  versed  in  men? 
He  wound  snares  round  me;  flung  along  my  path 
Reptileji,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have  spurn'd 
Bren  from  my  presence;  but,  in  spuming  now, 
Fill  only  with  fresh  venom.  Will  you  be 
More  patient?  Ulric!  —  Ulric !  —  there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 

Utrte  (looks  first  at  hioi  and  then  at  Josephine).  My  mother! 

Werner.  Ay!  I  thought  so:  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent  I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

r/rre.  But  stay!  [Werner  rushes  ont  or  tbo  chamber. 

Jesephine  (to  Ulric).  Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of 
passion 
Abates.  Thinkst  thou  that,  were  it  well  for  him, 
Ihadnotfollow'd? 

Ulric.  I  obey  you,  mother, 
AltboDjch  reluctantly.    My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

J^^ephine,  Oht  he  b  good! 


Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but  iraai 
To  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  and  for  him, 
That  tills  is  but  tiie  surface  of  his  soul, 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

Uin'c.  These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles? 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

Josephine.  Nor  doth  he 
Think  as  he  speaks.  Alas!  long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 

Ulric.  Explain  to  me 
More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 
That,  when  I  see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 
I  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this  —  but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner ! 

Josephine.  Ay! 
Hadst  thou  but  done  so! 

Bnter  Gaiok  and  Idbnstun  wich  Attendantk 

Gahor  (to  Ulric).  I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 
So,  this  is  my  reward ! 

Ulric.  What  do  you  mean?  [this? 

Gabor.  'Sdeath !  have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and  for 
(To  idenstein.)  But  for  your  age  and  folly,  I  would  — 

Idenst.  Help! 
Hands  off!  touch  an  intendant! 

Gabor,  Do  not  think 
I'll  honour  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  ravenstone,  by  choking  you  myself. 

Idenst.  I  thank  you  for  the  respite;  but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

Ulric.  Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or  — 

Gabor.  At  once,  then, 
The  baron  has  been  robb'd  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions  —  me!  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yester*  evening. 

Idenst.  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 
My  own  acquaintances?  Yon  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

Gabor.  You  shall 
Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men  ^ 
The  worms !  yon  hound  of  malice! 

[Gabor  sciacs  on  him. 

Ulric  (Interfering).  Nay,  no  violence: 
He's  old,  unarm'd  —  be  temperate,  Gabor ! 

Gabor  (letting  go  Idenstein).  True : 
I  am  a  fool  to  lose  myself,  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave:  it  is  their  homage. 

Ulric  (to  Idenstein).  How  fare  yon? 

Idenst.  Help! 

Ulric.  I  A«»e  help'd  you. 

Idenst.  Kill  him!  then 
I'll  say  so. 

Gabor.  I  am  calm  -  live  on! 

Idenst.  That's  more 
Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
In  Germany.  The  baron  shall  decide! 

Gabor.  Docs  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation? 

Idenst.  Does  he  not? 


480 


WERNCR. 


ACT  II 


Gahor,  Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink, 
Ere  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 
But  here  he  comes ! 

Enter  Stbalknhbui. 

Gabor  (goes  op  to  bfm>  My  noble  Lord,  Tm  here! 

Stralenh.  Well,  Sir! 

Gahor,  Have  you  aught  with  me? 

I^ralenh.  What  should  I 
Have  with  you? 

Gabor,  You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 
Flood  has  not  wash'daway  your  memory: 
But  that's  a  trifle.  I  stand  here  accused, 
In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person. 
Or  chamber  ^  is  tlic  charge  your  own,  or  bis? 

Stralenh,  I  accuse  no  man. 

Gabor,  Tlien  you  acquit  me.  Baron? 

StraUnh,  I  know  not  whom  to  accuse,  or  to  acquit, 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect 

Gabor.  But  you  at  least 
Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.  I  am  insulted  — 
Oppress'd  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy  —  teach  them  their  duty! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it. 
If  duly  taught:  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

Stralenh,  You! 

Gabor.  Ay,  Sir;  and,  for 
Aught  that  you  know,  superior;  but  proceed  — 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises, 
And  circumstance,  and  proofs ;  I  know  enough 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me, 
To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  ratlier 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 
Your  gold.  I  also  know  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deem'd,  the  service  rendered 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame, 
Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 
But  this  is  nothing;  I  demand  of  you 
Justice  upou  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence:  thus  much 
Yon  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more, 
And  never  thought  to  have  ask'd  so  much, 

Stralenh,  This  tone 
May  be  of  innocence. 

Gabor.  'Sdcath !  who  dare  doubt  it. 
Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  had  it? 

Stralenh.  You 
Are  hot,  Sir. 

Gabor,  Must  I  turn  an  Icicle 
Before  tlie  breath  of  menials,  and  tlieir  master? 

Stralenh,  iJiric!  you  knew  this  man ;  I  found  him  in 
Your  company. 

Gabor,  We  found  y<m  in  tlie  Oder: 
Would  we  had  left  you  there! 
^     Stralenli,  I  give  you  thanks.  Sir. 


Ga^MT,  I've  carn'd  Ihem ;  Imt  nuglit  hare  ttam'd  more 
Perchance,  If  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate.       [from  otiicn, 

Stralenh*  Ulric!  you  know  this  man  ? 

Gabor,  No  more  than  you  do, 
If  he  avouches  not  my  honour. 

Vine.  I 
Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  fiur  as  my 
Own  brief  connexion  led  me,  honour. 

Straienh.  Then  I'm  satisfied. 

Gabor  (irMkaiiy).  Right  easily,  methinks. 
What  is  the  spell  in  his  asseveration 
More  tban  in  mine? 

Stralenh.  1  merely  said  that  1 
Was  satisfied  —  not  that  you  were  absolved. 

Gabor,  Again !  Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

Strmienh.  Goto! 
You  wax  too  insolent:  ifcireumstanoe 
And  general  suspicion  be  against  you. 
Is  the  fkult  mine?  Is't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  inno«)eDoe? 

Gabor,  My  Lord,  my  Lord,  this  is^mere  coaenage; 
A  vile  equivocation:  youwelUciww 
Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  yoa  — 
Your  looks,  a  voice  —  your  frowns,  a  sentence ;  you 
Arc  practising  your  power  on  me  ~  because 
You  have  it :  but  bewase,  you  know  not  whom 
You  strive  to  tread  on. 

Stralenh.  Threafstthou? 

Gabor,  Not  so  much 
As  you  accuse.  Yon  hint  the  basest  injury, 
And  I  retort  it  witli  an  open  warning. 

Stralenh.  As  you  have  said ,  'tis  true  I  owe  yon  $ 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

Gabor,  Not  witli  your  gold. 

Stralenh,  With  bootless  insolence. 

[To  hit  Attndmls  and  Idcrjana- 

You  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man. 
But  let  him  go  his  way.  Ulric,  good  morrow ! 

[BxeoiiC  StnJeabeim.  Mtvtein,  and  Am&itaa*. 

Gabor  (roiiowiiic).  I'll  after  him  and -* 

Ulric  (»toppiDg  bim).  Not  a  sttp. 

Gabor,  Who  shall 
Oppose  me? 

Ulric,  Your  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 
Thought 

Gabor.  Must  I  bear  diis? 

Ulric,  Pshaw!  we  all  must  bear 
The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves  ^  the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silk-worm  cast  his  skin  — 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words? 

Gabor.  Must  I  bear  to  be  decm'd  a  thief?  If 'twere 
A  bandit  of  the  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it — 
There's  something  daring  in  it  —  but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man!  — 

Ulric.  It  seems,  then. 
Your  are  not  guilty? 

Gabor,  Do  I  hear  aright  ? 
IVtt,  too! 


ACT  II. 


WERNEB. 


481 


Ulrie,  I  merely  Mk'd  A  iimple  questioB. 
Gahor,  If  the  judge aflk'd  me — I  woald  answer  "No" — 
To  yon  1  answer  thus,  [H*  draws. 

Uirie  (drmwtng).  With  all  my  heart ! 
J^fpkine.  Without  there!  Ho!  help  I  help!—  Oh, 
God,  here's  murder  1 

LBxit 


Oamw  aad  Vuac  S^t    Oabob  it  dUanned  Jaat  •»  STBAuniBiui) 
JotBPHnn,  md  lomtTsiM  re'eatcr. 
JoMpkim*  Oh!  glorioos  Heaven !  He's  safe! 
Strmkmk,  (to  joMi»iiia^.  Who's  safe? 
Josephine,  My  — 

Uhrie  Qntcmpdiig  her  with  «  stern  look,   and  tarnteg  afterward* 
10  Stralenbelnijto  Both ! 

Here's  no  great  harm  done.    ' 

StraUnk,  What  hath  caused  all  this? 

UMc.   Ybtt,  Baron,  I  believe;  but  as  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you.  —  Gabor! 
There  is  your  sword;  and  when  yon  bare  it  next. 
Let  it  not  be  against  y  owe  friends, 

[Uiric  prouoMDoet  the  lait  wordi  atowly  and  emphatically  In  a  low 
voice  to  Gabor. 

Gebor,  I  thank  yon 
Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  oonnseL 

Strmlenh,  These  brawls  must  end  here.        [me,Uhric, 

Gabor  (taking  his  fword).  They  skolL  You  have  wrong'd 
More  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword;  I  would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.  I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insinuations  —  Ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands.  ~ 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet :  —  You  have  vanquish'd  me. 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  with  you  whom  I  had  seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 
Rest  in  this  arm.  We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
However  —  but  in  friendship.  CBsic  Oabor. 

Sirmlenh,  I  will  brook 
No  Ukore !  This  outrage  following  up  his  insults. 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  canoell'd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so  vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ?  — 

Uirie.  Not  even  by  a  scratch.  [to  secure 

Str^Unh,  (to  idcMtdn)  Intendant!  take  your  measures 
Von  fellow:  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

JdensL  Secure  him!  he  hath  got  his  sword  again  — 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on't;  'tis  his  trade 
Belike :  —  Tam  a  dvilian. 

Strmlenh,  Fool!  are  not 
Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heeb 
Baoagfa  to  seize  a  dozen  such  ?  Hence!  after  him ! 

Uhri€,  Baron,Idobeseediyon! 

StrmUnk.  Imustbe 
Obey'd.  No  words! 

IdensL  Well,  if  it  must  be  so  — 
March,  vassals  1  I'm  your  leader  —  and  will  bring 
Theiearnp:  a  wise  general  never  should 


Expose  his  precious  life  —  on  which  all  rc»ts. 

I  like  that  article  of  war,  CSxeoat  lden»teln  and  Attendant*. 

Stralenh,  Come  hither, 
Ulric:  —  what  does  that  woman  here?  Oh!  now 
I  recognise  her,  'tis  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  *•  Werner." 

Ulric,  'Tis  his  name. 

Stralenh,  Indeed! 
Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ? 

Josephine,  Who  seeks  him? 

Stralenh.  No  one  — for  the  present:  but 
I  tain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 

Ulriti,  1  will  retire  with  you, 

Josephine.  Not  so. 
You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here. 

(Aside  to  uiri<^  as  she  |oea  oat)  Oh  I  Ulric,  have  a  care  — 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word ! 

Ulric  (to  Joiephtne).   Fear  not  !-^  [Ssk  Jfosephlnob 

Stralenh.  Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you?   ' 
You  saved  my  life  —  and  acts  like  these  b^et 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulric  Say  on. 

Stralenh,  Mysterious 
And  long-engender'd  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious  —  perhaps  fhtal  to  me. 

Ulric,  Who?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian? 

Stralenh.  No  —  this  "Weriidr"  — 
With  the  false  name  and  habit 

Ulric,  How  can  this  be? 
He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor  —  and  yellow 
S&ckness  sits  cavern'd  in  his  hollow  eye : 
The  man  is  helpless. 

Stralenh,  He  is  —  'tis  no  matter  — 
Bat  if  he  be  the  man  I  deem  (pn^  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us^here  —  and  much 
That  is  not  here  —  confirm  my  apprehension). 
He  must  he  made  secure,  ere  twelve  hours  furdier. 

Ulric  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Stralenh,  I  have  sent 
To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend  — 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenbuigh) 
For  a  fit  escort  —  but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

Ulric.  It  is  abating. 

Stralenh,  That  is  welL 

Ulric  But  how 
Am  I  concern'd? 

Straletih,  As  one  who  did  so  much 
For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued.  —  Keep  your  eye  on  Ami  / 
'Hie  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him  — 
Watch  him !  —  as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  when 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap  — 
Like  him  he  must  be  spear'd. 

Ulric  Why  so? 

Siraienh,  Heslands 

31 


482 


WSRNBB. 


ACT  in 


Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance. 
Oh!  could  you  see  it  I  But  you  shall. 

Ulric,  I  hope  so. 

Stralenh.  It  is  the  richest  of  tlie  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.  It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  lightly :  so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value 
Confronted  whh  whole  realms  afar  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

Ulric.  You  describe  it  faithfully. 

StralenL  Ay —could  you  see  it,  you  would  say  so — but, 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

Ulric,  I  accept  the  omen. 

Stralenk.  Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

Ulric,  And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch  -^ 
This  way-worn  stranger  >-  stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise?  -  (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his.)  —  C/iside.] 

Stralemlu  He  doth, 
.     Ulnc.  Hath  he  no  right? 

SHraUnh.  Right!  none.  A  disinherited  prodigal. 
Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts  — but  chiefly  by  his  marriage, 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  buighers, 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews, 

Uhic,  He  has  a  wife,  then? 

SiraUnh,  You'd  be  sorry  to 
Call  such  your  mother.  You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  calls  his  wife. 

Ulric,  Is  she  not  so? 

Stralenh,  No  more 
Than  he's  your  father :  —  an  Italian  girl. 
The  daughter  of  a  banish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 

Ulric*  They  are  childless,  then? 

Stralenh,  There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 
Whom  the  old  man  ^  the  grandsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 


As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  tlie  grave: 
Bat  the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path — he  has  fled. 
No  one  knows  whither;  and  if  he  had  not. 
His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand.  —  Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Ulric,  At  your  vain  fears: 
A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp  —  a  child 
Of  doubtful  birth  --  can  startle  a  grandee ! 

StralcTik,  All*s  to  be  fear'd,  where  aU  is  to  be  gain*d. 

Ulric,  True;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it 

Stralenk,  You  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  aj 
I  may  depend  upon  you?      .  [heart. 

Ulric,  'Twere  too  late  to  doubt  it 

Siralemh,  Let  no  foolish  pi^  shake 
Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  naa 
Is  pitiful)  —  he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  sospected. 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him; 
He  being  lodged  &r  off,  and  in  a  chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine;  and,  to  say  truth,  ^ 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine^ 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act ; 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  aud  a  brave  one 
Once,  —  though  too  rash. 

Ulric,  And  they,  my  Lord,  we  know 
By  our  experience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first— which  makes  them  heiit, 
Not  thieves.  The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  lose  aoihiag, 
Nor  e'er  be  fobb'd:  their  spoils  are  a  bequest  — 
No  more. 

Siralenk,  Go  to!  you  are  a  wag.  But  say, 
I  may  be  sure  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  this  man. 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape? 

Ulric,  You  may  be  sure 
Yon  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

Strmltnh,  By  this  you  make  me 
Yours,  and  for  ever. 

Ulric,  Such  is  my  intention.  [] 


ACT     m. 


SCBNJB  h 

A  HaU  in  the  Mnt«  Palace,  from  whence  the  secret  Paksar*  leadi. 
Biitcr  Wbr?c>r  and  Gabor. 

Gabor.  Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale;  if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well  •— 
If  not  —  I'll  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

Werner.  How 
Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 


A  shelter?  —  wanting  such  myself  as  much 
As  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert  — 

Gabcr,  Or 
The  wounded  liou  his  cool  cave,  ^rethinks 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  the  hunter's  entrails. 

Werner.  Ah? 

Gabor,  I  care  not 
If  it  be  so,  being  mudi  disposed  to  do 


ACT  ni. 


WBRNBlt 


483 


The  same  myself;  hat  will  yon  shelter  me  ? 

I  am  oppress'd  like  yoa  —  and  poor  like  yon  — 

Disjrraccd  — 

Wenur  («bnipHy).  Who  told  you  that  I  was  di^raced  ? 

Gabor,  No  one ;  nor  did  I  say  you  were  so :  with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended ;  but 
I  said  /was  so  —  and  would  add,  witii  truth. 
As  undeservedly  as  you, 

Werner.  Again!  As  If 

Gabor.  Or  any  other  honest  man. 
What  the  devil  would  yott  have  ?  You  dofi't  believe  me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

Werner,  No,  no  —  I  cannot  ^  [galfant  — 

Gabor,  Why,  that's  my  heart  of  honour?  yon  young 
Your  miserly  intendant,  and  dense  noble  ^^ 
All  —  all  suspected  me;  and  why  ?  because 
I  am  tlie  worst-dotiied  and  least  named  amongst  them ; 
Altiiough,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  our  breasts. 
My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
Than  theirs;  but  thus  it  is  --  you  poor  and  helpless  — 
Both  still  more  than  myself — 

Werner,  How  know  you  that? 

Gabor,  You're  right;  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  hand 
Which  I  call  helpless ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 
1  were  well  paid.  But  you, who  seem  to  have  proved 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 
By  S3'mpathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  New  World,  the  Spaniard  boasts  about,  « 
Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 
Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  therfe  I  grant  its  power, 
Because  I  feel  it),  as  may  leave  no  night-mare 
Upon  his  heart  o'uights. 

Werner,  What  do  you  mean? 

Gabor,  Just  what  I  say;  I  thought  my  speech  was  plain: 
You  are  no  thief  —  nor  I  —  and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other. 

Werner,  It  is  a  damned  world,  sir. 

Gabor,  So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  hext,  as 
The  priests  say(  and  no  doubt  they  should  know  best), 
Therefore  Til  stfdc  by  this  —  as  being  loth 
To  suffer  mariyrdom,  at  least  wHh  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 
It  is  but  a  nighf  s  lodging  which  I  crave ; 
To -morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 
The  Dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

Werner,  Abated?  Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

Gabor,  There  was 
At  noontide. 

Werner,  Then  we  may  be  safe. 

Gabor.  Are  you 
In  peril? 

Werner,  Poverty Is cvcrso. 

Gabor,  That  I  know  by  long  practice.  Will  you*  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ? 

Werner,  Your  poverty? 

Gabor.  No  >-  you  don't  look  a  leeeh  for  that  disorder ; 
I  meant  my  peril  only ;  you've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  n<Hie ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert 

Werner,  Rightly ;  for  how  shotdd  sucli  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold? 


Gabor,  Soaroe  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't. 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  Baron's. 

Werner,  Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

Gabor,  What? 

Werner.  Are  you  aware 
To  whom  you  speak? 

Gabor.  No ;  and  I  am  not  used 
Oreatly  to  care.  (a.  doIm  keam  witbont.)  But  hark !  they  come ! 

Werner.  Who  come? 

Gabor,  The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me : 
I'd  face  them  —  but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justloe  at  hands  like  theirs.  Where  shall  I  go  ? 
But  show  me  any  place.  I  do  asipre  you. 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guiltless : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case  I 

Werner  («sMe%  Oh,  just  God ! 
Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter !  Am  I  dust  still  ? 

Gabor,  I  see  you're  moved;  and  it  shows  well  in  you: 
1  may  live  to  requite  it 

Werner,  Are  you  not 
A  spy  of  Stralenheim's? 

Go^or.  Notllandif 
I  were,  what  is  there |p  espy  In  you? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion ;  but  you  best  know  —  what  —  and  why : 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

Werner,   You? 

Gabor,  After  such 
A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I  rendered  him  —  I  am  his  enemy; 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

Werner,  IVfill. 

Gabor,  But  how? 

Werner  (sbowtng  th«  pannei).  There  is  a  secret  spring ; 
Remember,  I  discovered  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety 

Gabor,  Open  it, 
And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

Werner,  I  fbund  it, 
As  I  havQsaid :  it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thiek  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strengtii  or  statellness) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obseure  niches,  to 
I  know  not  whither ;  you  must  not  advance : 
Give  me  your  word. 

Gabor,  It  is  unnecessary  : 
How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness,  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings? 

Werner,  Yes,  btttvHiO  knows  to  what  place  it  may  lead? 
/know  not  —  (mark  you!)  —  Imt  who  knows  it  might 
Lead  even  into  the  chambers  of  your  fSoe  ?  [not 

So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fhthers  in  old  days. 
When  man  built  less  agafaist  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.  Tou  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings;  If  you  do 
(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them),  PU  not  answer 
For  what  ycm  may  be  led  to. 

Gabor.  Bat  I  will. 
AtbouMUidthsitlQl! 


484 


WBRNBa 


ACT  m 


Werner,  Yoa'll  find  die  spring  more  obvious 
On  the  other  side ;  and>  when  you  woold  retunip 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gabor,  I'll  in  —  farewell !  [Gtbor  toes  in  by  th«  teeret  puiiel. 

Werner  (boIus).  What  have  I  done?  Alas!  what  hadl 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?  Let  it  be  [done 

Still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man. 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own  — 
They  come !  to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  tliem  1 

Enter  louimiN,  and  Othcri. 

Idenst,  Is  he  not  here?  He  must  have  vanished  then 
Through  the  dim  Gothk  glass  by  pious  aid 
Of  pictured  saints,  upon  the  red  and  yellow 
Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like  sunrise 
On  long  pearl-coloured  beards  and  crimson  crosses, 
And  gilded  crosiers,  and  cross'd  arms,  and  cowls. 
And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords. 
All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows, 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  whose 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  on  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclain^s 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He's  gone,  however. 

Werner,  Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

Idenst,  A  villain! 

Werner,  Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  I 

Idenst,  In  the  search 
Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

Werner,  Are  you  sure 
Ton  have  divined  the  m^m  ? 

Idenst,  As  sure  as  you 
Btand  there ;  but  where's  he  gone  ? 

Werner.  Who? 

Idenst.  He  we  sought 

Werner.  Yon  see  he  is  not  here. 

Idenst.  And  yet  we  traced  him 
Up  to  this  hall:  are  you  accomplices, 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art? 

Werner,  I  deal  plainly, 
To  many  men  the  blackest 

Idenst,  It  may  be 
I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter ;  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'other. 

Werner,  You  had  best  begin 
Your  inquisition  now ;  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always, 

Idenst  I  should  like  to  know^ 
In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
ThatStralenbeim  's  in  quest  of? 

Werner,  Insolent! 
Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here? 

IdeTut,  Yes,  one  ; 
But  there's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly, 
And  soon,  it  may  be," with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.  But,  oome ! 
Bustle,  my  boys  I  wearoat&nlt 

Uizmmi  Idwutain  wA  Atttwlaim 
Werner.  In  what 
A  maee  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  iiie.1  . 


And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  Huui 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.  Down, 
Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart! 
Thou  art  too  late'l  I'll  nought  to  do  with  bkxxL 

Boter  Uliuc. 

Ulrie.  I  sought  yoo,  Cither. 

Werner.  Is't  not  dangerous  ? 

Ulric.  No;  Stralenheim  Is  ignorant  of  ail 
Or  any  of  the  tie^  between  us:  more  — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

Werner.  I  cannot  tliink  it: 
'Tis  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

Ulrie  I  cannot 
Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stmnble  at 
The  doubts  tliat  rise  like  briars  in  our  path. 
But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm'd  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf  rnstlii^ 
In  the  same  ^cket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread: 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  oauglit  so ; 
We'll  overfly,  or  rend  them. 

Werner,  ShowmeAow? 

Ulrie.  Can  you  not  guess? 

Werner.  I  cannot 

Ulrie.  That  is  strange. 
Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  Imst  niphtf 

Werner.  I  understand  you  not 

Ulrie.  Then  we  shall  never 
More  understand  each  other.  Bat  to  chaa^ 
The  topic  — 

Werner.  Youmean,to;ncr«veit,as 
'Tis  of  our  safety. 

Ulric.  Right;  I  stand  corrected. 
I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating;  a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summon'd  myrmidons  firom  Frankfort, 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse. 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardised  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

Werner.  And  now  your  remedy !  I  thought  to  escape 
By  means  of  this  accursed  gold ;  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it 
Methinks  it  wears  upon  its  &ee  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state; 
And,  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  bc^girt 
With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my  tamplea. 
And  cry  to  all  beholders  —  lo !  a  villain! 

Ulrie,  You  must  not  use  it,  at  least,  now;  but  take^ 

This  ring.  [He  givw  Wwaat  ftjcmi 

Werner,  A  gem!  It  was  my  father's ! 

Ulric.  And 
As  such  is  now  your  own.  With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  Intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise. 
Together  with  my  mother. 

Werner.  And  leave  y 01^ 
So  lately  found,  in  p?ril  too  T 

Ulrie,  Fear  nothing! 


k€T  m. 


WERNBlt 


485 


The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  togpelher, 

Por  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 

The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between  « 

This  bnigh  and  Frankfort :  so  fiu^s  in  oar  finYonr. 

The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  tbongh  encomber'd, 

Is  not  impassable;  and  when  yon  gain 

A  few  boors'  start,  the  dilBcalties  will  be 

The  same  to  yonr  pursuers.  Onoe  beyoiid 

The  frontier,  and  you're  safe. 

Werner,  My  noble  boy  I  [them 

r/n>.  Hush!  hush!  no  transports:  we'll  indulg^e  in 
In  Castle  Siegendorf  I  Display  no  gold: 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  tiie  man, 
And  have  look'd  through  him) :  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.  Stralenheim  lost  pold — 
No  jewel:  therefore,  it  could  not  be  his ; 
And  then,  the  man  who  was  possessed  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspeeted  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Strfilenheim  has  lost 
By  bis  last  night's  slumber.  Be  not  over-timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

Wemer.  IwillfoUow' 
In  all  things  your  direction. 

Ulrie.  I  would  have 
Spared  yon  the  trouble;  but  had  I  appeared 
To  take  an  interest  in  yon,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  fhvour,  ' 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

Wemer,  My  guardian-angel ! 
This  overpays  the  past  But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence? 

Ulric.  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 
Of  me  as  anght  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  liim 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  ftither. 

Wemer,  To  part  no  more! 

Uhie.  I  know  not  that;  but  at 
The  least  we'll  meet  again  once  more. 

Wemer,  My  boy! 
M'y  friend,  my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver! 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me ! 

Uhie.  Hate  my  &ther! 

Wemer,  Ay, 
My  father  hated  mc:  why  not  my  son? 

Uhie,  Your  fother  knew  you  not  as  I  do.  ' 

Wemer,  Scorpions 
Are  in  thy  words !  Thou  know  me?  in  this  g^se 
Thou  canst  not  know  me,  I  am  not  myself; 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 

Ubne:  VWwmt/ 
In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  (br  mine. 

Wemer.  I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it;  yet  I  feci 
Farther  —  that  you  despise  me. 

Uhrie,  'WherefVtre  should  I? 

Wemer,  Must  I  repeat  my  httmination  ? 

Uhie,  No! 
I  have  lathom'd  it  and  you.  But  let  us  talk 
Of  ttds  no  more.  Or  if  H  must  be  ever, 


Not  flow;  your  error  has  redoubled  arf 
The  present  difllonlties  of  our  house, 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim ; 
AU  we  have  now  to  think  of,  is  to  baffle 
Him.  I  have  shown  one  way. 

Wemer,  The  only  one. 
And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son, 
Who  show'd  himself  tokd  father's  safety  in 
One  day. 

Uhie,  Ton  shall  be  safe:  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

Wemer,  Assuredly, 
Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

f//rte.  Blood!  'tis 
A  word  of  many  meanings;  in  the  veins, 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  difierent  thing  — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  Is  eall'd)  are  aliens  to  each  other, 
Like  Theban  brethren:  when  a  part  is  bad,    ^ 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest 

Wemer,  I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

Ulrie,  That  may  be  — 
And  should,  perhaps,  —  and  yet  —  but  get  ye  ready; 
You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night 
Here  comes  the  Intendant;  sound  him  with  the  gem, 
'Twill  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  np  slime,  and  mud, 
And  ooze,  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum ;  but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time ! 
Farewell!  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 
Myfhther!  — 

Wemer,  Let  me  embrace  thee ! 

Ulrie,  We  may  be 
Observed:  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  firom  your  foe! 

Wemer,  Accursed 
Be  he,  who  is  the  stifling  cause,  which  smothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts, 
At  such  an  hour  too ! 


Ulrie*  Yes,  curse  —  it  will 
Here  is  the  Intendant 


you! 


Bnlcr  iDmsTim. 

Master  Idenstein, 
How  fere  you  in  your  purpose  ?  Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

/iiMU<.  No,fiEiith! 

Uhie,  Well,  there  are  plenty  more : 
You  may  have  better  lack  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  Baron  ? 

Idtnut,  Gone  back  io  his  chamber : 
And  now  I  think  on't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 

Uhie,  Your  great  men 
Must  be  answer'd  on  the  instant  as  the  bound 


486 


WKINSL 


MTHl 


Of  the  stung  steed  replies  umio  the  spur ; 
'Tis  well  they  have  horses,  too;  for  if  they  had  oot^ 
I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  king^  did  Sesostris'. 

Idenst  Who  was  he? 

Uiric.  An  old  Bohemian  —  and  imperial  gipsy. 

Identt,  A  gipsy  or  Bohemian^  'tis  the  same, 
For  they  pass  by  both  names.  And  was  he  one  ? 

Ulric,  I've  heard  so;  but  I  must  take  leave.  Intendant, 
Your  servant !  —  Werner  (to  Werner  iiicbUyX  if  that  be 

your  name, 
Yours.  CBsit  inric 

Ideiut,  A  well-spoken,  pretty-faoed  young  man! 
And  prettily  behaved  1  He  knows  his  station. 
You  see,  sir :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

Werner.  I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 
His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Idenet  That's  well— 
That's  very  well.  You  also  know  your  place,  too^ 
And  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  know  your  place. 

Werner  (showtng  the  rins).    Would   this   assist  your 
knowledge? 

IdensL  How !  —  What!  -  Eh! 
A  jewel  1 

Werner,  'Tis  your  own,  on  one  condition. 

IdenMt,  JVIinel  — Nameit! 

Werner.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 
At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it;  'tis 
A  family -ring. 

Idenst  A  family!  yours!  a  gem! 
I'm  breathless! 

Werner,  You  must  also  furnish  me, 
An  hour  ere  daybreak,  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

Idenst  But  is  it  real?  let  me  look  on  it: 
Diamond,  by  all  that's  glorious ! 

Werner.  Come,  I'll  trust  you; 
You  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
Ky  present  seeming. 

Idenst.  I  can't  say  I  did, 
Though  this  looks  like  it;  this  is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood! 

Wenier.  1  have  important  reasons 
For  wisliing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

Idenst  So  then  yo«  arc  the  man 
Whom  StraJenheim  's  in  quest  of? 

Werner.  I  am  not; 
But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  j  ust  now,     . 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter  —  'tis 
To  spare  both,  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 

Idenst  Be  you  the  man  or  no,  *tis  not  my  business; 
Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 
From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 
The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin, . 
And  never  offer  a  precise  reward  — 
But  this!  Another  look! 

Werner,  Gaze  on  it  freely ; 
At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 


Idenst  Oil, Ifaouaweet sparkler! 
Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 
'^ou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine!  thou  kiadstar  of 
The  soul!  the  true  magnetic  pole  to  whidi 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  tiembliii^  needles! 
Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth  1  whieh,  sitting 
High  on  the  monardi's  diadem,  attraotest 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine?  I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymistl  — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  souL  But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  else? 

Werner,  CaU  me  Werner  still, 
You  may  yet  know  me  by  a  loftier  title. 

Idenst  1  do  believe  in  thee  I  thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I  long  have  dream'd,  in  a  low  garb.  -- 
But  oome,  I'll  serve  thee;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters :  let  us  hence, 
I'll  show  thee  I  am  honest  —  (oh,  thou  jewel!) 
Thou  shalt  be  furnished,  Werner,  with  snch 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee.  —  Let  me  gase  again  I 
I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  mart 
Of  Hamburgh,  skilfd  in  precious  stones  —  how 
Carats  may  it  weigh  ?  —  CoraO)  Werner,  1  will  wing  thee. 

ISXCMI. 

SCENE   II. 

STBixiNHCiM's  Cbunber. 
StRALSMHEIM   and  FUTS. 

IHU,  All's  ready,  my  good  I«ord  I 

Strmlen'k,  I  am  not  sleepy. 
And  yet  I  must  to  bed ;  I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit. 
Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slomber. 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  throngh,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  i 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist;  —  I  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

jFHtx,  May  yon  rest  there  well ! 

Sirmienk.  I  feeH  and  fear,  I  shall. 

jFH&r.  And  wherefore  fear? 

Strmlenk,  I  know  not  why,  and  thesefore  do  fear  i 
Because  an  undescribahle  —  but  'tis 
All  folly.  Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed  to-day,  of  this  chamber?  for  last  niigtit's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

FHtx.  Certainly, 
According  to  your  order,  and  hesnath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.  I  think  they  call  him  ''Ulric" 

Strulenk.  You  think/  you  supercilious  slave!    wliai 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be       (ligb 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty  --* 


A€T  tti. 


WVRHNL 


487 


Getbeneel  ^^^oKiAdO,"  indeed!  yon,  wb6 «tood stilt 

Howliiiii^  and  dripping  on  the  bank»  whiiati 

Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 

The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 

Thank  him  —  and  despise  yon;  "  You  tkinkl"  and  scarce 

Can  recollect  bis  name!  I  will  not  waste 

Biore  words  on  yon.  Call  me  betimes. 

Fritz.  Goodnight! 
I  trust  to-morrow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renoTated  strength  and  temper^  [The , 


SCENE  m. 


Th« 

Gabor  (solas).  Four  — 
Five  —  six  boors  have  I  counted^  like  the  goard 
Of  outposts,  on  the  never  -  merry  dock : 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang,  'Tis  a  perpetual  kneU, 
Though  for  a  marriage-feast  it  rings:  each  stroke 
Peals  for  a  hope  the  less ;  the  funeral  note 
Of  Love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  Possession ;  while  the  knoU 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
To  triple  Time  in  the  son's  car.  —  Fm  cold  — 
I'm  dark  —  I've  blown  my  fingers  —  numbered  o'er 
And  o'er  my  steps  —  and  knock'd  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses  -*  and  roused  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,^! 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  wbirlmg  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  anotaer  sound. 
Alight!  It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can 
Measure  in  darkness  distance) :  but  it  blinks 
As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 
The  inhibited  direction;  I  must  on. 
Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 
A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 
la  sueh  a  den  as  this.  Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 
To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me!  Else  -^  Heaven  aid  me 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it!  Shining  still! 
Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself, 
Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 
Contain  no  longer.  Softly !  mighty  well! 
That  corner's  tum'd  —  So  —  Ah !  no ;  —  right!  it  draws 
Nearer.  Here  is  a  darksome  angle  —  so, 
That* s  weather'd.  ~  Let  me  pause.  —  Suppose  It  leads 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I  have  escaped?  —  no  matter,  'tis  a  new  one; 
And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistresses, 
Wear  more  magnetic  aspects:  —  1  will  on, 
And  be  it  where  It  may  —  I  have  my  dagger, 
Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch.  —  Burn  still, 
Thou  little  light!  Thou  art  my  ignufaiuut! 
My  stationary  Will  o'  the  wisp !  —  So!  so ! 
He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not       [Tbe  Sc«oe  clones. 

SCENE   IV. 

A  Garden. 
Eater    Wrrnkr. 

I  could  not  sleep  —  and  now  tlie  liour*s  at  hand; 
All's  ready.  Idenstein  has  k^t  his  word : 


And,  stationed  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 

Upon  the  forestfs  edge,  the  vehicle 

Awaits  us.  Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 

To  pale  in  heaven ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 

Look  on  these  horrible  walls.  Oh!  never,  never 

Shall  I  forget  them.  Here  I  came  most  poor, 

But  not  dishonour'd :  and  I  leave  tiiem  with 

A«tain,  —  if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 

My  heart!  A  never-dying  canker-worm, 

Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 

And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf, 

Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment :  I  must  find 

Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 

My  soul  in  part;  but  how,  without  discovery  I  — 

It  must  be  done,  however;  and  I'Jl  pause 

Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 

The  madness  of  my  misery  led  ia  this 

Base  infamy ;  repentance  must  retrieve  it : 

I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim's  upon 

My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine; 

Lands,  freedom,  life,  —  and  yet  he  sleeps  \  as  soundly, 

Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 

Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows, 

Suchas  when  — Hark!  what  noise  is  that?  Again! 

The  branches  shake;  and  some  loose  stones  have  fallen 

From  yonder  terrace.  [UMe  leaps  down  ttom  tbf  terrace. 

Ulrio!  ever  welcome! 
Thrice  welcome  now !  this  filial^- 

Vlric,  Stop!  before 
We  approach,  tell  mc  — 

Werner,  Why  look  you  so? 

Vlric,  Do  I 
Behold  my  father,  or  — 

Werner,  What? 

Ulric.  An  assassin! 

Wemtr.  Lisane  or  insolent! 

Uhrie,  Reply,  sir,  as 
You  prize  your  life,  or  mine! 

Werner.  To  what  must  I 
Answer? 

Vlric,  Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
OfStralenheim? 

Werner.  I  never  was  as  yet 
The  murderer  of  any  man.  What  mean  you? 

Ubie.  Did  you  not  tki$  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage?  Didjrounot 
Agmn  revisit  Stralenhrim's  chamber?  and  — 

CUirk  paviie*. 

Werner,  Proceed. 

Ulrie,  /)iW  he  not  by  your  hand? 

Werner.  Great  God! 

Ulric,  You  are  innocent,  then !  my  father's  innocent ! 
Embrace  me!  Yes, — your  tone  —  your  look— yes,  yes, 
Yet  M^  so! 

Werner,  If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind. 
Conceived  deliberately  such  a  tlionght, 
But  ratbcr  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts  —  if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment  through 
The"  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit  — 
May  Heaven  be  shut  for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes  I  ^ 


488 


WBRNBB. 


ACrn 


Ulric,  BntStralenheiiniftdead. 

Werner,  'Tis  horrible !  'tis  liideous,  as  'tu  hateful!  — 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  t^? 

UlHc.  No  bolt 
Is  forced ;  no  violence  can  be  detected, 
Save  on  his  body.  Part  of  his  own  household 
Have  been  alarm'd;  but,  as  the  Intendaut  is 
Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care  • 

Of  mustering  the  police.  His  chamber  has. 
Past  doubt,  been  enter'd  secretly.  Excuse  me, 
If  nature  — 

Werner,  Oh,  my  boy !  what  unknown  woes 
Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house! 

Vlric,  My  father,  I  acquit  you ! 
But  will  the  world  do  so  ?    Will  even  the  judge, 
If  -  but  you  must  away  this  instant. 

Werner,  No! 
I'll  face  it  Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 

Vlric,  Yet 
You  had  no  guests  —  no  visitors  —  no  life 
^reathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's? 

Werner.  Ah  I 
The  Hungarian ! 

Vlric,  He  is  gone !  he  disappear'd 
Ere  sunset 

Werner,  No;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

Vlric.  7%«r«  ril  find  him.  CVirtc  U  coioK- 

Werner,  It  is  too  late :  he  had  left  the  palace  ere 
I  quitted  it  I  found  the  secret  pannel 
Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hall 
Which  masks  it:  I  but  thought  he  had  suatch'dtbe  silent 
And  favourable  moment  to  escape 
The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 
l>ogging  him  yester-even. 

Vlric,  You  re-closed 
The  pannel? 

Werner,  Yes;  and  not  without  reproach 
(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 

Vlric,  You  are  sure  yoa  closed  it? 

Werner,  Certain. 

Vlric,  That's  well ;  but  had  been  better,  if 
Yon  ne'er  had  turn'd  it  to  a  den  for  —  \  iit  pauMt. 

Werner,  Thieves! 
Thou  wouldst  say:  I  must  bear  it,  and  deserve  it ; 
But  not  — 

Vlric,  No,  &ther;  do  not  speak  of  this; 
This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes. 
But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  yon  shelter  this  man? 

Werner,  Could  I  shun  it  ? 
A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime ;  a  victim  to  mjf  safety. 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 
Such  refuge.  Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have^  In  svdi  circumstanoes,  thrust  him  forth. 


Ulrk.  And  like  tkewolflie  hath  KfMidyoa.  Birt 
It  is  too  late  to  ponder  this:  yon  miut 
Set  out  ere  dawn.  I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  out  the  murderer,  if  'tis  posrible. 

Wenur,  Bat  this  my  sudden  ll«fat  wallgivetheM olmi 
Suspicion :  two  new  victims,  in  the  iiea 
Of  one,  if  I  remain.  The  fled  Hnngariany 
Who  seems  the  culprit,  and  — 

Vlric,  WkOffMw?  Yf^eise 
Can  be  so? 

Werner,  Not  /,  though  just  now  you  doubled  — 
You,  my  son!  —  doubted  — 

Vlric,  And  do  you  doubt  of  him. 
The  fugitive  ? 

Werner*  Boy !  since  I  fell  into 
The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  meA  crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppressed  forme, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty 's  guilt    Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be^ 
Because  'tis  dusky. 

Vlric.  And  if  I  do  so. 
What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ?  You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away  1  —  I'll  make  all  easy.  Idensteia 
Will,  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewefs,  hold 
His  peace  —  he  also  is  a  partner  in 
Your  flight  —  moreover  — 

Werner.  Fly !  and  l^ve  my  name 
Link'd  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferred,  as  pooresi, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodjthed  ? 

Vine.  Pshaw!  leave  any  thing 
Except  our  fathers'  w>veieignty  and  castles. 
For  which  you  have  w>  long  panted  and  in  vain ! 
What  ntane  i  You  leave  no  nmme,  since  that  yoa  bear 
Is  feign'd. 

Werner,  Most  true ;  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories. 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men  •* 
Besides,  the  search  — 

Vlric,  I  will  provide  against 
Aught  that  can  touch  you.  No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf:  if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  'tis  InU  suepicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool:  his  folly  shall  have  such  employment. 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.  The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years. 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  from  the  dust. 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them. 
Stralcnheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  suck  —  without  lands,  influence. 
Save  what  bath  perish'd  with  him;  few  prolong 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused ;  such  is  not  here  the  case ;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown,  —  a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a'scutchcoo, 
Is  all  he'll  have,  or  wants.  If /discover 


ACT  nr. 


WBRNER. 


489 


The  Msassin,  twill  be  weB  —  if  not,  belieF?e  me, 

None  else,  though  all  the  fuU-fed  train  of  menials 

May  howl  above  his  ashes,  as  they  did 

Aroond  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder, 

Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  n&w  than  then. 

Hence !  hence!  .1  must  not  hear  yonr  answer  —  look! 

The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 

Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night 

Yon  shall  not  answer  —  Pardon  me,  that  I 

Am  peremptory ;  'tis  yonr  son  that  speaks, 

Yoor  long-lost,  late-found  son.  <—  Let's  call  my  mother ! 

Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 


To  me;  I'll  answer  for  the  event'as  fiur 

As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point. 

As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 

We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf  •—  once  more 

Our  banners  shall  be  glorious  I  Think  of  that 

Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me. 

Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them  —  Hence! 

And  may  your  age  be  happy !  —  I  will  kiss 

M!y  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be  with  you ! 

Werner.  This  counsel's  safe  —  but  is  it  honourable  ? 

Ulrie,  To  save  a  fother  is  a  child's  chief  honour.  [Emool 


ACT      IV. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Gothic  H»ll  in  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf,  new  Prague. 
Enter  Bbic  and  Hknbick^  retkioers  of  the  ConnL 

Erie,  So,  better  times  are  come  at  last;  to  these 
Old  walls  new  masters  and  high  wassail,  both 
A  long  desideratum. 

Henrick,  YeSy  for  masters. 
It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty. 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave :  but  as  for  wassail, 
Ifefliinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  malntain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prinoe  of  the  empire. 

Erie.  Why, 
For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest 

Henrick,  The  old  Count  loved  not 
The  roar  of  revel ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

Eric.  As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he's  bounteous, 
And  we  all  tove  him. 

Henrick,  His  reign  is  as  yet 
Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey-moon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal; 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

Brie,  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present ! 
Then  his  brave  son.  Count  Ulric  —  there's  a  knight! 
Pity  the  wars  are  o'er ! 

Henrick,  Why  so? 

Eric.  Look  on  him! 
And  flinswer  that  yourself. 

Henrick,  He's  very  youthful. 
And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a-young  tiger. 

Eric,  That's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 

Henrick,  But 
Perhsips  a  true  one. 


Erie,  Pity,  as  I  said. 
The  wars  are  over :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well-supported  pride. 
Which  awes,  but  yet  offends  not  ?  In  the  field. 
Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 
A  sword  like  him?  Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ? 

Henrick,  No  one's,  I  grant  you :  do  not  fear,  if  war 
Be  loDg  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

Eric,  What  do  you  mean? 

Henrick,  You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  fellow-native  vassals  born 
Ou  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 

As  —  (pauses) 

Erie,  What? 

Henrick,  The  war  (yon  love  so  much)  leaves  living : 
Like  other  parents,  she  spoils  her  worst  children. 

Eric,  Nonsense!  they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged  fellows, 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

Henrick.  And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
Ask  that  at  Magdeburgh  -  or  for  that  matter 
Wallenstein  either  —  they  are  gone  to 

Eric,  Rest; 
But  what  beyond,  'tis  not  ours  to  pronounce, 

Henrick,  I  wish  they  had  left  us  something  of  theur  rest : 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace) 
Is  overrun  with  —  God  knows  who  —  they  fly 
By  mght,  and  disappear  with  sunrise;  but 
Leave  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more 
Than  the  most  open  warfare. 

Erie.  But  Count  Ulric — 
What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

Henrick,  With  himf 
He  —  might  prevent  it  As  you 'say  he's  fond 
Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders  ? 
81* 


490 


WERNER. 


ACT  IV. 


Erie,  You'd  better  ask  himself. 

Henrick,  I  would  as  soon 
Ask  of  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Erie,  And  here  he  comes ! 

Henrick,  The  devil  1  you'll  hold  your  toDfpie? 

Eric,  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale? 

Henrick.  'Tis  nothing  —  but 
Be  silent! 

Eric,  I  will  upon  what  you  hare  said. 

Henrick,  1  assure  you  I  meant  nothing;  a  mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more;  besides,  had  it  been  otherwise, 
He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  baroness 
Ida  of  Straleubeim,  the  late  baron's  heiress, 
And  she  no  doubt  will  soften  whatsoever 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  g^ven  all  natures  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  homicide;  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 
With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.  Prithee,  peace, 
On  all  that  I  have  saidl 

Enter  Ulkjc   and  Rodolpr. 

Good  morrow,  Count! 

Ulric,  Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.  Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase? 

Erie,  The  dogs  are  order'd 
Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  Excellency's  suite? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 

Ufric.  The  dun, 
Walstein. 

Eric,  I  fear  he  scarcely  has  rccover'd 
The  toils  of  Monday :  'twas  a  noble  chase, 
You  apcur'd  four  wi  h  your  own  hand. 

Ulric.  True,  good  Eric, 
I  had  forgotten  -   let  it  be  the  gpray,  then, 
Old  Ziska;  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight 

Eric,  He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.  How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

Ulric,  I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 
Master  of  the  horse.  [Bxit  Erk. 

Rodolph ! 

Rodolph,  My  lord! 

Uirie,  The  news 
Is  awkward  from  the  —  (Rodoiph  pointi  to  H«nrick) 
How  now,  Henrick,  why 
Loiter  you  here? 

Henrick,  For  your  commands,  my  Lord. 

Ulric,  Go  to  my  fiither,  and  present  my  duty, 
And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 
I  mount  [Exit  Henrick. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  df  Pranconia,  and 
Tis  rumour'd  that  the  column  sent  against  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen'd.  I  must  join  them  soon. 

Rodolpk,  Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices, 
Ulric,  I  mean  it  —  and  indeed  it  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a  time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 


Rodolpk.  It  will  be  difficult 
To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  Count,  your  father. 

Ulric,  Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 
In  High-Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.  In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  oflf  the  eighty  men 
Whom  Wolflfe  leads  —  keep  the  forests  o#i  your  roatf : 
You  know  it  well? 

Rodolph.  As  well  as  on  tfiat  night 
When  we  — 

Ulric,  We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 
We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success; 
And  when  you  have  join' d,  give  Rosenberg  this  letter. 

[Gires  a  koer. 

Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  fiither  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle. 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries, 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

Rodolph,  I  thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida! 

Ulric,  Why, 
I  do  so  —  but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone, 
Although  'twere  that  of  Venus ;  —  but  I  love  her, 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

Rodolph,  And  constantly? 

Ulric,  I  think  so;  for  I  love 
Nought  else.  —  But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart  Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed !  Speed !  good  Rodolph! 

Rodolph,  On  my  return,  however,  I  shall  find 
The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegeodorf  ? 

Ulric.  Perhaps:  my  father  wishes  it,  and  sooth 
'TIS  no  bad  policy;  this  union  witli 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival-branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past 

Rodolph,  Adieu! 

Ulric,  Yet  hold  —  we  had  better  keep  together 
Until  the  chase  begins;  then  draw  thou  off. 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

Rodolph,  I  will.  But  to 
Return  —  'twas  a  most  kind  act  in  the  Count, 
Your  father,  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  Baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Ulric,  Wondrous  kind! 
Especiallj^as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

Rodolph.  The  late  Baron  died 
Of  a  fever,  did  he  not? 

Ulric.  How  should  I  know?  [thing  sinaff 

Rodolph,  I  have  heard  it  whisper'd  tliere  was  i 
About  his  death  —  and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

Ulric,  Some  obscure  village  on 
The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier, 

Rodolph.  He 
Has  left  no  testament  --  no  farewell -words? 


ACT  IT. 


WBRNBR. 


491 


Uirie,  I  am  Beither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 
RaMph,  Ah  I  here's  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Shulmhuii. 

Uirie.  Ton  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin ! 

/dk.  Not /oo  early, 
Dear  Uirio,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  yoo  call  me  *  eoustn  ?" 

CTZri c  (miUng).  Are  we  not  80? 

Ida,  Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name ;  methinks 
it  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thougfht  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weighM  our  blood. 

I77rie  (surting).  Blood! 

Ida,    Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ? 

Utne.  Ay!  doth  it? 

Ma.  It  doth  —  but  no!  it  rushes  Uke  a  torrent 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

Uirie  (recovering  himself).  And  if  it  fled, 

It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 

Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  cousin! 

Ida,  '^Cousin"  again. 

Ulric.  Nay,  then  I'll  call  yon  sister. 

Ida.  I  like  that  name  still  worse — would  we  had  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 

Ulric  (siooatiy).  Would  we  never  had  t 

Ida,  Oh  Heaven!  tokd  can  you  wish  that?  - 

Ulric.  Dearest  Ida! 
Did  I  not  echo  your  own  wish? 

Ida,  Yes,  Uh^c, 
But  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
And  scarce  knew  what  I  said ;  but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
1  still  to  you  am  something. 

Ulnc.  You  shall  be 
AU— all- 

Ida,  And  you  to  m«  are  so  akeady; 
But  I  can  wait 

C^irir.  Dear  Ida! 

Ida,  CaU  me  Ida, 
Your  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else's  — 
Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  father  — 

CSbc  pauses. 

Ulric,  You  have  mine  —  you  have  me, 

Ida,  Dear  Ulric,  how  I  wish 
My  father  could  but  view  our  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this! 

UHc.  Indeed! 

Ida,  You  would  have  loved  him, 
He  you ;  for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other : 
His  manner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative);  but  under 
This  grave  exterior  — would  you  had  known  each  other! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

Ulric.  Who  asLys  that? 

Ida.  What? 

Ulric.  ThBihe  died  alone. 

Ida,  The  general  rumour, 
And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 


Have  ne'er  return'd :  that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Ulric.  If  they  were  near  him. 
He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone, 

Ida,  Alas!  what  is  a  menial  to  a  deatii-bed. 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ?  —  they  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 

Ulric.  Say! 
It  wat  so. 

Ida.  I  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

Ulric.  AH  dreams  are  folse. 

Ida.  And  yet  I  see  him  as  I  see  you. 

Ulric.    Where? 

Ida,  In  sleep  —  I  see  him  lie 
Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

Ulric.  But  you  do  not  see  his/ace  ? 

Ida  (looking  at  him).  No !  oh,  my  God !  do  jfotc? 

Ulric.  Why  do  you  ask? 

Ida.  Because  you  look  as  if  you  Saw  a  murderer! 

Ulric  (agiutediy).  Ida,  this  is  mere  childishness;  your 
Infects  me,  to  my  shame;  but  as  all  feelings      [weaknes 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change  — 

Ida.  Child,  indeed!  I  have 
Full  fifteen  summers !  [a  iwgic  fonnda. 

Rodolph.  Hark,  my  Lord,  (he  bugle! 

Ida  (pe«w»fa]y  to  Rodolph).  Why  need  you  tell  hun  that? 
Can  ho  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo? 

Rodolph.  Pardon  me,  fair  Baroness ! 

Ida.  I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

Rodolph.  You  will  not, 
Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

Ulric.  I  must  not  now  forego  it  ; 

Ida.  But  you  shall! 

UlHc.  Shall!   " 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 
No  true  knight  —  Come,  dear  Ulric !  yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day ;  the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  yon  are  turn'd  so  pale  and  ill. 

Ulric.  You  jest 

Ida.  Indeed  I  do  not:  ask  of  Rodolph. 

Rodolph.  Truly, 
My  Lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour 
You  have  changed  more  than  I  e'er  saw  you  change 
In  years. 

Ulric.  'Tis  nothing :  but  if  'twere,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.  Tm  the  true  chameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere ;  your  feasts 
In  casde-halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit  —  I'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves. 

Ida.  Bxcepthisprey,Ihope. 

Ulric.  Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  ftdr  chase,  and  I 
Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home. 

Ida.  And  will  you  not  stay,  Jhen?  You  shall  not  go! 
Come !  I  ^ill  sing  to  you* 


492 


WERNER. 


ACT  IT. 


Ulric.  Ida,  you  scarcely 
Will  make  a  soldier's  wife. 

Ida,  I  do  not  wish 
To  be  so ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over^ 
And  you  will  live  In  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  WsRSU  m  Count  SiBGBxoonF* 

Ulrie,  My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  g^reeting.  —  You  have  heard  our  bugle; 
The  vassals  wait 

Siegend,  So  let  them  —  you  forget 
To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague,  for  peace  restored.  You  are  apt  to  follow 
Tlie  chase  witli  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Returned,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
Tlie  nobles  in  our  marshall'd  ranks. 

Vlri€,  You,  County 
Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both  —  I  am  not 
A  lover  of  these  pageantries. 

Siegend.  No,  Ulric; 
It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 
Our  young  nobility  — 

Ida,  And  far  the  noblest 
In  aspect  and  demeanour. 

Siegend.  (to  Ida)  True,  dear  diild,  * 

Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel.  ^ 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position, 
So  lately  re-instated  in  our  honours. 
Believe  me,  'twould  be  mark'd  in  any  boose, 
But  most  in  aure,  tiiat  onb  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.  Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  all,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving;  first,  for  our  country. 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings, 

Ulric  (Mid«).  Devout,  too !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  onee. 

(Th«D  aload  to  a  senrwit.) 

Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without  I  ciuit  Lndwig. 

Ida,  And  so 
You  yield  at  onee  to  him  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

Siegend.  (tmiUng)  You  are  not  jealous 
Of  me,  I  trust,  my  pretty  rebel !  who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 
Except  thyself?  But  fear  not,  thou  shalt  role  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

Ida,  But  I  should  like  to  govern  n4it0« 

Siegend.  You  shall. 
Your  hurp;  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  Countess  in  her  chamber.  She  complains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music: 
She  attends  you, 

Ida,  Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen ! 
Ulric,  you'll  come  and  hear  me  ? 

Uiric.  By  and  by. 

Ida,  Be  sure  I'll  sound  it  better  than  your  bnglcft ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes: 
I'll  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

Ulric.  And  why  not  old  Tilly's  ? 

Ida,  Not  that  monster's !  I  should  tliink 


My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with  music, 
Could  aught  of  Ai>  sound  on  it;  but  come  quickly; 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you.  CButUi. 

Siegejui,  Ulric,  I  wish  to  speak  with  yon  alone. 

Ulric,  My  time's  your  vassal.  —  (Asid«  to  RmMpk; 

Rodolph,  hence!  and  do 
As  I  directed;  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

Rodolph,  Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  anght?  I 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier.  [am  bomd 

Siegend. iaiMTU).  Ah!  — 
Where?  on  what  frontier  ? 

Rodolph.  The  Silesian,  on 
My  way  —  (asid«  to  uiHc)  Where  shall  I  say  ? 

C7ric  (Mide  to  Rodoipb.)  To  Hamburgh. 

(Aside  tohimMU)  Hat 

Word  will  I  tikink  put  a  firm  padlock  on 

His  further  inquisition. 

Rodolph,  Count,  to  Hamburgh.  [tbere^  nor 

Siegend,  (aghaied).  Hamburgh!  No,  I  have  nought  to  do 

Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.  Then 

God  speed  you! 
Rodolph,  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf! 

[BzitBodflM^ 

Siegend.  Ulric,  this  man,  who  has  joat  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions,  whom  I  fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

Ulric.  My  lord,  he  is 
Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

Siegend.  I  talk  not  of  his  birth, 
But  of  his  bearing.  Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

Ulric,  So  they  will  do  of  most  men.  Even  the  raonuvl 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander,  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

Siegend.  If  I  must  be  plain, 
The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this  Rodolph; 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  '*  black  bands"  who  sfitt 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

Ulrie,  And  will  you  befieve 
The  world? 

Siegend,  In  this  case  —  yes. 

Ulric,  In  any  case, 
I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence. 

Siegend,  Son! 
I  understand  you :  you  refer  to  —  but 
My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider-web,  that  I  can  only  Rutter 
Like  tlie  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.  Take  heed, 
Ulric;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me; 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 
Quench'd  them  not —  twenty  thousand  more,  pcrcfaanoe^ 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  the  dial) 
May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 
The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant 
Ulric,  be  wam'd  by  a  father!  -^  I  was  not 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me ! 

Ulnc,  I  behold 


ACT  IT. 


WERNER 


493 


The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honoured 
By  tliose  be  riUes,  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

Siegtnd,  Ah  I 
Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?  Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not? 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindnessior  me  — 
Bat  if  my  son's  is  cold !  ~ 

Ulrie.  Who  liare  say  that? 

Siejfend,  None  else  bat  I,  who  see  it  — y»e/  it  —  keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so. 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart !  But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

Ulric.  You  err.  My  nature  is  not  given 
To  outward  fondling ;  how  should  it  be  so, 
After  twelve  years'  divorcement  from  my  parents  ? 

Shjfend,  And  did  not  /too  pass  those  twelve  torn  years 
Id  a  like  absence  ?  But  'tis  vain  to  urge  you  — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  by  remonstrance. 
Lef  s  change  the  theme.  I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name, 
But  dark  deeds(ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  oonsortest, 
WUl  lead  thee  — 

Ubrie  (impatiently).  I'U  be  Ud  by  no  man. 

Siegend,  Nor 
Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope:  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  shouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida  —  more. 
As  thou  appearst  to  love  her. 

rZric.  I  have  said 
I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  witli  Hecate  —  can  a  son  say  more? 

Siegend,  He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.  It  is  not 
The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 
Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly. 
Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 
The  bloom  or  blight  oC  all  men's  happiness, 
(For  Glory's  pillow  is  but  restless  if 
Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there) :  some  strong  bias. 
Some  master-fiend  is  in  thy  service  to 
Misniie  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave. 
And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient;  else 
Thon'dst  say  at  once,  *^1  love  young  Ida,  and 
Wilt  wed  her;"  or,  *'I  love  her  not,and  all 
The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me."  —  So 
Would  I  have  answer'd. 

Uirif,  Sir,  3r<w  vMJ  for  love. 

Siegend,  1  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  aiany  miseries. 

Ulrie,  Which  miseries 
Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

Sesfend.  StiU 
Against  your  age  and  nature!  Who  at  twenty 
B'er  answer'd  thus  till  now? 

Uirie,  Did  you  not  warn  me 
Against  your  own  example  ? 

Si^efuL  Boyish  sophist  I 
In  a  word,  do  yon  love,  or  love  not,  Ida? 


Uiric*  What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  I 

Sieifend,  As  far 
As  yoi)  feel,  nothing ;  but  all  life  for  her. 
She's  young  —  all-beautiful  —  adores  you  —  is 
Endow'd  with  qualities  to  give  happiness. 
Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint, 
And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
For  which  philosophy  might  barter  wisdom ; 
And  giving  so  much  happiness,  deserves 
A  little  in  return.  I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break. 
Or  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightingale. 
According  to  the  Orient-tale.  She  is  — 

Ulrie,  The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim,  your  foe: 
ril  wed  her,  ne'ertheless;  though,  to  say  truth. 
Just  now  I  am  not  violentiy  transported 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 

Siegend,  But  she  loves  you. 

Vlric,  And  1  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think  twite, 

Siegejud,  Alas!  Love  never  die/ so. 

Ulrie,  Then  'tis  time 
He  should*  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps:  till  now 
He  hath  ta'eu  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

Siegend,  But  you  consent  ? 

Uirie,  1  did  and  do. 

I^egrnd,  Then  lix  the  day. 

Ulrie,  'Tis  usual. 
And,  oertes,  courteous.  tf>  Irave  that  to  the  lady.  ' 

Sieyend,  I  will  engage  for  her, 

Ulrie.  So  will  not  i 
For  any  woman ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  si%  nn.«hakc*u,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer.  Til  give  mine. 

Siegend,  But  'tis  your  office 
To  woo. 

Ulrie,  Count, 'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making. 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing;  but,  to  please  you, 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother. 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is.  — 
What  would  you  have?  You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle-walls. 
And  I  obey ;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer. 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting-needles. 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles. 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,astfaough  they  were 
The  stars  receding  ear)y  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world- winning  battle  — > 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  CkU  uiric. 

Siegend,  (mIbh).  Too  much  I  — 
Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little  love! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not: 
For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fullil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now;  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  loug'd  without  tears 


494 


W£RN£]t 


ACT  IV 


To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  htm ! 
But  how !  obedient,  but  with  coldness;  duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness;  mysterious  ~ 
Abstracted  —  distant  —  much  given  to  long  absence, 
And  where  —  none  know  —  in  league  with  the  most 

riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles;  though,  to  do  him  justice. 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Yet  there's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  cannot 
Unravel.  They  look  up  to  him  —  consult  him  — 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader :  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence!  Ah!  can  I  hope  it 
After  —  what !  dotli  my  father's  curse  descend 
£ven  to  my  child  ?   Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood,  or  ~  oh!  if  it  should  be! 
Spirit  of  Straleuhcim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  him  and  his  —  who,  though  they  slew  not, 
Unlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee?  'Twas  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin :  thou  wert  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening. 
And  only  took  —  accursed  gold!  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands;  I  dare  not  use  thee. 
Nor  part  from  thee ;  tliou  camest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands' 
Like  mine.  Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Thou  villanous  gold!  and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother !  I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida  —  cherish'd  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine, 

Sntar  ta  Attinda?it. 
AUenima.  The  Abbot,  if  it  please 
Your  Excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 

Upon  you.  [Exit  Attendant 

Enter  the  PsiOB  almkt. 

Prior  Albert  Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them! 

Siegend,  Welcome,  welcome,  holy  Father! 
And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard !  —  all  men  have  need 
Ofsnch,andI  — 

Prior  Albert  Have  the  first  claim  to  all 
The  prayers  of  our  community.  Our  conventi 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  diildren. 

Siegend,  Yes,  good  Father; 
Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood. 
Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

Prior  Albert  To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe, 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not  I  [one, 

Siegend,  True,  Father:  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from 
Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless,  holy  church, 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices,^ 
Which  smootlie  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 


I  have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  bis  spirit 

CSicgendorf  offers  the  gold  which  he  had  Uken  from  Stralcohda. 

Prior  Albert  Count,  if  I 
Receive  it,  'tis  because  I  know  too  weU 
Refusal  would  ofiend  you.  Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms, 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours, 
Which  has  ofuldendow'd  it;  but  to  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  'tb  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Siegend.  (faltering).  For  —  for  —  the  dead. 

Prior  Albert  His  name? 

Siegend,  'Tis  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  name, 
I  would  avert  perdition. 

Prior  Albert  1  meant  not 
To  pry  into  your  secret  We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest     CS^ow^ 

Siegend,  Secret!  I  have  none;  but.  Father,  he  who's 
Might  have  one ;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath  — 
No,  not  bequeath  —  but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

Prior  Albert  A  proper  deed 
In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends.  [foe^ 

Siegend*  But  he,  who's  gone,  was  not  my  friend,  but 
The  deadliest  and  the  staunchest 

Prior  Albert  Better  still! 
To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  souls 
Of  our  dead  enemies,  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

Siegend,  But  I  did  not 
Forgive  this  man.  I  loathed  him  to  the  last. 
As  he  did  me.  I  do  not  love  him  now. 
But  — 

Prior  Albert  Best  of  ail!  for  this  is  pure  religion! 
Yon  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  fi^m  hell  — 
An  evangelical  compassion!  —  with 
Your  own  g*M  too! 

Siegend,  Father,  'tis  not  my  gold. 

Prior  Albert  Whose  then  ?  you  said  it  was  no  Ifgary. 

Siegend,  No  matter  whose  —  of  this  be  sure  that  be 
Who  own'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars: 
'Tis  yours,  or  theirs. 

Prior  Albert  Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

Siegend,  No :  but  there's  worse  than  blood  —  eternal 
shame! 

Prior  Albert  Did  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  btdf 

Siegend,  Alas!  he  did. 

Prior  Albert  Son !  you  relapse  into  revenge. 
If  you  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death. 

Siegend,  His  death  was  fothomlessly  deep  in  blood 

Prior  Albert  You  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  batfle 

Siegend,  He 
Died,  I  scarce  know  —  but— he  was  stabb'd  i*  the  deik, 
And  now  you  have  it  —  perish'd  on  bis  pillow 
By  a  cut-throat!  —  ay !  —  you  may  look  upon  rae! 
/  am  not  tlie  man.  I'll  meet  your  eye  on  that  pointy 
As  I  can  one  day  God's. 


ACT  V. 


WBRNEB. 


495 


Prior  Albert  NordidheiUe 
By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours? 

Sie^^entL  No!  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes ! 

Prior  Albert  Nor  know  yon 
Who  slew  him? 

Siegend,  I  could  only  gaess  at  (m«. 
And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected. 
As  anemploy'd.  Except  by  one  day's  knowledge, 
I  ncTer  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

Prior  Albert  Then  you  are  free  from  guilt 

Si^gend,  (ea«eriy)  Oh!  am  I  ?  —  say! 

Prior  Albert  You  have  said  so,  and  know  best 
'  Siegend.  Father!  I  have  spoken 
The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole : 
Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty !  for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  wrighs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it, 
Though  by  the  Power  who  abhorreth  human  blood, 
I  did  not!  —  nay,  once  spared  it,  when  1  might 
And  could  —  ay,  perhaps,  sbould  (if  our  self-safety 
Be  e*er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes) ; 


But  pray  for  him,  for  me.  and  all  my  house ; 

For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 

I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me, 

As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.  Pray  for  me, 

Father !  I  have  pray 'd  myself  in  vain. 

Prior  Albert  I  will. 
Be  comforted !  You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  calm  as  innocence. 

Siegend.  But  calmness  is  not 
Always  the  attribute  of  innocence. 
I  feel  it  is  not 

PHor  Albert  But  it  will  be  so. 
When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 
In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles. 
As  well  as  your  brave  son;  and  smoothe  your  aspect; 
Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood  you  shed  not  rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.  This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.  Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  things,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty.   CExchiil 


A    C    T      V. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Ivfe  and  iDaf;nificeiit  Gothic  Had  in  the  Ca5tic  of  Siegendorf,  d«eo- 
ratrd  with  Trophies,  Banners*and  Arms  of  that  Family. 

Enter  Ann  hum  and  Miisms,  Attaadants  of  Count  Siiobxdobv. 

Amh.  Be  quick!    the  Count  will  soon  return:    the 
Already  are  at  the  portal.  Have  you  sent  [ladies 

The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  for? 

Meieier,  I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  fiur  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.  The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions !  All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

Amk.  Go  to!  my  Lady  Countess  comes. 

Mofsier.  Fd  rather 
Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworA  jade. 
Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

Armk.  Begone!  and  rail 
Within.  CBzcnnt 

BsMr  cb«  CouftTMs  JoiBTiinra  SiBGEnoiir  and  Ida  STKaLmimii. 

Jooepkine.  Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over! 

Ideu  How  can  you  say  so!  Never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautifnl.  The  flowers,  the  boughs. 
The  bcumers,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces. 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  the  stain'd  windows ;  even  the  tombs. 


Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns, 
Which  seem'd  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 
Than  mounted  there ;  the  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder ; 
The  white  robes,  and  the  lifted  eyes ;  the  world 
At  peace!  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another! 

Oh,  my  sweet  mother  f  [Embracing   oscphr. 

Joeephine.  My  beloved  child! 
For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shalt  be  shortly. 

Ida.  Oh! 
I  am  so  already.  Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 

Joeepkine,  It  does,  my  love;  and  never  may  it  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter! 

Ida.  Never  shall  it  do  so! 
How  should  it?  What  should  make  us  grieve?  I  hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow:  how  can  we  be  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  entirely?  You, 
The  Count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter,  Ida. 

Josephine,  Poor  child! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me? 

Josephine,  No;  I  but  envy. 
And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 

Ida.  ril  not  hear 
A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.  Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him?  How  he  tower'd  amongst  them  all! 
How  all  eyes  follow 'd  him  I  The  flowers  fell  faster  —  * 
Rain'd  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet,  mcthought. 


498 


WBBNEIL 


ACT  ▼. 


Vlrk  (offinrs  it  to  him  CMit«BiptaoiMLy>« 
Take  it 

Gahar.  No,  Sir/tij  enougb 
That  we  are  botii  unami'd  —  I  would  not  cbooae 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  ftain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ulrie  (cuts  die  sabre  ft-om  him  in  contempt)*  It  —  OT 

Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands  —  spared  yoiira 
Once,  when  disarmM  and  at  my  mercy. 

Gabor,  True  — 
I  have  not  forgotten  it :  you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose  -—  tosttstain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

Utrie.  Proceed. 
The  tale  is  doubtlesii  worttqr  tte  ie]ater« 
Bat  is  it  of  aqr  lhth«r  to  hear  fbrther  1  Ct«  siegcndorr. 

My  sop!  1  know  HUAeowAVMiQvciiM^  and  diMibt  not 
OC  yours  ^  but  I  liave  promised  this  man  patience ; 
Let  him  continue. 

Gt^or.  IviUnoldcfteinyoii 
By  speaking  of  myselCiniw^ ;  I  begW) 
Life  early  —  and  am  wbut  the  worid  iMS  OMide  vus 
M  Frankfort  on  the  Qder»  vrhere  I  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obewwily^  it  waa 
My  ohanoe  at  several  plac^  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes,  hut  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance, 
In  February  last  A  martMU  foiroe, 
Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  stvQl^  resistances 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Manwiders  from  the  hostile  camp^  ~  They  proved. 
However,  not  to  bo  so  -^  but  banditti^ 
Whom  either  aeddent  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  hnunt  ^  the  foieato 
Which  skirt  Bohemia  -^  even  into  X^wiatiiL 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank  —  and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  tiie  frootfters. 
And  pleaoed  beneath  thecivtt  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort  0£thew^te, 
I  know  no  more. 

Sieffend,  And  what  is  this  to  Ufari^? 

Gahor.  Amongst  them  iht^^  waasaid  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments:  —  Wrth  and  fortmw, 
Youth,  strei^,  and  beai4y„  almost  super humAn, 
And  courage  as  ui»riv«ll^d»  were  prodaiaa'd 
His  by  the  public  rnmottr;  and  his  sway 
Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
Misjudges,  was  attributed  to  wUfihoraft, 
Such  was  his  influenoe:  —  I  have  no  great  £ulii 
In  nny  magic  save  that  of  the  mine>^ 
I  therefore  deem'd  him  wealthy.  —  But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  hioL 

Siegend,  And  did  you  so? 

Guhor,  You'll  hear.  Chance  fhvonr'd  me : 
A  popular  affiray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together  —  it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions,  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them. 
And  9how  them  as  th^  are  —  even  in  their  faces; 


The  moment  my  eye  met  lus  —  I  exchtm'd, 
'^This  is  the  man !"  tliougfa  he  was  then,  as  i 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.  1  felt  sure 
I  had  not  err'd,  and  watDh'd  him  king  and  nearly : 
I  noted  down  hia  form  —  his  gesture  —  features. 
Stature  and  bearing  —  and  amidst  them  all, 
'JVUdst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
I  could  discern,  metfaoagh^  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  lieart 

17/ncUaiJii^  The  tale  sounds  wctt. 

Gahor,  And  may  sound  better.  —  He  appear'd  to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fovtuoe  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  daring  —  and  on  whom 
The  Gates  of  others  oft  depend;  besides. 
An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
Was  to  be  fixed  by  him.  ---  There  I  was  wroi^. 

Siej^end.  And  may  not  bo  right  now. 

Gahor.  IfoHow'dhim, 
Solicited  his  notice  «-*  and  obtain'd  it  — 
Though  not  his  friendship:  —  it  was  his  intention 
To  leave  the  city  privately  —  we  left  it 
Together  -^  and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  eoaccaPd, 
,  And  Stralenbeim  was  succour'd  —  Nov  we  are  on 
The  verge  —  dare  you  hear  further  2 

Siegend.  1  must  do  so  — 
Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

Gahor.  I  saw  in  you 
A  man  above  his  station  —  and  if  not 
So  highy  as  now  I  find  you,  in  my  tiien 
Conceptions  —  'twas  that  I  had  rare^  seen 
Men  sueh  as  you  appear'd  in  height  of  miad. 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank;  yon  were 
Poor  —  even  to  aU  save  rags  —  I  would  have  riiartd 
My  purse,  though  slender,  wkh  yon  -  yon  rctoedit 

Siegend,  Doth  my  refusal  make  n  debt  to  yon. 
That  thus  you  utge  it? 

Gahor.  StUt  you  owe  me  sonethii^:. 
Though  not  for  that  —  and  I  owed  you  my  safety. 
At  least  my  seeming  salrty  -^  when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenbeim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  /had  robb'd  him. 

Siegend.  7conceardyou  —  I, 
Whom,  and  whose  house»  yea  amigtt,  reviving  viper  I 

Gahor,  I  accuse  no  man  —  save  in  my  delbnoe; 
You,  Count!  have  made  yonsself  aooaaer  —  jo^ge  — 
Your  hall's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  trihnnaL 
Be  just,  and  I'll  be  mercifrd. 

Siegend.  You  merciful! 
You !  base  calumniator ! 

Gahor.  I.  'Twill  rest 
With  me  at  last  to  be  so.  Yon  conceaFd  me  ^  - 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
Yousaid»andtononeelseL  At  dead  of  night. 
Weary  with  walohiag  in  the  dark,  and  dnbiovn 
Of  tracing  bank  my  way  —  I  saw  a  gitmmer 
Through  distant  crannies  of  ntwukKng  light 
I  follow'd  it,  and  reaeh'd  a  door  —  a  secret 
Portal  —  which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where. 
With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  having  fitstnndoDe 


ACT  V. 


WBRXBR. 


409 


Aa  mach  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  hBtemag, 
I  look'd  through,  and  beheld  a  parple  bed, 
And  on  it  Stralenheim !  — 

Siegend,  Asleep!  And  yet 
Toa  slew  him!  -  Wretch ! 

Gabor.  He  was  akeadj  slaiiiy 
And  bleeding  like  a  sacriBce.  My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

SiegentL  But  he  was  all  alone! 
You  mw  none  else?  You  did  not  see  the  — 

[He  pMUM  tnm  agltatloa 

Gabor.  No! 
He,  whom  yoo  dare  not  name  —  nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect  —  was  not  then  in 
The  ohambwv 

iSlwymiLCtoUiric).  Then,  myboy !  thoa  art  guiltless  still  ^ 
Tkoa  bad'st  me  Say  /was  so  once  —  Oh  I  now 
Do  thou  as  much !  ^ 

Guior.  Be  patient  1 1  can  noi 
Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.  YouTemember,  or 
If  not,  your  son  does,  —  diat  the  locks  were  changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection  —  on  the  morn 
Which  led  to  fliis  same  night:  how  he  had  entered. 
He  best  knows  •—  bat  within  an  antechamber. 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ^jar  —  I  saw 
A  man  who  wa^'d  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stem  and  anxious  glance  gased  back  upon 
The  bleeding  body  —  but  it  moved  no  more. 

SiegtruL  Oh!  God  of  Fathersl 

€Mar.  I  beheld  his  features 
As  I  see  yours  —  but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them  —  behold  them  in  Count  Ulric's  I 
Distinct  —  as  I  beheld  them  —  though  the  expression 
Is  net  now  what  it  then  was ;  —  but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  erime:  -*-  so  Jatdy. 

Siegend.  TkiSHiso*- 

Gmbcr  Oatcmiptfaic  biaO.  Nay  —  but  hear  me io  the  end! 
Nmf  yon  most  do  so.  ^  I  eoneeived  myself 
Betray'd  by  you  and  kim  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  Tielim  of  your  gidlt;  and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance:  bu^  though  arm'd  withashortpoignard 
(Hnviqg  left  my  sword  withoot)!  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning  —  either  in  address  or  force. 
Itom'd,  and  fied  —  i' the  dark:  chance,  ralher  than 
sun,  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  haH, 
And  thence  the  chamber  where  yon  slept  — if  I 
Had  found  you  waking.  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompted ; 
Bat  ne'er  slept  GuiU  as  Werner  slept  that  itight 

Siegend,  And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams!  and  sneh  brief 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke  *-  [sleep  — 
Why  didst  thou  spare  me?  I  dreamt  of  my  father  — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out! 

Gabor,  'Tis  not  my  fault, 
If  I  have  read  it  —  WeH  II  fled  and  hid  me — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons  — 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf ! 


Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  inlmts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  ofa  ^vereign! 
You  sought  me,  and  have  found  me  —  now  yon  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieffend,  (after  «  paiuc).  Indeedl 

Gabor,  Isitreveageor  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation? 

SieffefuL  Neither  —  I  was  wdghing' 
The  value  of  your  secret 

Gabor,  You  shall  know  it 
At  once  —  when  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though  poor, 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  offer'd  you 
My  purse  —  you  would  not  share  it:  —  I'll  be  franker 
With  you;  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  Imperial  powers  —  You  understand  me? 

Siefjiend,  Yes, — 

Gabor.  Not  quite.  Yon  think  me  venal,  and  searoetroe; 
'Tis  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 
Have  made  me  both  at  present;  you  shall  aid  met 
I  would  have  aided  yon  —  and  also  have 
Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 
Yosrs  and  your  son's.  Weigh  well  what  I  have  said. 

Sieffend,  Dare  yon  await  tiie  event  of  a  few  ntinutes' 
Deliberation? 

Cra^or  (cMti  hb  cyef  «B  inrk,  ii4i0  U  teaaing  iiilBft  •  fUhn).  If  I 
should  do  SO? 

SSegend,  I  pledge  my  life  for  yonrs.  Withdraw  into 

This  tower.  [O^oi « tiirre(.4oor. 

Gabor  (hM^uaia^).  This  is  the  seoond  st/e  asylum 
Yon  have  ofier'd  me. 

SU§9nd»  And  was  not  the  first  so? 

Gabor,  I  know  not  that  even  now  —  but  will  approve 
The  second.  I  have  still  a  further  shield.  *- 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone  —  and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim  —  there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalt 
Be  brief  in  your  decision! 

SiniotuL  Iwiilbeso.— 
My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  thM$e  walli^  but  it  extends  no  Airther. 

Gabor.  I'll  take  it  for  so  much. 

Siegend,  (poinii  t»  Ulrlc'«  Mht%  atiS  vpon  tiwgroawl) 
Take  also  thai  — 
I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Gabor  (taktf  ap  thm  MimX  I  will ,  and  SO  provide 
To  sell  my  life  —  not  cheaply. 

tOflbor  gow  kito  tb«  tmmt,  wUch  Sf«tcwiorf  ckisM. 

SiegaiuL  (•dtucw  to  UMeX  Now,  Count  Uhrio! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee  —  What  sayst  thou  ? 

Uirie,  His  tale  is  true. 

Siegmd.  True,  monster  1 

Vlrie.  Most  true,  fatiier; 
And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it:  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against  He  must 
Be  silenced. 

SUgend,  Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains; 
And  with  tiie  otiier  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

Ulric.  it  is  no  time 


500 


WBRNBR. 


ACT  IL 


For  trifllDg  or  disaembling.  I  have  Mid 

His  story's  true ;  and  he  too  must  be  sUenoed. 

Sie^end.  How  so? 

Ulric.  As  Straleaheim  is.    Are  yon  so  dull 
As  neyer  to  have  hit  on  this  before? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act*oonld  make  me  know 
His  death  ?  Or  had  the  prince's  household  been 
Then  summoned,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger?  Or  should  I 
Haveloiter'dontheway?  Or  could  yoie,  Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears, 
Have  fled  —  unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke?  I  sought  and  ikthom'd  yon  — 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble;  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

Siejfend,  Parricide!  no  less 
Than  common  stabber !  What  deed  of  my  life, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice? 

Ulric,  Father,  do  not  raise 
The  devil  you  cannot  lay  between  us.  This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family-disputes.  Whileyem  were  tortured. 
Could  /be  calm  ?  Think  you  that  1  have  heard 
This  fellow's  tale  without  some  feeling?  you 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  teach  it?  [now. 

Sieffend,  Ohl  my  dead  father's  curse  1  'tis  working 

Ulric,  Let  it  work  on!  the  grave  will  keep  it  down! 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes:  it  is  more  easy 
To  baCDe  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 
Tet  hear  me  sdll!  ~  If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  onoe  too  often 
To  listen  to  him!   lf%o  proclaim'd  to  me 
That  there  were  crimee  made  venial  by  the  occasioa? 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 
Of  heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune? 
Who  show'd  me  his  humanity  secured 
By  his  nerves  only?   Who  deprived  me  of 
All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 
In  open  day?  By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 
(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 
Himself  —  a/e/aii'«  brand  1  The  man  who  is 
At  once  both  warm  and  weak,  invites  to  deeds 
He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not  Is  it  strange 
That  I  should  act  what  you  could  thinhf  We  have  done 
With  right  and  wrong;  and  now  must  only  ponder 
Upon  effects,  not  causes.  Stralenheim, 
Whose  life  I  saved,  from  impulse,  as,  unknown^ 
I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  slew, 
Known  as  our  foe  —  but  not  from  vengeance.  He 
Was  a  rock  in  our  way,  which  I  cut  through, 
As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 
And  our  true  destination  —  but  not  idly. 
As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 
His  life ;  when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt 
He,  you^  and  I  stood  o'er  a  gulf,  wherein 


I  have  plunged  our  enemy.  Vmi  kindled  first 

The  torch  —  you  show'd  the  path :  now  trace  me  Itet 

Of  safety  —  or  let  me! 

Siegond,  I  have  done  with  life  I 

Ulric.  Let  us  have  done  with  that  whidi  cankers  file— 
Familiar  feuds  and  vun  recriminations 
Ofthings  which  eannot  be  undone.  We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide:  I  know  no  fear. 
And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  who 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all  things. 
Yon  stand  hij^  with  the  state;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye. 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not;  —  leave  the  rest  to  me: 
We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us. 

CSzh  mrir. 

Sieffend.  (mIiij).  Am  I  awake?  are  these  my  fiitiMr's 
halb?  ^ 
And  you  —  my  son?  My  son !  minef  who  have  ever 
Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  heU  of  both ! 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed  ^- 
The  Hungarian's!  —  Ulric  —  he  hath  partisans. 
It  seems:  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.  Oh  fool  I 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.  He  hath  the  key 
(As  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret  Now  then !  or  once  more 
To  be  the  ftther  of  fV>esh  crimes  —  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal!  Ho!  Gabor!  Gabor! 

[Exit  Into  tfae  tarr«c»  doriai;  cbc  do«r  aftrr  tte> 
SCENE  II. 

The  Interior  of  the  Tarret. 
Gasob  aad  Summpoct. 
Gahor.  Who  calls? 

Sieyend,  I  —  Siegendorf  1  Takelheae^andfiyl 
Lose  not  a  moment! 

[Tears  off  a  dlunoBd-slar  md  oifc«r  Jcweii,  aad  ifcraMa  Aea  Ma 
Oabor'i  1 


Gabor.  What  am  I  to  do 
With  these? 

Sieyend.  Wbate'er  yon  will:  sell  them,  or  board, 
And  prosper;  but  delay  not  —  or  yon  are  lost ! 

Gabor.  Yon  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety  I 

Sieyend.  And 
Must  thus  redeem  it  Fly!  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle  —  of  my  own 
Retainers  —  nay,  even  of  these  very  walls. 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  omsb  me  I  Fly ! 
Or  you  will  be  slain  by  — 

Gabor;  Is  it  even  so? 
Farewell, then!  Recollect,  however.  Count, 
Yon  son^t  this  fatal  interview  I 

Sieyend.  I  did: 
Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still:  —  Begone  I 

Gabor.  By  the  same  path  I  enter'd  ? 

Sieyend,  Yes;  that's  safe  still: 
But  loiter  not  in  Prague;  —  you>do  not  know 
Witli  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

Gabor.  I  know  too  well — 


ACT  V. 


WBftNIOL 


501 


And  knew  h  ere  yonrielf,  nolieppy  sire  I 

Vkrewelll  CSsIt  Oabor. 

SStgfttuL  (MiM  nd  litteaint).  He  hath  dear'd  the  staircase. 
Ah!  Ihoar 
The  door  sound  load  behind  him !  He  is  safe  I 
8ife  f  —  Oh,  my  father's  spirit !  —  I  am  fiiint  -*• 

CH«  iMM  down  apon  •  ttone^aMt,  new  Uw  imU  of  Ihe  tow«r,  fai 
«  drooplu|MK>itarc« 

Etirr  Uuuc^  with  oUiori^  armod,  mA  w^tb  woapons  drawn. 
Vbie.  Despatch  I  — he's  there! 
lAtdmig,  The  Count,  my  Lord! 
Virie  (raeofnMaK  SteRMidoii).   Y^u  here,  Sir! 
Seg^nd,  Yes:  ifyoo  want  another  victim,  stri^ I 

Uiri€  <MdBg  Urn  i4ripl  of  hU  )ewcb).  } 

Where  is  the  ruffian  who  hath  plnnder'd  yon  ? 
YaflMUs,  despatch  in  search  of  him !  You  see 
'Twas  as  I  said  —  the  wretch  hath  stript  my  fether 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heir-loom! 
Away!  I'll  foUow  yon  forthwith. 

[Bxealit  nil  tat  StMtaiheln  and  Ulrlr. 

What's  tliis? 
Where  is  the  villain? 

Siegend,  There  are  <«;e,  sir;  which 
Are  yon  in  quest  of? 

Uirie,  Let  us  hear  no  more 
Of  this:  he  must  be  found.  You  have  not  let  him  escape? 

SieffemL  He's  gone. 

Uiric.  With  5 our  connivance? 

SiefftfUL  MTitb 
My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Virk,  Then  fare  yon^ell!  [uiric  i«  goins- 

Simgtnd,  Stop !  I  command — entreat  —  implore!  Oh, 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ?  [Ulric ! 

VMe,  What!  remain  to  be 
Denounced  —  dragg'd,  it  may  be,  in  chains ;  and  all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half- humanity. 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporising  pity, 
That  saorifioes  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin!  No,  Count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son ! 

iSbftfjui.  I  never  had  one; 


And  would  yon  ne'er  had  borne  die  useless  name ! 
Where  will  you  go  ?  I  would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

Uhie,  Leave  that  unto  me. 
I  am  not  alone;  nor  merely  the  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains :  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 

Skgend.  The  foresters ! 
With  whom  die  Hungarian  found  yon  first  at  Frankfort? 

Ubrit,  Yes  —  men  —  who  are  worthy  of  the  name! 
Go  tell 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  laid 
WitfaWaltcnstein! 

Bncar  Joaaramt  and  Ida. 

Jotepkme.  What  is'twe* hear?  My  Siegendorf  1 
Thank  Heaven,  I  see  you  safe  1 

Skej^end.  Safe! 

Idm.  Yes,dearfiidier! 

SieffetuL  No,  no;  I  have  no  children :  never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent . 

Jo9tpkme,  What 
Means  my  good  Lord? 

Sie^end,  That  you  have  given  birth 
To  a  demon! 

Ida  (taking  uiric*s  hand).  Who  shall  dare  say  this  of  Ulric? 

SieifeiuL  Ida,  beware!  there's  blood  upon  that  hand. 

Ida  (stooping  to  kiM  it).  I'd  kiss  it  ofi;  though  it  were  mine! 

Siepend,  It  is  so! 

Vlrie,  Away!  itisyourlhther's!  [Bxkuiric. 

Ida.  Oh,  great  God! 
And  I  have  loved  this  man ! 

[Ida  fliUs  aenseleM  —  Jotepklue  itandi  speechleu  wlUi  horror. 

Sieffend,  The  wretch  hath  slain 
Them  both !  —  my  Josephine !  we  are  now  alone ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so !  —  All  is  over 
For  me !  —  Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine!  —  The  race  of  Sicgendorf  is  past ! 


The  tragedy  of  '^Werner"  was  begun  at  Pisa,  Decem- 
ber the  ]8di,  1821,  completed  January  dieaoth,  1822,  and 
IMibttshed  in  London  in  the  November  after.  The  reviews 
of  ^Werner"  were,  without  exception,  unfavourable.  One 
cridque  of  the  time  thus  opens :  —  ''Who  could  be  so  ab- 
surd as  to  think,  that  a  dramatist  has  no  right  to  make 
free  with  other  people's  fables?  On  the  contrary,  we  are 
«|nite  aware  that  that  particular  species  of  genius  which  is 
exhibited  in  the  construction  of  plots,  never  at  any  period 
dourished  in  Bngland.  We  all  know  that  Shakspeare  him- 
self look  his  stories  from  Italian  novels,  Danish  sagas, 
Bngliah  chronicles, Plutarch's  Lives-  from  anywhere  ra- 
ther than  from  his  own  invention;  But  did  he  take  the 
wkale  of  Hamlet,  or  Juliet,  or  Richard  the  Third,  or  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra^  from  any  of  these  foreign  sources? 


Did  he  not  invent,  in  the  noblest  sense  of  the  word,  all  tlie 
characters  of  his  pieces  ?  Who  dreams  that  any  old  Italian 
novelist,  or  ballad-maker,  could  have  formed  the  imagi- 
nation of  such  a  creature  as  Juliet?  Who  dreams  that  the 
HABfLCT  of  Shakspeare,  the  princely  endiusiast,  the  me- 
lancholy philosopher,  that  spirit  refined  even  to  pain, 
that  most  incomprehensible  and  unapproachable  of  all 
the  creations  of  human  genius,  is  the  same  being,  in  any 
thing  but  tfaename,with  dierough,strong-hearted,bloody- 
handed  Amlett  of  the  north?  Who  is  there  that  supposes 
Goethe  to  have  taken  the  character  of  hie  Faust  from  the 
nursery-rhymes  and  penny-pamphlets  about  the  Devil 
and  Doctor  Faustus?  Or  who,  to  come  nearer  home, 
imagines  that  Lord  Byron  himself  found  hu  Sardana- 
palus  in  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus? 


502 


WERNER. 


<<But  here  Lord  Byron  hu  invented  nothing  —  miwo- 
inte]  J  NOTHING.  There  ij  not  one  incident  in  hifl  play,  not 
eyen  the  most  triyial,  that  is  not  to  befinind  in  Misa  Lee'a 
novel,  occarring:  exactly  in  the  aiUne  manner,  broa|^t 
about  by  exactly  the  same  agents,  and  producing  exactly 
the  same  effects  on  the  plot  And  then  as  to  tiie  cha- 
racters, —  not  only  is  erery  one  of  them  to  be  found  in 
Kruitzner,  but  every  one  is  to  be  foond  there  more  fully 
and  powerfuUy  developed,  indeed,  but  for  the  prepa^ 
ration  which  we  had  received  from  our  old  familiarity 
with  Miss  Lee's  own  admirable  work,  we  rather  incline 
to  think  that  we  should  have  been  unable  to  comprehend 
the  gist  of  her  noble  imitator,  or  rather  copier,  in  several 
of  what  seem  to  be  meant  for  his  most  elaborate  deline- 
ations. The  fact  is,  tliat  this  undeviating  closeness,  this 
humble  fidelity  oUmitatian,  is  a  thing  so  perfectly  new  in 
any  thing  worthy  of  the  name  of  literature,  that  wc  are 
sure  no  one,  who  has  not  read  the  Canterbury  Tales,  will 
be  able  to  form  the  least  conception  of  what  it  amounts  to. 

''Those  who  have  never  read  Miss  Lee's  book,  will, 
however,  be  pleased  with  this  production ;  for,  in  truth, 
the  story  is  one  of  the  most  powerfally  conceived,  one  of 
the  most  picturesque,  and  at  tho  same  time  instructive 
stories,  that  we  are  acquainted  with.  Indeed,  thus  Jed  as 
wo  are  to  name  Harriet  Lee,  we  cannot  allow  the  oppor- 


tunity to  pass  without  saying,  that  we  have  always  eo 
sidered  her  works  as  standing  upon  the  verge  of  tke  Miy 
jSrtf  rtfiU  of  exodlenoe;  that  is  to  say,  as  infieiior  to  do 
Eni^ish  novels  whatever,  excepting  those  of  Fieldai^, 
Sterne,  Smollett,  Richardson,  Defoe,  RaddUfie,  GodwiBk 
Edgeworth,  and  the  author  of  Waverley.  It  would  not, 
perhaps,  be  going  too  for  to  say,  that  the  Gantnbary 
Tales  exhibit  more  of  that  species  of  invention  which,  as 
we  have  already  remarked,  was  never  common  inEngijih 
literature,  than  any  of  the  works  even  of  those  finl-nte 
novelists  we  have  named,  with  the  single  exception  of 
Fielding. 

''Kruitaner,  or  the  Oeiman's  Tale,  possesses  mysler;, 
and  y^M  cieamcM  as  to  its  structnre;  streagtift  of  cha- 
raolers,  and  admirable  contrast  of  characters;  and,  above 
all,  the  most  lively  interest,  blended  with  and  suliservinit 
to  the  most  affecting  of  moral  lessons.  The  main  idea 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  it  is,  tiie  hoiror  of  an  erring  &- 
ther,  who,  having  been  detected  in  vice  by  his  aoa,  has 
dared  to  defend  his  own  sin,  and  so  to  pe^lex  the  son's 
notions  of  moral  reotitode,  on  finding  that  the  son,  in  his 
turn,  has  pushed  the  felse  principles  thus  instilled  to  the 
last  and  worst  extreme  •—  on  hcariog  his  own  sophistries 
flung  in  his  face  by  a  —  Mucdeier." 


503 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED, 


A    DRAMA. 


DRASIA.TI8  PERSONJB. 


MEN. 

Strangkr,  afUrwardi  CiCSAiu 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

PlilLIBERT. 
CfiULINI. 


WOMEN, 


Bertha. 

OUMPIA. 


Spiiits,  Soldiexs»  CiliK  as  of  Rome,  Priests,  Pdmnts. 


ACT 


SCENE    I. 


A  Forest. 


Eater  A«9iou>  and  his  iBOtlwr  Bbstba. 

Bertkm.  Out,  huadiback! 

Arnold,  I  was  born  so,  motlier  1 

Bertku,  Out! 
Thoa  Incubus  1  ThoQN%ktoiare!  Of  seven  sons 
Tbe  sole  abortion  1 

AnoUL  WosldthBtlhadbeeBSO, 
And  never  seen  tbe  Wgikt ! 

Bertha.  I  would  so  too! 
But  as  thou  kast-^btactr  henee  ^  and  do  thy  best 
Tbat  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burthen;  ^tis 
More  high,  if  not  so  bread  as  Ibat  of  others. 

Arnold.  It  hears  its  burthen;  —  but»  my  heart!  Wlii  it 
Sustain  thai  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother? 
I  love,  or,  at  the  least,  I  loved  you:  nothing. 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
Toi^jinrsed  me  —  do  not  kil&me. 

BerUuu  Yes  ^  I  nursed  thee, 
Because  thou  wert  my  first-bom,  and  1  knew  not 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee, 
That  monstfous  sport  of  nature.  But  get  hence. 
And  gather  woodt 

ArmML  I  will:  but  when  I  brnig  if; 
Speak  to  me  kindly.  Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spurn  me: 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same, 

Bertkm.  As  is  the  hedgehog's^ 
Which  sucks  at  midnight  frt>m  the  wholesome 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry. 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren !  Call  me  not 


Mother ;  for  if  I  brought  tliee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sitting  upon  strange  eggs.   Out,  wrciiin,  out! 

CBaic  B«ra« 
Arnold  (aoioa).  Oh  motinr  !--She  isgone^  aatilnniSt  do 
Her  bidding ;  —  wearily  but  wilHngly 
I  would  ftilfil  it,  could  I  only  hope 
A  kind  word  in  return.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

in  S«i»K  tU«  te  iTMnd*  OM  of  hU 


[Arnold  bcgtna  to  cut 
bands. 

My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 

Accursed  be  this  blood  that  fiows  so  fost; 

For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 

At  home.  — What  home?  i  have  no  home,  no  kin, 

No  kind  —  not  made  Uke  other  creatures,  or 

To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.-  Must  I  bleed  too 

Like  them?  Oh  that  each  drop  which  fiiUs  to  earth 

Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them,  as  they  have  stung  me  I 

Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me, 

Would  aid  his  likeness !  If  I  must  partake 

His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?  Is  it  because 

I  have  not  his  will  too?  For  one  kind  word 

From  her  who  bore  me^  would  still  reconcile  me 

Even  to  this  hateflil  aspect  Let  me  wash 

The  wound. 

CAraold  kqm  to  a  apriiig  ud  itoopf  to  waib  hb  tead :  be  miU  tack. 
They  are  right;  and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me 
What  she  hath  made  me.  I  will  not  look  on  it 
Again,  and  scarce  dare  think  on't  Hideous  wretch 
That  I  am  1  The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow  •—  like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  bai^k  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  [He  pwte*. 

And  shall  I  live  on, 
A  burthen  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 


504 


THE  DBFORMBD  TRANSFORMED, 


Acri 


Unto  what  brought  me  into  life?  Thou  blood, 
Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a  flcraicfay  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself. 
And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms ! 
This  knife  1  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  wither'd  slip  of  nature's  nightshade  —  my 
Vile  form  —  from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest 

CAxnold  placei  the  knUte  Id  the  groond,  irith  the  point  upwards. 

Now  'tis  set, 
And  I  can  fall  upon  it  Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun,  which  warmed  me,  but 
In  vain.  The  birds  —  how  joyously  they  sing! 
So  let  them,  for  I  would  not  be  lamented: 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell ; 
The  falling  leaves  my  monument;  the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fhin  would  fall! 

[Aa  he  rushes  to  throw  hlmseir  npon  the  knll^  bis  eye  is  saddenly 
cenght  by  the  foantain,  which  seems  in  motion. 

The  fountiun  moves  without  a  wind :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.  Yet  it  moves  again!  The  waters  stir, 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subtcrrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
Whafshere?  A  mist!  No  more?  — 

CA  ck>nd  comes  from  the  foentain.  He  stands  f^tint  npon  k ;  it  is 
dispelled,  and  a  tall  bUck  man  comes  towardi  htm. 

Arnold.  What  would  you?  Speak! 
Spirit  or  man? 

Stranger.  As  man  is  both,  why  not 
Say  both  in  one? 

Arnold.  Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 
Yon  may  be  devil. 

Stranger.  So  many  meniire  that 
Which  is  so  called  or  thought,  that  you  may  add  me 
To  which  you  please,  without  much  wrong  to  cither. 
But  come:  you  wish  to  kill  yourself;  —  pursue 
Your  purpose. 

Arnold.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

Stranger.  What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 
Be  interrupted?  Ifl  be  the  devil 
You  deem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made  you 
Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide ; 
And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Arnold.  I  said  not 
You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  Uke  one. 

.    Stranger,  Unlass  you  keep  company 
With  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  such  high 
Society)  you  can't  tell  how  be  approaches ; 
And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain, 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Looks  likest  what  tlie  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 


Arnold.  Do  you -^  dare  yoit ' 
To  taunt  me  with  my  bom  deformity  ? 

Stranger.  Were  I  to  taunt  a  bulMo  with  this 
Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Would  revel  in  the  compliment  And  yet 
Both  beings  are  more  swift,  more  strong,  more  mighty 
In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself^ 
And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 
With  thee.  Thy  form  is  natural:  Hwasouly 
Nature's  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 
The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  num. 

Arnold.  Give  me  the  strength  then  of  tiie  bulialo'sibot, 
When  he  spurns  high  the  dust,  beholding  his 
Near  enemy;  or  let  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 
The  helm-less  dromedary ;  —and  I'll  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a  saintly  patience. 

Stranger.  I  will. 

Arnold  (with  surprise).  Thou  canst? 

Stranger.  Perhaps.  Would  you  aught  else? 

Arnold.  Thou  mockest  me. 

Stranger.  Not  I.  Why  should  I  mock 
What  all  are  mocking?  Thaf  s  poor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine),  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar. 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a  year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  hOusehold-caldroos  with 
Such  scullion-prey.  The  meanest  gibe  at  thee^  — 
Now  /  can  mock  the  mightiest 

Arnold,  Then  waste  not 
Thy  time  on  mc :  I  seek  thee  not 

Stranger,  Your  thoughts 
Are  not  fat  from  me.  Do  not  send  me  back : 
I  am  not  so  easily  recalled  to  do 
Good  service. 

Arnold.  What  wilt  thorn  do  for  me  t 

Stranger.  Change 
Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Arnold,  Oh !  then  you  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Nought'else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

Stranger,  I'll  show  thee 
The  brightest  which  tlie  world  e'er  bore^  and  give  dice 
Thy  choice. 

Arnold.  On  what  condition? 

Stranger.  There's  a  question  I 
An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

Arnold,  No;  I  will  not 
I  must  not  compromise  my  souL 

Stranger.  What  soul. 
Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  carcass  ? 

Arnold,  'Tis  an  aspiring  one,  whate'er  the  tenement 
In  whidi  it  is  mislodged.  But  name  yoor  compact: 
Must  it  be  signed  in  blood  ? 

Stranger.  Not  in  your  own. 

Arnold.  Whose  blood  then? 


Aor  I. 


THB  DBFORMED  TRANSFORM]^. 


505 


8trmi0€r,  We  wiil  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
Bvt  I'll  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  thinga  within  you.  You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  jour  own  will,  no  eontract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content? 

AthM,  1  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Sbrtm^er.  Nov  theol  — 

CTh«  Stranccr  apprtMkch«c  tb«  ftmstaliip  ud  twai  to  Amokl. 

A  little  of  your  blood. 
Amoid.  For  what? 

ShrtMfftr.  To  mingle  with  the  magio  of  the  waters. 
And  make  the  charm  effective. 
ArmM*  (houunc  ont  biM  w<MiBd«d  am).  Take  it  alL 
Slrmnper.  Not  now.  A  few  drops  will  suffice  for  this. 
(Tht  Straocer  takes  iobm  of  Arnold's  blood  In  hb  band,  and  eaatt  It 
Into  the  feoatain. 

Shadows  of  Beauty  1 

Shadows  of  Power  I 
Rise  to  your  duty  — 

This  is  the  hour  1 
Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain. 
As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Harta-mountain. 
Come  as  ye  were. 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  will  mould. 
Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann'd;  — 
Such  his  desire  is,  tPol&tliig  to  Anoid. 

Such  my  command  I 
Demons  heroic  — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  Stoic 

Or  8<^[4iist  of  yore  <— 
Or  the  shape  of  each  Yictor» 

From  Maoedon's  boy 
To  each  high  Roman's  pictore^ 

Who  breathed  to  destroy  ^ 
Shadows  of  Beauty  1 

Shadows  of  Power  I 
Up  to  your  duty  — 

This  is  the  hour! 
CTHiOMPbaiitoau  arUo  from  tbo  wator%  aad  paM  !•  aMcaHloBbaftwe 
tho  Stranger  and  Arnold. 

Arnold,  What  do  I  see? 

Strmmger,  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 
The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne'er 
Bdield  a  conqueror,  or  look'd  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  heir'd  his  very  name. 

Arnold.  The  Phantom's  bald;  my  queit  is  beauty. 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defectsi  [Could  I 

Stronger,  His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than 
Ton  see  his  aspect  —  choose  it,  or  reject  [hairs. 

I  ean  but  promise  you  his  form;  his  fame 
Host  he  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

Arnold.  1  will  fight  too, 
Bntnotasamock-Caasar.  Let  him  pass; 
His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not 


Stranyor,  Then  you  are  far  more  diflioiilt  to  please 
Than  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother, 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen  —  an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heart 
But  be  it  so !  Shadow,  pass  on  I 

[The  Phantom  of  JqUim  Caesar  disappears. 

Arnold.  And  can  it 
Be,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone 
And  left  no  footstep? 

Stranger.  There  you  err.  His  substance 
Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory ; 
But  for  his  shadow,  'tis  no  more  than  yours. 
Except  a  little  longer  and  less  crooked 
r  the  sun.  Behold  another!  [a  second  Phantom  passes. 

Arnold.  Who  is  he? 

Stranger.  He  was  the  feirest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.  Look  upon  him  well. 

Arnold.  He  is 
More  lovely  than  the  last  How  beautiful! 

Stranger.  Such  was  thecurledson  of  Clinias ;  — wouldst 
Invest  thee  with  his  form  ?  [thou 

Arnold.  Would  that  I  had 
Been  born  with  it!  But  since  I  may  choose  further, 

I  will  look  further.  [The  Shade  or Alcibladcs  disappears. 

Stranger.  Lo!  Behold  again! 

Arnold.  What !  tliat  low,  swarthy,  short-nosed,  round* 
eyed  satyr. 
With  the  i^ide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect. 
The  splay  feet  and  low  stature !  I  had  better 
Remain  that  which  I  am. 

Stranger.  And  yet  he  was 
The  eardi's  perfection  of  all  moital  beauty, 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
Bitt  you  reject  him? 

Arnold.  If  his  form  could  bring  me 
That  which  redeemed  it  —  no. 

Stranger.  I  have  no  power 
To  promise  that;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

Arnold.  No.  I  was  not  bom  for  philosophy. 
Though  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on't 
Let  him  fleet  on. 

Stranger.  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker ! 

[The  Shadow  of  Socrates  disappears:  another  rlros. 

Arnold.   Whaf  s  here?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose 
And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules,  [curly  beard 

Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  Puiger  of  the  infernal  world, 
Tifanjng  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest, 
As  if  he  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 
For  whom  he  had  fought 

Stranger.  It  was  the  man  who  lost 
The  andent  world  for  love. 

Arnold.  I  cannot  blame  him, 
Since  I  have  risk*d  my  soul  because  I  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Stranger.  Since  so  far 
You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features? 

Arnold.  No.  As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
32* 


506 


TfjiB  JXBFOBMMD  TRANSPQRMBIX 


Acr« 


Have  aecu  else  oa  this  side  of  the  diin  shore 
Whence  thejr  float  kmck  before  us. 

Stranger,  Hence,  Triumvir ! 
Thy  Cleopatra 's  waiting. 

[The  Shade  •tAnfh»nydimfpnm  u«lh«r  ritct* 

Arnold.  Who  is  this? 
Who  truly  looketh  like  a  demigod, 
Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature, 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays  <—  a  something 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  stilL 
Was  he  e'er  human  only? 

Stranger,  Let  the  earth  speak, 
If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  eyeki 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  formed  his  urn. 

Arnold.  Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind  i 

Strainer,  The  shame 
Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war  >— 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

Arnold,  Yet  one  shadow  more. 

jSfronjgrer.CaiidressiDg  the  Shadow).  Get  thee  to  Lamia^s  lap! 
CTha  Skada  of  D«inccriaB  Poliorcctes  vanlakcs:  another  rtseik 

Stranger,  Til  fit  you  still, 
Fear  not,  mj  hunchback.  If  the  shadows  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 
I'll  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 
Your  soul  be  reoonciled  to  her  new  garment 

Arnold,  Content !  I  will  fix  here. 

Stranger,  I  must  commend 
Your  choice.  The  god-like  son  of  the  sea-goddess, 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber- waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus,  roll'd  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Softened  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 
All  vowed  to  Sperobias  as  they  were  —  behold  them ! 
And  Aim  —  as  he  stood  by  Polixena, 
With  sanctioned  and  with  soften'd  love,  before 
The  altar,  gasing  on  his  Trojan  bride. 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.  80 
He  stood  i'  the  temple  I  Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  look'd  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  fleWk 

Arnold,  Igaseuponhim 
As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelop  mine. 

Stranger,  You  have  done  well.  The  greatest 
Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremest  beauty,  if  the  proverb's  troe 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

Arnold,  Come!  Be  quick! 
I  am  impatient 

Stranger,  As  a  youthful  beauty 
Before  her  glass.   You  both  see  what  is  not. 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 


Arnold.  Must  I  wait? 

Stranger.  No;  that  were  a  pity.  But  a  word  or  two: 
His  stature  is  twelve  ouhitss  would  you  so  far 
Outstep  thase  liflM8»  and  be  a  Titen?  Or 
(To  talk  canonically)  wax  a  son 
OfAnak? 

Arnold.  Why  not? 

Stramgen  Glorious  ambition! 
I  love  thee  most  in  dwarfs,  A  mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  lo  a  slight  David  ; 
But  thou,  my  manikin,  wouldst  soar  a  show 
Rather  than  hero.  Thou  sbalt  be  indulged. 
If  such  be  thy  denre,*  and  yet  by  being 
A  little  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more ;  for  alt 
Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 
A  new  found  mammoth ;  and  their  oaraed  ei^;ine?. 
Their  culverins  and  so  forth,  would  find  way 
Through  our  friend's  armour  there,  with  greater  ease 
Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  heel 
Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptise 
In  Styx. 

Arnold,  Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deemal  best 

Stranger,  Thou  shalt  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  (bou 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and  —  [secst, 

Arnold.  I  ask  not 
For  valour,  since  deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal  — 
Aye,  the  superior  of  the  rest  There  is 
A  spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  tliat  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  oompensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  tlio  smiles  of  Fortune, 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them. 

Stranger.   Well  spoken  I   And  thou  doubtless  wilt 
Formed  as  thou  art  ?  I  may  dismiss  the  mould    [Fcinain 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  incase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  bo  less 
Without  it? 

Arnold.  Had  no  power  presented  me 
The  possibility  of  change,  I  would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may,  to  make 
Its  way,  with  all  deformity's  dull,  deadly. 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain, 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  Moulders  — 
A  hateful  and  unsightly  molehill  to 
The  eyes  of  happier  man.  I  would  have  looked 
On  beauty  in  that  sex,  which  is  the  type 
Of  all  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiftil 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigfi  > 
Not  of  love,  but  despair ;  nor  sought  to  win, 
Though  to  a  heart  all  love,  what  could  not  k>ve  me 
In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  clog 
Which  makes  me  lonely.   Nay,  I  could  have  home 
It  all,  had  not  my  motiier  spumed  me  from  her. 
The  she-bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shape ;  —  my  dam  beheld  my  shape  wa^  hopeless. 
Had  she  exposed  me,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 


k0T  u 


THB  PSFOBMSP  TRANSPORMBD 


507 


L  knew  the  pauioiiatepart  of  lifi^  I  had 
ieen  a  dod  of  the  valley,  —  happier  nothing 
rhan  Mfhat  I  am.  But  even  thus,  the  lowest, 
Jgl^t,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  courage 
knd  perseverance  could  have  done,  perchance 
Sad  made  me  something  —  as  it  has  made  heroes 
Df  the  same  mould  as  mine.  You  lately  saw  me 
ICastcr  of  my  own  life,  and  quick  to  quit  it, 
hMkd  he  who  is  so,  is  the  master  of 
Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

SiroH^^r,  Decide  between 
What  you  have  hcen,  or  will  be. 

AmaltL  1  have  done  so. 
Ton  have  open'd  brighter  prospects  to  my  eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart  As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  fear'd,  admired,  respected,  loved 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.  As  tliou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Haste  I  haste! 

Shrmnjfer,  And  what  shall /wear  T 

Arnold,  Surely  he 
Who  can  command  all  forms,  will  choose  the  highest. 
Something  superior  even  to  that  which  was 
Pelidea  now  before  us.  Perhaps  hit 
Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris :  or  —  still  higher  — 
The  poet's  God,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  arc 
Themselves  a  poetry. 

Stranger.  Less  will  content  me ; 
For  I  too  love  a  change. 

Arnold,  Your  aspect  is 
Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

Stranger,  If  I  chose, 
I  might  be  whiter ;  but  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black  —  it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 
Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with  fear : 
But  I  have  worn  it  long  enough  of  late, 
And  now  I'll  take  your  figure. 

Arnold,  Mine! 

Stranger,  Yes.  You 
Shall  change  with  Thetis'  son,  and  I  with  Bertha 
Your  mother's  oflspring.  People  have  their  tastes ; 
You  have  yours  —  I  mine. 

Arnold,  Despatch!  despatch! 

Strm^er,  Bvcaso. 

[The  Smngm'  take*  Mmie  earth  and  mooldi  U  altng  the  tarf,  and 
IhCD  addreaMe  the  Phantom  of  AcfalUec 

Beautiful  Shadow 

OfThetis'sboy! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 

Whose  grass  grows  o'er  Troy: 
From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam, 

Thy  likeness  I  shape. 
As  the  Being  who  made  hun. 

Whose  actions  1  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  glowing, 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing. 

It  wears  its  first  streak ! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter, 

Now  torn  into  eyes ! 


And  thou  sunshiny  wafer, 

Of  blood  take  the  guisel 
Let  these  hyacinth-boughs 

Be  his  long,  flowing  hair. 
And  wave  o'er  his  brows, 

As  thou  wavest  in  air! 
Let  his  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak  I 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
Thelily-root  sorest, 

And  drank  the  best  dew  ! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound ! 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found! 
Blements,  near  me. 

Be  mingled  and  stirred, 
Know  me,  and  hear  me,  « 

And  leap  to  my  word ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation! 
'Tisdone!  He  hath  taken 

His  stand  in  Creation! 

[Arnold  lattfl  Mnseleaa;  hit  mmI  passes  Solo  (he  ahape  of  Achillea 
which  rises  from  the  ground;  while  the  Phantom  haa  disappeared, 
part  by  part,  as  the  figure  was  formed  from  tlie  curth. 

Amold,Hn  bU  new «mv).  I  love,  and  I  shall  be  beloved! 
it  last  I  feel  thee!  Glorious  spirit!  [Oh  life! 

Strof^er,  Stop! 
What  shall  become  of  your  abandoned  garment, 
Your  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness. 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were? 

Arnold.  Who  cares!  Let  wolves 
And  vultures  take  it,  if  they  wilt 

Stranger,  And  if 
They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you'll  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i' the  fields. 

Arnold.  Let  us  but  leave  it  thcre> 
No  matter  what  becomes  on't 

Stranger*  Tiiat's  ungracious, 
If  not  ungrateful.  Whatsoe'er  it  be. 
It  hath  sustained  your  soul  foXk  nuiny  a  day. 

Arnold,  Aye,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  be. 

Stranger,  But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.  For  they 
Who  make  men  without  women's  aid,  have  lo»^ 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 
Your  interlopers*  The  devil  may  take  men, 
Not  make  them,  —  thougii  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship :  *-  and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  assume  tiie  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

Arnold,  Who  would  do  so  ? 

Stranger,  That  I  know  not, 
And  therefore  I  mast 

Arnold,  You! 


508 


THB  BEFORBCBD  TRANSFORMBD. 


ACTB  I 


Stranger,  Igaiditere 
You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beaaty. 

Arnold,  True.  I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

Stranger,  In  a  few  moments 
I  will  be  as  yon  were,  and  yon  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 
Arnold,  I  would  be  spared  this. 
Stranger,  But  it  cannot  be. 
What!  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were? 
Arnold,  Do  as  thou  wilt 

Stranger,{to  the  iMte  fonn  of  Arnold  extended  on  tbe  terlh). 
Clay !  not  dead,  but  soul-less ! 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee. 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  tbee. 
Clay  thou  art ;  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit 

Fire!  wkhout  which  nought  can  live ; 
Fire!  but  in  which  nought  can  liTC, 

Saye  the  feblcd  salamander. 

Or  immortal  souls  which  wander, 
Praying  what  doth  not  forgive, 
Howling  for  a  drop  of  water. 

Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot: 
Fire !  the  only  element 

Where  nor  fish,  beast,  bird,  nor  worm, 
Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not. 

Can  preserve  a  moment's  form. 
But  must  with  thyself  be  blent: 
Fire !  man's  safeguard  and  his  slaughter! 
Fire!  Creation's  first  bom  daughter, 

And  Destruction's  threatened  son. 

When  Heaven  with  the  world  hath  done : 
Fire!  assist  me  to  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 

Stiff  and  oold! 
His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you ! 
One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame  — 
And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same; 

But  I  his  spirif  s  plaoe  shall  hold ! 
[An  Ignit-flttnaa  fllu  through  the  irood,  end  rettt  on  the  brow  of  the 
hody.  The  StranccrdlMppetra:  the  body  riief. 

Arnold,  (inhto  new  form).  Oh !  horrible ! 

Stranger,  (in  Arnold's  late  ahepeXWhatl  tremblest  thOQ  ? 

Arnold,  Not  so  — ' 
I  merely  shudder.  Where  is  lied  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest? 

Stranger,  To  the  world  of  shadows. 
But  let  us  thread  the  present  Whither  wilt  thoo  T 

Arnold,  Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 

Stranger,  Wherefore  not? 
Your  betters  keep  worse  company. 

Arnold,  iify  betters  I 

Stranger.  Oh!  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  yoornewlbrm: 
I'm  glad  of  that  Ungrateful  too  1  That's  well ; 
You  improve  apace :  —  two  changes  in  an  instant. 
And  you  are  old  in  the  world's  ways  already. 
But  bear  with  me:  indeed  yon'U  find  me  useAil 


Upon  your  pilgrimage.  But  oome,  prooounoe 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant? 

Arnold.  Where  the  world 
Is  thickest,  that  I  may  bdiold  H  in 
Its  workings. 

Stranger,  That's  to  say,  where  there  is  war 
And  woman  in  activity.  Lef  s  see  1» 
Spain  —  Italy  <—  the  new  Atiantie  world  — 
Afric  with  all  its  Moors.  In  very  truth. 
There  is  small  choice ;  the  whole  race  are  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  eadi  other's  hearts. 

Arnold.  I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

Stranger.  A  goodly  choice  — 
And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth, 
Since  Sodom  was  put  out  The  field  is  wide  too; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  acton 
Of  the  old  Vandals  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  worid's  garden. 

Arnold.  How 
Shall  we  proceed? 

Stranger.  Likegal]ants,ongoodooiir8ers. 
What  ho  I  my  chargers !  Never  yet  were  better. 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
Our  pages  tool 

Enter  two  P^fet,  with  foor  coal-bUck  Horses. 

Arnold.  A  noble  sight! 

Stranger,  And  of 
A  nobler  breed.  Match  me  in  Barbary, 
Or  your  Kochlini  raceofAraby, 
With  these! 

Arnold,  The  mighty  stream,  which  volumes  high 
From  their  proud  nostrils,  bums  the  very  air ; 
And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 
Around  their  maneS,  as  common  insects  swann 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sunaet 

Strainer.  Mount,  my  lord: 
They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

Arnold,  And  these. 
Our  dark-eyed  pages  —  what  may  be  their  names  ! 

Strmtger.  You  shall  baptise  them. 

Arnold,  What  I  in  holy  water? 

Stranger,  Why  not  1  The  deeper  sinner,  bett 

Arnold,  They  are  beautiful,  and  cannoty  aur^  be  de^ 
mons. 

Stranger.  True;  the  Devil's  always  ugly;  and  jour 
Is  never  diabolical.  [beau^ 

Arnold.  I'll  oaU  him 
Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  audi  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon;  for  be  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest 
And  never  found  till  now.  And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not. 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night. 
He  shall  be  Memnon^  from  the  Bthiop  king 
Whose  statue  tunis  a  harper  once  a  day. 
And  you  ? 

Stranger,  I  have  toi  thousand  namea,  and  twice 
As  many  attributes :  but  as  I  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 


ftCT  I. 


THB  DBFORMBD  TRAKSFORMSD. 


509 


Arnold,  More  haman  than  the  shape  (though  it  was 
Itmst  [mineottoe) 

Sirmn^^er,  Thm  call  me  Csesar. 
Amoid,  Why,  that  name 
Bdongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
Bj  the  world's  lords. 

Sh'anper,  And  therefore  fittest  for 
The  Devil  in  disguise  —  sinoe  so  yon  deem  me, 
Unless  you  call  me  Pope  instead. 

Arnold.  WeUthen, 
Caesar  thou  Shalt  be.  For  myself^  my  name 
SbMil  be  plam  Arnold  stilL 

Gnar.  We'll  add  a  title — 
'■Coont  Arnold :''  it  hath  no  ungradous  sound. 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 
Arnold.  Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 
CWmr. (tings}.  To  horse!  to  horse!  my  coal-black  steed 
Paws  the  ground  and  snuffs  the  air; 
There's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 

More  knows  whom  he  must  bear! 
On  the  hill  he  will  not  tire. 
Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher; 
In  the  marsh  he  will  not  slacken, 
On  the  plain  be  overtaken; 
In  the  wave  he  will  not  sink. 
Nor  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drink; 
In  the  race  he  will  not  pant. 
In  the  combat  he'll  not  fidnt; 
On  the  stones  he  will  not  stumble. 
Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble; 
In  the  stall  he  will  not  stiffen, 
But  be  winged  as  a  CMffln, 
Only  flying  with  his  feet : 
And  will  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet? 
Merrily !  merrilly  I  never  unsound, 
Shall  out  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the  ground ! 
From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  fly  I 
For  we'll  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of  an  eye. 

CThey  movnc  their  honei^  and  diMppmr. 

SCENB  n. 

X.  Canp  before  the  Walla  of  Rome. 
Abiioia  end  Cjmab. 

Ommr,  Yon  are  well  entered  now. 

Amoid.  Aye;  but  my  path 
Eu  been  o'er  carcasses:  nune  eyes  are  foil 
Of  blood. 

Cmitnr.  Then  wipe  them,  and  see  clearly.  Why! 
Thoa  art  a  conqueror ;  the  ebosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  BourboUy 
Late  Constable  of  France;  and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  city  which  hath  been  earth's  lord 
Under  its  emperor's,  and  —  changing  sex. 
Not  sceptre,  an  hermaphrodite  of  empire  — 
JUi^oftheOldWorid. 

Amoid.  How  oid?Wltmt  1  are  tiiere 
Ntw  worlds? 

Ctumr.  To  you.  You'll  find  there  are  such  shortly. 
By  flieir  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold ; 
From  <Nie  JUj^of  the  world  named  a  wkoie  new  one^ 


Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 

Amoid.  ru  trust  tliem. 

Cmtar.  Do  1  They  will  deceive  you  sweetly, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Amoid.  I>ogl 

Cmtar.  Man! 

Arnold.  Devil! 

Caiar.  Your  obedient,  humble  servant. 

Arnold.  Say  AfatTtfr  rather.  Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

Ctuar.  And  where  wouldstUoic  be? 

Arnold.  Oh,  at  peace  —  in  peace! 

Cmior.  And  where  is  that  which  is  so  ?  From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion;  and 
In  life  commotion  is  the  extremest  point 
Of  life.  The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and,  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out  The  poor  worm  winds  its  way. 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  things. 
But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fixed  necessity :  against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not 

Arnold.  And  when  it  prospers — 

Cwor.  'Tis  no  rebellion. 

Arnold.  Will  it  prosper  now? 

CtBsmr.  The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assault, 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

Amoid.  Alas! 
And  shall  the  City  yield?  I  see  the  giant* 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  Saint, 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross, 
Which  his  blood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
God  and  God's  Son,  man's  sol6  and  only  refuge). 

C^$€ir.  'Tis  there,  and  shall  be. 

Arnold.  What? 

Cmar.  The  Crucifix 
Above,  and  many  altar-shrines  bdow. 
Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls, 
And  harquebusses,  and  what  not;  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  deatli 
Of  other  men. 

Arnold.  And  those  scarce  mortal  arohes, 
Hie  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall. 
The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  subjects 
(Those  subjects  Romani)  stood  at  gace  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tnsky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena  (as  right  well  they  might. 
When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  nnooiiquered) ; 
Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Daciamen  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastime,  and  <<Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator !"  —  Must  it  fall  ? 

CtfMT.  The  city,  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 


510 


THE  BJBFORMfiD  TRANSFORMBD, 


Acrt 


The  church,  or  one,  or  all?  for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  mc. 

Arnold,  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 
With  the  first  cock-crow. 

Catar,  Which,  if  it  end  with 
The  evening's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges : 
For  men  must  have  tlieir  prey  after  long  toil. 

Arnold,  The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifully,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 

CtBsar,  I  saw  him, 

Arnold,  You! 

Oesar.  Yes,  Sir.  You  forget  I  am  or  was 
Spirit,  till  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a  worse  name.  I'm  Caesar  and  a  huncli-back 
Now.  Well !  the  first  of  Caesars  was  a  bald-head. 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 
(So  history  says)  than  as  glory.  Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  we'll  be  merry  stilL 
I  saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own  twin,  quick-born  of  the  same  womb. 
Because  he  leapt  a  ditch  ('twas  then  no  waU 
Whatever  it  now  be) ;  and  Rome's  earliest  cement 
Was  brother's  blood;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e'er  'twas  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
TIlc  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  tlie  earth, 
Which  the  great  robber*sons  of  Fratricide 
Have  made  their  never -ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
For  ages. 

Arnold*  But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace. 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  siui3lune  of 
Piety? 

Ceesar,  And  what  had  the^f  done,  whom  the  old 
Romans  o'crswept?  —  Hark  I 

Arnold,  They  are  soldiers  singing 
A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 
Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

Casar,  And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as  swans  ? 
They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

Arnold,  So,  you  are  learn'd, 
I  see,  too. 

Qetar,  In  my  grammar,  oertea.  I 
Was  educated  for  a  monk  of  all  times, 
And  once  I  wa^  well  versed  in  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and  —  were  I  so  minded  — 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

Arnold,  And  wherefore  do  you  not? 

Casar.  It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.  X4kc  your  statesman, 
And  prophet,  pontifl,  doctor,  alchymist. 
Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels  without  new  dispersion,  than 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  Flood's  dull  ooae, 
Who  fail'd  and  fled  each  other.  Why  ?  why,  marry. 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbour. 
They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.  Nay,  it  is  their  brotiierhood. 


Their  Shibboleth,  their  Kor«a,  Talorad,  tfaeir 
Cabala;  their  best  brick -work  wherewithal 
They  build  more  — 

Amold^dutgnnftiog  bta).  Oh,  tboQ  evetlastiiig 
Be  silent!  How  the  soldiers'  roaj^  strain 
Softened  by  distance  to  a  hymn  -  like  cadence  1 
Listen! 

Ctuar.  Yes.  I  have  heard  the  angels  siiig. 

AmokL  And  demons  bowL 

Ceuar,  And  man  too.  Let  us  listen: 
I  love  all  music 

Song  of  the  SokUors  within. 

The  Black  Bands  came  over 

The  Alps  and  their  snow ; 
With  Bourbon,  the  rover. 

They  past  the  broad  Po. 
We  have  beaten  all  foemcn, 

We  have  captured  a  king* 
We  have  turned  back  on  no  mtsa, 

And  so  let  us  sing! 
Here's  the  Bourbon  for  ever ! 

Though  pennyless  all. 
We'll  have  one  more  eadeavoor 

At  yonder  old  walk 
Witli  the  Bourbon  we'll  gather 

At  day -dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 

Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :  on  the  ladder 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot. 
Our  shout  shall  grow  gladder. 

And  death  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we'll  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shaU  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up!  up!  with  the  lily! 

And  down  with  the  keys ! 
In  old  Rome,  the  Seven-hilly, 

We'll  revel  at  ease. 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory, 

Her  Tiber  all  red, 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clang  with  our  tread. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon!  the  Bourbon! 

The  Bonrbon  for  aye ! 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burthen ! 

And  fire,  fire  awi^l 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard. 

Our  varied  host  comes; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 

Beat  Germany's  dnimsj 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couched  at  their  mother ; 
But  our  leader  from  France  ia» 

Who  warred  with  his  brother. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon !  the  Bourbon ! 

Sans  country  or  home^ 
We'U  follow  the  Bourbon, 

To  plunder  old  Rorne^ 


wr  L 


THE  DBFORMBD  TRANSFORMED: 


511 


Cmutr.  AniiidifferaitMmg: 
For  those  within  the  walls»  methifiks,  to  hear. 

AnuUtL  Yea,  if  they  keep  to  their  cfaora8«  Bat  here 
rhe  General  with  his  chiefa  aad  men  of  tnist  [oomes 
A  goodly  rebel  1 

Xolcr  the  GoBitable  Bovagon,  oon  ••!•. 

PkUihert  How  now,  noble  Prince, 
Ton  are  not  cheerf ol  ? 

Baurhan.  Why  should  I  be  so  f 

PhiL  Upon  the  ere  of  conquest  snoh  as  onri, 
If  ost  men  would  be  so. 

Bourbon,  If  I  wereseearel  [mant, 

PkiL  Doubt  not  oar  soldiers.  Were  the  walls  of  ada- 
They'd  crack  them.  Hunger  is  a  sharp  artillery. 

Bourbcn.  That  they  will  (alter  is  my  least  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on  -^  were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  g^ard  them  like  the  Gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans;  — 
But  now  — 

PkiL  They  are  but  mea  who  war  with  mortals. 

Bourbon,  True:  but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits*  The  past  earth         [ages, 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors ;  and  metliinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart, 
And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands. 
And  beckon  me  away ! 

PhiL  So  let  them  I  Wilt  thou 
Turn  back  from  shadowy  menaces  of  shadows? 

Bourbon.  They  do  not  menace  me.  I  could  have  faced, 
Methinks,  a  Sylla's  menace;  but  they  ckwp 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  fiMses  and  fixed  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.  Look  there  1 

PhiL  lk>okupon 
A  lofty  battlement 

Bourbon.  And  there  I 

PhiL  Not  even 
A  guard  in  nght;  they  wisely  keep  below. 
Sheltered  by  the  gray  parapet,  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practise  in  the  cool  twilight 

Bourbon.  You  are  blind. 

PJmL  If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

Bourbon,  A  thousand  years  have  manned  the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes,  —  the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  boivels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave. 
And  the  first  C«3sar  with  Ids  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement 

PhiL  Then  conquer 
The  walls  for  which  he  conquered,  and  be  greater! 

Bourbon.  True :  so  I  will,  or  perish. 

PkiL  You  can  not 
b  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 


Coont  Arnold  and  Ojuah  advsuee. 

Cmor*  And  the  mere  men— do  they  too  sweat  beneath 
The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory? 

Bourbon.  All  1 
Welcome  the  bitter  Hunchback!  and  his  Master, 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.  We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

Ctesar.  You  will  find, 
So  please  your  Highness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

Bourbon.  And  if  I  do,  there  will  not  be  a  labourer 
More  fcMTward,  Hunchbadcl 

Cannr*  You  may  well  say  so, 
For  you  have  seen  that  back  —  as  general, 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action  •—  but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it 

Bourbon.  Thafs  a  fidr  retort, 
For  I  provoked  it:  —  but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  for  advanced 
In  danger's  fooe  as  yours,  were  you  the  DetiL 

CiBsar.  And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  ocHnlng  here. 

PhiL  Whyio? 

CtBtar.  One  half  \ 

Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent, 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

Bourbon.  Arnold,  your 
Slight  crooked  friend 's  as  snake-like  in  his  words 
As  his  deeds. 

C<B9ar.  Your  Highness  much  mistakes  me. 
The  first  snake  was  a  flatterer  —  I  am  none; 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stung,     [and  quick 

Bourbon.  You  are  brave,  and  that's  enough  for  me ; 
In  speech  as  sharp  in  action  —  and  that's  more. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 

CkBsar.  They  are  but  bad  company,  your  Highness ; 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

PhiL  How  now,  fellow ! 
Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buffoon. 

G»#ar.  You  mean,  I  speak  the  truth. 
I'll  lie  -*  it  is  as  easy :  then  you'll  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

Bourbon.  Philibcrt! 
Let  him  alone;  he's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first  with  that  swart  face  and  mountiun-shoulder 
In  field  or  storm,  and  patient  in  starvation ; 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  full  of  licence. 
And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogne 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  mere  fomished,  sullen,  grumbling  slave. 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal, 
And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravcdis, 
With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

C^otar,  It  would  be  well 
If  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 


51« 


THE  DBFORHED  TRANSPORICBD. 


acrm 


Bourbon.  Be  silent  t 

Casar*  Aye,  but  not  idle.  Work  yourself  with  words! 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Phil,  What  means  the  audacious  prater? 

(UBsar.  To  prate,  like  other  prophets. 

Bourbon.  Phiiibert! 
Why  will  you  vex  him  ?  Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on?  Arnold !  I  will  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 

Arnold.  I  have  heard  as  much,  my  Lord* 

Bourbon.  And  yon  will  follow? 

Arnold.  Since  I  must  not  lead. 

Bourbon,  'Tis  necessary  for  the  further  danag 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step, 

Ctesar.  Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope: 
So  shall  he  have  his  full  deaerta. 

Bourbon.  The  world's 
Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  seven  -hilled  city  hath 
Retained  her  sway  o'er  nations,  and  the  Caesars 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiifs.  Roman,  Goth,  or  priest, 
Still  the  world's  masters  1  Civilized,  barbarian, 
Or  saintly,  still  the  wails  of  Romulus 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.  Well! 
'Twas  their  turn  —  now  'tis  ours;  and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better. 

CtBtar.  No  doubt,  the  camp's  the  school  of  civic  rights. 
What  would  yon  make  of  Rome? 

Bourbon.  That  which  it  was. 

CevMir.  In  AUuric'stime? 

Bourbon.  No,  slave!  In  the  first  Csesar's, 
Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  ours. 

CiBsar.  And  kings. 
'Tis  a  great  name  for  bloodhounds. 

Bourbon.  There's  a  demon 
In  that  fierce  rattle  -  snake,  thy  tongue.  Wilt  never 
Be  serious? 

CtBsor,  On  the  eve  of  battle,  no;  — 
That  were  not  soldier-  like.  'Tis'for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive:  we  adventurers 


Must  be  more  cheefftil.  Wfaerefece  should  wet 
Our  tutelar  deity^  in  a  ieader^s  shape. 
Takes  care  of  us.  Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosts! 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Bourbon,  You  may  sneer,  since 
'Us  lucky  for  you  that  yon  fight  no  worse  for't. 

Gafiir.  I  thank  you  for  the  freedom ;  'tis  the  only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

Bourbon.  Well,  sir,  to-morrow  yon  shall  pay  yomaeC 
Look  on  those  towers;  they  hold  my  treasury. 
But,  Phiiibert,  we'll  in  to  oounciL  Arnold, 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

Arnold.  Prince!  my  swvice 
Is  yours,  as  in  the  field 

Bourbon.  In  both  we  prise  it, 
And  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  daybreak. 

GcMar.  And  mine? 

Bourbon.  To  fi>Uow  glory  with  the  BourlMm. 
Good  night  1 

Arnold,  (to  Canr).  Prepare  our  armour  for  the  assaol^ 
And  wait  within  my  tent 

[BjmtoC  BowbOB,  JLmdId,  Ailibtft,  etc 
Cm$ar.(Mu»}.  Widiin  thy  tent! 
Thinkst  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  with  my  presence  ? 
Or  that  this  crooked  coffer,  whidi  oontained 
Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 
Except  a  mask  ?  And  these  are  men,  forsooth ! 
Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adam's  bastards! 
This  is  the  consequence  of  giving  matter 
The  power  of  thought  It  is  a  stubborn  substaoee, 
And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts. 
Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elanents« 
Well!  I  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets:  'tis 
The  spirif  s  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 
Whoi  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 
Amongst  ihe  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures  deem 
Were  made  for  them  to  look  at  'Twere  a  jest  now 
To  bring  one  down  amongst  them  and  set  fiire 
Unto  their  ant-hill:  how  the  pismires  then 
Would  scamper  o'er  the  scaldiflg  soil,  and,  oeasing 
From  tearing  down  each  others'  nests,  pipe  forth 
One  universal  orison  I  Ha!  hal  [Bafc€to« 


ACT      IL 


SCENE  I. 

Before  the  Vfr'alls  of  Rome.  The  assault}  the  army  In  motiOBj  with  bid- 

deri  to  scale  the  walls;  Bousbon,  with  a  white  scarf  over  his  an&ovr, 

foremost 

Choras  of  Spirits  In  the  air. 
'Tb  the  mom,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sunf 


Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy : 
But  without  there  is  a  din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within. 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 
Oh  ye  seven  hills !  awaken, 
Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken ! 


IffU. 


THS  0i9ORMBI>  TRi^SFORMBD. 


513 


Hearken-tolhe-ileady  Mamp! 

Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp  I 

Not  a  step  is  eat  of  tune, 

As  the  tides  obey  the  mooni 

On  they  march,  thoogrh  to  self-shuigliter, 

Begnlar  as  rolling  water. 

Whose  high  waves  o'ersvre^  tiie  border 

Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  order. 

Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 

Hearken  to  the  armour's  clank! 

Look  down  o'er  each  frowning  warrior, 

How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier; 

Look  on  each  step  of  each  ladder, 

As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 

Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Mann'd  without  an  interval ! 
Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear. 
Lit  match,  beli-*mouth'd  musquetoon. 
Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon. 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold, 
In  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new, 
Gather  like  a  locusts'  crew. 
Shade  of  Remus  I  'tis  a  time 
Awftd  as  thy  brother's  crime! 
ChfistiaBS  war  agamst  Christ's  shrine :  — 
Hast  its  tot  be  like  to  thine  ? 

Near  —  and  near  —  and  nearer  still, 

As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill. 

First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion, 

Like  a  scarce -awaken'd  ocean. 

Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder. 

Till  the  rocks  are  crash'd  to  powder,  — 

Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host! 

Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast! 

Mighty  Chiefii!  Btemal  Shadows! 

First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 

Which  encompass  Rome,  themother 

Of  a  people  without  brother ! 

Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 

Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels? 

Ye  who  wept  o*erCarthageburmng, 

Weep  not  —  ttrHU/  for  Rome  is  mourning ! 

Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations. 
To  the  wall,  with  Hate  and  Hunger, 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger. 
On  they  sweep.  Oh!  glorious  eity, 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  I 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire^  each  Roman! 
Ahiric  was  a  gentle  foeman, 
Match'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  City! 
Rouse  thee!  Rather  give  the  torch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  porch, 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Tour  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot 


Ah!  behold  yon  bleeding  speetre! 
Ilion's  children  find  no  Hector; 
Priam's  ofispring  loved  their  brother; 
Rome's  great  sire  forgot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin. 
With  inexpiable  sin. 
See  the  giant -shadow  stride 
O'er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide ! 
When  he  first  o'erieapt  thy  wall, 
Its  foundation  monrn'd  thy  fall. 
Now,  though  towering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  d<Hne, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome ! 

Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger : 
Fire,  and  smoke,  and  hellish  clangour 
Are  around  thee,  thou  worid's  wonder  I 
I>eath  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 
Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes ; 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes. 
With  its  iron  load  aH  gleaming, 
Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming! 
Up  again!  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife:  thy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome!  Although  thy  wall  may  perish. 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish, 
Making  gay  the  harvest-  home; 
But  thy  hearths,  alas !  oh,  Rome !  — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish. 
Fight  as  ^ou  wast  wont  to  vanquish ! 

Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates! 

Let  not  your  quenched  hearths  be  Afee's! 

Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes. 

Yield  not  to  these  stranger  NeroesI 

Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother, 

Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother : 

'Twas  the  Roman  curb'd  the  Roman:  — 

Brennus  was  a  baffled  foeman. 

Yet  again,  ye  Saints  and  Martyrs, 

Rise,  for  yours  are  holier  charters. 

Mighty  Gods  of  teqaples  falling, 

Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling ! 

Mightier  founders  of  those  altars. 

True  and  Christian,  —  strike  the  assaulters! 

Tiber!  Tiber!  let  thy  torrent 

Show  even  Nature's  self  abhorrent 

Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 

Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited! 

Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  tomb, 

But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome! 


Bovuaon,  Aenold,  C^uab,  and  othert,  •rrive  at  the  foot  of  the  t\«H. 
•  A<liOLi>  i«  about  to  plant  his  ladder. 

Bwrhwi.  Hold,  Arnold:  I  am  first 
Arwi<L  Not  so,  my  Lord. 

Battrhmu  Hold,  sir,  I  chargeyon  1  Follow !  I  am  proud 
33 


514 


THB  DBFORMED  TRAK8FOR]tf£a 


Acrtt 


Of  sacb  t  follower,  bnt  will  brook  no 

CBoBtbOD  pUttU  Ui  Md«r,  uid  bcgfait  to 
Now,  boys!  Onl  on!  [A  shot  itrlk«a  Idm,  ud  Bowbon  lUb. 

Cmsar,  And  off! 

Arnold.  Btcrnal  powers! 
The  host  will  be  appalled.  —  Bat  Tengtaaoe!  Yengeanoe! 

Bourbon,  'Tis  nothing  •»  lend  me  your  hand. 

CBonrboo  Ukcs  Arnold  by  the  hand  andrlMt;  btit  at  ho  pati  hia  foot 
on  the  •tep»  lUls  agua. 

Arnold!  I  am  sped. 
Conceal  my  fall  —  all  will  go  well  **  conceal  it! 
Fling  m  y  cloak  o'er  what  will  be  dost  anon ; 
Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it 

Arnold,  Yon  must  be 
Removed;  the  aid  of — 

Bourbon,  No,  my  gallant  boy; 
Death  is  upon  me.  But  what  is  ono  life? 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 
Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  bat  clay, 
TiJI  they  are  conquerors  —  then  do  as  you  may. 

Ceesar.  Would  not  yoar  highness  dioose  to  kiss  tiie 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  die  hUt  of  sword  [cross  ? 
May  serve  instead :  —  it  did  the  same  for  Bayard, 

Bourbon,  Thou  bitter  slave!  to  name  Aim  at  this  time! 
But  I  deserve  it 

Arnold,  (to  Omof).  Yillahi,  hold  your  peace! 

CtBittr.  What,  when  a  Christian  dies?  Shall  I  not  olj^r 
A  christian  **  Vade  in  pacef' 

Arnold.  Silence!  Oh! 
Those  eyes  are  glazing,  which  o'ertook'd  the  world, 
And  saw  no  equal. 

Bourbon,  Arnold, shonldst thoa see  [Oh! 

France  —  But  hark !  hark!  the  assault  grows  warmer  — 
For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life 
To  die  within  the  wall !  Hence,  Arnold!  hence  1 
You  lose  time  —  they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee. 

Arnold,  And  without  fA«e  / 

Bourbon,  Not  so;  Til  lead  them  still 
In  spirit  Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.  Away!  and  be 
Victorious ! 

Arnold,  But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourbon,  Youmust— farewell— Up!  up!  the  world 
is  winning.  CBovboo  dies. 

Casar,  (to  Arnold).  Come,  Count,  to  business. 

Arnold,  True.  I'll  weep  hereafter. 

CArnold  eoven  Bourbon's  body  with  a  mando,  and  moants  the  ladder, 
crying: 

The  Bourbon!  Bourbon!  On  boys!  Romeisoors! 
Cetsar,  Good  night,  Lord  Constable!  thou  wert  a  num. 

[C»5ar  follows  Arnold;    they  reach  the  battlement;  Arnold  and 
CKsar  are  struck  down. 

A  precious  somerset!  Is  your  Countship  injured? 

Arnold,  No.  [Remooats  the  ladder. 

CiBtar.  A  rare  blood -hound,  when  his  own  is  heated ! 
And  'tis  no  boy's-play.  Now  he  strilces  them  down  ! 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement  —  he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar ;  now  his  foot 
Is  on  it,  and — Wliat  have  we  here,  a  Roman  ?   [A  man  luis. 
The  first  bird  of  the  covey!  he  has  fhllen 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest  Why,  how  now,  fellow  ? 


WotmdodMnL  AdropoTwaler 

Obmt.  Blood's  the  only  iiqoid 
Nearer  than  Tiber. 

WotmdodMMn,  I  have  died  for  Rome. 

Cm$mr„  And  so  did  Booibon,  In  another  sem 
Oh  these  inunortal  men !  and  their  great  nMMiv 
Batlmostaftermyyoongdiarge.  Heia 
By  this  time  i' the  fonim.  Chai^!  chaiige! 

fOMnrMoantstbaladdar;  the 

SCENE  n. 


The  City.  —  Combato  between  the  Besieteers  and  Bekic|ed  ia  the  t 
Inhabitants  flying  In  confusion. 


GffMn  I  cannot  find  my  hero;  heisnixed 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  ponue 
The  fagitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperatai 
What  have  we  here?  A  Cardinal  or  two 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper!  Could  tiiej  doff 
Their  hose  as  they  have  dolled  their  hats,  'twould  be 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
Bnt  let  them  fly,  the  crioMoa  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockinga,  aiiioe  ttemiie 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hoe. 

Batw  a  partgr  Afhtinc  —  ASMOiA  at  the  hwd  af  aw  BMtasm. 

HeeoBMS, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins  —  Gore  and  Glory. 
HoUa!  hold,  Count  I 

Arnold,  Away!  they  must  not  rally. 

Casar,  Itell  thee,be  notra^;  a  golden  bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.  I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body, 
But  not  of  mind,  whidi  is  not  mine  to  givcii 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipt  thee  not  in  Styx ;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 
More  than  Felides' heel;  why  tten,bec«iiliOQSi, 
And  know  thyself  a  mfwtal  stilL 

Arnold,  And  who 
With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable?  That  were  pretty  sport 
Thinkst  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar? 

[Arnold  rashes  into  I 

Casar,  Apreeioassampleofhuottaityl 
Well,  his  blood's  up,  and  if  a  little's  shed, 
'Twill  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

CArnold  enf^ges  with  a  Roman,  wlio  rctli«s  towards  a  penka 

Arnold.  Yield  thee,  slave! 
I  promise  quarter. 

Roman.  That's  soon  said. 

Arnold.  And  done  — 
My  word  is  known 

Roman.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

f They  re-ensageb  ftasar  tomt»  »■  nasi 

duar.  Why,  Arnold!  Hold  thine  own;  thou  hast  il 
A  ftmous  artizan,  a  cunning  sculptor ;  {Itmi 

Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 


1HB  DtBFOBMED  TRAMSFORMED. 


515 


|IotM>,nymii«qiieteerj  'twu  be  who  akw 
fhe  Bourbon  from  tbe  w|i]L 

Antalrf.  Ay^didheM? 
Ihea  lie  hath  Gurved  iii»aM>iinDieiit 

R^mmn.  I  yet 
May  lire  to  carve  your  bettera. 

CWjur.  Well  said,  my  man  of  marble  I  Benvenato, 
Thou  hast ftHBei»raetice in  both  ways;  andhe 
Who  slays  CelliBi,  will  have  work'd  as  hard 
As  e'er  thoa  didst  upon  Camura's  blocks. 

[Arnold  dlMmit  ud  iwoand«  OeUfni,  b«t  aligbtly;  tfaa  Itttar  drawi  a 
piilol  nd  lire*;  1km  r«iir«»  wid  disapp«wi  throiigli  th*  portkM. 

Grfor.  How  iarcflt  thou?  Thon  hast  a  taste,  mediinks» 
Of  red  Belkna's  banquet. 

Arnold.  (atau«n)*  'Tis  a  soratoh. 
LendmethyscarC  HeshaUnot'sci^emethvs. 

Cmsmr.  Where  is  it? 

Arnold,  In  tiie  shonider,  not  the  sword-arm. 
And  tiiaf  s  enoqgh*  I  am  thirsty:  wovldlhad 
A  helm  of  water! 

ChsMT.  That* 8  a  liqoid  now 
In  reqidaitton,  bat  by  no  means  easieat 
Tooomeat 

AmoUU  And  my  thirst  inoreasea;  *—  bvt 
rn  fiad  m  wmy  to  qneneh  it 

Cmutr,  Or  be  qnench'd  thyself? 

Arnold.  Thechaniseiaeven;  we  will  throw 
The  dlse  thereon.  Bntllosetimeinptafinff; 
Prithee  be  qoiek*  C(^Mir  Wndt  m  tiw  ictrc 

And  what  dost  thov  «o  idly  ? 
Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

Gttar.  Toor  old  i^ilosophen 
Bdield  mankind,  aa  mere  spedntars  of 
Tbe  Olympie  gamea.  When  I  heboid  a  prise 
Worth  wreatlingibr,  I  may  be  found  a  MUo. 

Arnold.  Aye,  'gtkoMt  an  oak. 

Cmnar.  A  forest,  when  it  sidts  me. 
loombatwltfaamass,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime,  porsue  thy  sport  as  I  do  ndne  t 
WUeh  is  jasi  now  to  gaee,  since  all  these  labowers 
Will  reap  my  hunrest  gratis^ 

Arnold.  Thon  art  still 
A  fiend! 

CWmt.  And  thon --*  a  man. 

Arnold.  ¥niy,  such  I  ftiln  would  show  mCi 

Cmmr,  Tnie —  aa  men  are. 

AmoUL  And  whatls  that? 

Cmor.  Thon  feelest  and  thou  seest 

[Vxit  Arnold,  JotnlDg  la  tbe  ptvUM.  wfakh  still  eotttiMC*  between 
dctoefccd  pftitfM.  Tbe  Seene  eioics. 

SCENE  III. 

SB.  FeMt*!.  ne  Interior  of  tbe  Cbortb.  Tbe  PVfo  «t  tb*  AltM.  fHeiy 

cfowdinc  in  conAiitoo,  end  Citiceni  flying  for  rel\ic^  porsned  by 

Soldiery. 

Btater  CiteAi* 
A  Spmmik  Soldier.  Down  with  them,  oomradesl  sefaie 
npon  those  lamps ! 
dcave  yon  bald-pated  shavelings  to  tite  chine ! 
Bis  rosary's  of  sold  I 


LiUhortM  SoUier^  Revcwgel  Revenge! 
Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now  — 
Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ ! 

Gmat.  (interpoiing).  How  no  w,  Schismatic ! 
What  wonldst  thou? 

Lutkeran  Soldier.  In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 
Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ  I  am  a  Christian. 

GoMor.  Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proselytes.  Best  stint  diyself  to  plunder. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  I  say  he  ia  the  DeviL 

CiMar.  Hash!  keep  that  secret, 
Lest  he  should  recognise  you  for  his  own. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  Why  would  you  save  lum  ?  1  re- 
peat he  is 
The  Devil,  or  the  Devil's  Vicar  nponJBarth. 

Ceeear.  And  thaf  s  the  reason;    would  yon  make  a 
quarrel 
With  your  best  Mends ?  You  had  far  best  be  quiet; 
His  hoar  is  not  yet  come. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  That  shall  be  seen! 

[Tbe  Lmberen  flobller  racbes  forward;  a  shot  atrtkes  bim  from  one 
or  tbe  Pope's  Goarda,  end  be  MU  at  the  foot  of  tbe  Altar. 

Cmear  (to  tbe  Lotheran).  I  told  yon  SO. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  And  will  yon  not  avenge  me? 

Cmear.  Not  I!    You  know  that  ''Vengeance  is  the 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers.  [Lord's : " 

Lutheran  Soldior,  (dyine).  Oh ! 
Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
CrownMwitiK  eternal  glory  1  Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reached  him  not. 
And  take  thy  servant  io  thy  meroy.  'Tis 
A  glorious  triumph  still;  proud  Babylon's 
No  more;  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  fbr  sackcloth 

And  a^es  I  [The  Letberan  diet. 

Ctuar.  Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest 
Well  done,  old  Babell 

[Tbe  Gnards  defond  tbemselvee  deiperatdy,  wfalie  ibe  Fsntiff  escapes 
by  a  private  paieace^  to  tbe  Vadcan  end  tbeCaatle  of  St  ▲ngelo, 

CbfftfT.  Hal  right  nobly  battted  I 
Now,  Priest!  now,  Soldier!  tiie  two  great  professionBt 
Togetfier  by  the  ears  and  hearts  I  Ihavenot 
Seen  a  more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.  But  the  Romans  bad  the  best  then ; 
Now  they  nrast  take  their  turn. 

Soldiers.  He  bath  escaped!  Follow!  [up, 

Another  Soldier.  They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  passage 
And  it  is  clogged  with  dead  even  to  the  door.  [for*t 

Casar.  1  am  glad  he  hath  escaped:  he  may  thank  me 
In  part  I  would  not  have  his  bnils  abolished  — 
'T  were  worth  one  half  our  «nphre :  his  indulgences 
Demand  some  in  return ;  —  no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ; -^  and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  ftandsh 
A  future  mirade,  in  fUtnre  proof 
OfhisinfalUbility.  [To  the  Spam 

Well,Cat-«roatsl 
What  do  you  pause  for?  If  you  make  not  haste. 
There  wiH  not  be  a  link  of  pioos  gold  left: 
And  yoic  too,  Catholics !  Would  ye  retaia 
t  From  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic? 


518 


T&B  raiFmiMBD  TBANOTORiay). 


ACT  & 


ACT     m. 


SCENE    L 

A  C«stie  in  the  Apennines,  rarroonded  by  a  wild  btt<  tmlllDg  country. 
Cbonu  of  PeiMBts  singing  iMforc  (he  0am. 

Chorni. 

The  wars  are  over. 

The  spring  is  oome; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice ; 
Let  thdr  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice! 

The  spring  is  oome;  the  violet's  gone. 

The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun; 

With  us  she  is  bat  a  winter's  flower, 

The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  boweri 

And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 

To  the  youngest  sicy  of  the  self-same  hae. 

And  when  the  spring  oomes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  firoB(  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour  and  virgin  hues. 

Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December  — 
The  morning-star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  day-light's  lengthen^  hours ; 
Nor,  'midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  Violet 

Enter  Cjuab  (singing). 

The  wars  are  all  over. 

Our  swords  arc  all  idle, 

The  steed  bites  the  bridle. 
The  casque's  on  the  wall. 
There's  rest  for  the  rover; 

But  his  armour  is  rusty, 

And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 
He  drinks  —  but  what's  drinking? 


A  mere  pause  from  thinking ! 

No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life-and-death-calL 

Ghoras. 
But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly. 

The  boar 's  in  the  wood. 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest. 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest 
CmMwr,  Oh  !  shadow  of  glory ! 

Dim  image  of  war ! 
But  the  ehase  hath  no  story. 

Her  hero  no  star. 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase. 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder. 

And  quake  for  their  race. 
When  the  lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might. 
Then  Hwas  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fi|^t; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  mammoth. 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  behemoth; 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time. 
The  first-born  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime  I 

Cbonis. 

But  the  wars  are  over, 
The  spring  is  come ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  tlieir  home ; 
They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice ! 

[BxenntflM 


519 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


Long  years !  —  It  tries  the  thriUiiig  frame  to  bear 
And  ea^e-spirit  of  a  child  of  song  — 
Long^  years  of  outrage,  calumny  and  wrong; 
Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude, 
And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 
When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart,  and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 
Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain 
With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain; 
And  bare,  at  once.  Captivity  display'd 
Stands  sooffing  through  the  never-open'd  gate, 
Whidi  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day 
And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 
Till  its  unsocial  bittcniess  is  gone ; 
And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey. 
Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 
Which  is  my  lair,  and  —  it  may  be  —  my  grave . 
All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear. 
But  must  be  home.  I  stoop  not  to  despair; 
For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony. 
And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 
The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon-wall, 
And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall; 
And  reveird  among  men  and  things  divine. 
And  ponr'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 
la  honour  of  the  sacred  war  for  him> 
The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven. 
For  he  hath  streugthenM  me  in  heart  and  limb. 
That  through  this  snfferaooe  I  might  be  forgiven, 
I  have  employed  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem's  shrine  was  won,  and  bow  adored* 

Bnt  this  is  o'er  —  my  pleasant  task  is  done. 
My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years  I 
If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears. 
Know  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 
But  thou,  my  young  creation  I  my  soul's  child  I 
Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled. 
And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet  sight, 
Thou  too  art  gone  —  and  so  is  my  delight: 
And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 
"With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 
Thou  too  art  ended  —  what  is  left  me  now? 
For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear  —  and  howt 
I  know  not  that  —  but  in  the  innate  force 
Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 
I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse. 
Nor  cause  for  such :  they  call'd  me  mad  —  and  why  T 


Oh  Leonora  I  wilt  not  thmi  reply? 

I  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 

To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art; 

But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind; 

I  knew  my  feult,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  because  I  suffer  it  unbent 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind. 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  'tis  their  fhte 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate. 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

Above  me,  hark !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark!  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half  inarticulate  blasphemy! 

Th^e  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenry  foul. 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labour'd  mind, 

And  dim  the  little  light  that's  left  behind 

With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant^  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill: 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have  pass'd; 

'Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close : 

So  let  it  be  —  for  then  I  shall  repose. 

I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet; 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget, 
But  it  revives  —  oh !  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot!  — 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  faisar-  house  of  many  woes? 
Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind. 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  even  men  mankind ; 
Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 
And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell  — 
For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes  — 
Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall. 
Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods ;  — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heeds  his  nei^bour's  call  — 
None !  save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all, 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 
Nor  bound  between  distraction  and  disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here? 


520 


LAMBNT  OF  TASSa 


WIko  have  debased  me  ia  the  minds  of  men, 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career, 
Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear. 
Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again. 
And  teach  them  inward  sorrow's  stifled  groan? 
The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress, 
Which  undermines  oar  stoical  success? 
No !  —  still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive  —  I 
Have  pardon'd  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign  I  for  thy  sake 
I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest; 
Thy  brother  hates  —  but  I  can  not  detest; 
Thou  pitiest  not  —  bat  I  can  not  forsake* 

Look  on  a  love  whidi  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  better  part, 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart 
As  dwells  the  gather'd  lightning  in  its  cloud. 
Encompassed  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud. 
Till  struck,  —  forth  flies  the  all-etherial  darti 
And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame. 
And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me;  —  they  are  gone  —  I  am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station^  and  I  knew 
A  princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,   its  own  reward ; 
And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas! 
Were  punish'd  by  the  silentneas  of  thine. 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 
Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance,  and  around . 
Hallow'd  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  Love 
Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay'd  — 
Oh !  not  dismay'd  —  but  awed,  like  One  above; 
And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass  — 
I  know  not  how  —-  thy  genius  mastered  mine  — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee:  —  if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design. 
That  sad  fotality  hath  cost  me  dear; 
But  thou  art  dearest  stiH,  and  I  should  be 
Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me,  but  for  th^e. 
The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight;  and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustain, 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast. 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  pain. 

It  Is  no  marvel  — -  from  my  very  birth 
My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 
And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth ; 
Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 
Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers. 
And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 


Where  I  did  lay  me  down  widiin  the  shade 
Of  waving  trees,  and  dream'd  unooonted  hours, 
Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering;  and  the  wise 
Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 
Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made, 
And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  woe. 
And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow ; 
And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep. 
But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 
Rcturn'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 
The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 
And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 
With  feeliQgs  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain; 
And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  (me  want. 
But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 
I  found  the  thing  I  sought  —  and  that  was  thee; 
And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 
Absorb'd  in  thine  —  the  world  was  past  af^-ay  — 
JHau  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me ! 

I  loved  all  solitude  —  but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant;  had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  fike  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave; 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave? 
Perchance  'm  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore; 
The  world  is  all  before  him  •—  mhu  is  Aere, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,4ie  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dyuig  glance  upbraid  the  sky  — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof^ 
Although  'tb  clouded  by  my  dungeon -roof. 

Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay :  —  I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine. 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free; 
But  much  to  one,  who  long  hath  suffi&r'd  so. 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place. 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  men. 
But  spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them  ~  all  Barth 
Abandons  —  Heaven  forgets  me;  --  in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can. 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further,  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
like  steel  in  tempering  fire ?  because  I  loved? 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see. 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

I  once  was  ^uick  in  feeling  —  that  is  o'er;  — 
My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 
My  brain  against  these  bars  as  the  sun  flashed 
In  mockery  througb  them ;  —  if  I  bear  and  boie 
The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 
Which  hath  no  words,  'tis  that  I  would  not  die 


THE  VSlOmBCY  OF  BAKTE. 


521 


iDd  Baiic«ioD  ivilb  self-alaiiglitier  the  duU  lie 
nrhicli  soared  me  here^  and  with  the  brand  of  shame 
Stamp  madness  deep  into  my  memory, 
knd  woo  oompassion  to  a  b%hted  name, 
Bealiog*  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 
Vo  —  it  shall  he  immortal !  •—  and  I  make 
A  fatore  temple  of  my  present  cell, 
Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  ray  sake. 
WbUe  thou,  Ferrara  I  when  no  longer  dwell 
The  dacal  chiefe  within  thee,  shalt  ML  down. 
And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls, 
A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown, 
A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  for  renown, 
While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  anpe<^led  walls ! 
And  thou,  Leonora  I  thou  —  who  wert  ashamed 
That  such  as  1  could  Iotc  —  who  blushM  to  hear 
To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  cbuldst  be  dear. 


60!  tell  thy  brother  thatmy  heart,  untamed 

By  grief,  years,  weariness  —  and  it  may  be 

A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me, 

From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this, 

Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss,  — 

Adores  thee.still;  —  and  add  —  that  when  the  towers 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 

Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 

Or  left  nntended  in  a  dull  r^ose, 

This  —  this  shall  be  a  consecrated  spotl 

But  Thou  —  when  ail  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 

Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct  —  shalt  have 

One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 

No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart. 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart 

Yes,  Leonora !  it  shall  be  our  fate 

To  be  entwined  for  ever  —  but  too  late ! 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mysUoil  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

Cakpbci.l. 


DEDICATION. 


L.4DY!  if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 

Where  I  was  bom,  but  where  I  would  not  die. 

Of  the  great  Poet-Sire  of  Italy 

I  dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme. 

Harsh  Runic  copy  of  tlie  South's  sublime. 

Thou  art  the  cause;  and,  howsoever  I 

Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 

Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 


Thou,  in  the  pride  of  beauty  and  of  ]g>uth, 

Spakest  j  and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obeyM 

Are  one;  but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  uttcr'd,  and  such'charms  displayed, 

So  sweet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouth  — 

Ah !  to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade  ? 

Ravenna,  Jane  tl,  1819. 


PREFACB. 


In  the  course  Of  a  visit  to  the  city^f  Ravenna,  in  the 
tommcrof  1819,  it  was  suggested  to  theauthor  that,  having 
nompoaed  something  on  the  subject  of  Tasso's  confine- 
ment, he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's  exile — the  tomb 
of  die  poet  forminf^  one  of  the  principal  objects  of  interest 
in  that  city,  both  to  the  native  and  to  the  straiu[;er. 

''On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the 
ibUowing  four  cantos,  in  tersa  rima,  now  offered  to  the 
reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved,  it  ismy  pur- 
pose to  continue  the  poem  in  various  otlier  cantos  to  its 
natural  conclusioii  in  the  present  age.  The  reader  is  re- 
vested to  suppose  that  Dante  addrease&him  in  the  inter- 
val between  the  oondaatoii  of  the  Divina  Commedia  and 


his  death,  and  shortly  before  the  latter  event,  foretelling 
the  fortunes  of  Italy  in  general  in  the  ensuing  centuries. 
In  adopting  this  plan  I  have  had  in  my  mind  the  Cassan- 
dra of  Lyoophron,  and  the  Prophecy  of  Nerens  by  Horace, 
as  well  as  the  Prophecies  of  Holy  Writ  The  measure 
adopted  is  the  tcrza  rima  of  Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware 
to  have  seen  hitherto  tried  in  our  language,  except  itmay 
be  by  Mr.  Hayley,  of  whose  translation  I  never  saw  but 
one  extract,  quoted  in  the  notes  to  Caliph  Vathek;  so 
that  —  if  I  do  not  err  —  this  poem  may  be  considered  as 
a  metrical  experiment  The  cantos  are  short,  and  about 
the  same  length  of  those  of  the  poet,  whose  name  I  have 
borrowed,  and  most  probably  taken  in  vain. 


522 


THB  FROFHBCY  OF  DANTB. ' 


Amongst  the  inoomrAiieiioet  of  aatttora  in  the  present 
da}',  it  is  difficult  for  any  who  have  a  name,  good  or  bad, 
to  escape  translation.  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  see  the 
fourth  canto  of  ChUde Harold,  translated  intoltalian  versi 
scioiti  -  tliat  is,  a  poem  written  in  the  S^femertmm  $Unu:a 
into  blmnk  v9r$9,  without  regard  to  the  natoral  divisions 
of  the  stanza,  or  of  the  sense.  Iftbe  present  poem,  being 
on  a  national  topic,  shonld  chance  to  undergo  the  same 
fate,  I  would  request  the  Italian  reader  to  remember,  that 
when  I  have  failed  in  the  imitation  of  his  great  <'Padre 
Atighier,"  I  have  failed  in  imitating  that  which  all  study 
and  few  understand,  since  to  this  very  day  it  Is  not  yet 
settled  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  allegory  in  the  first 
panto  of  the  Inferno,  unless  Ckmnt  Marchetti's  ingenious 
and  probable  oonjeeture  may  be  considered  as  having 
decided  the  question. 


osmol 


ilani 


He  may  also  pardon  my  fhllure  Ae  more^ 
quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my 
the  Italians,  with  a  pardonable  nationality,  sure  partiea> 
larly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them  as  a  natiOB  —  ttcirS 
terature ;  and,  in  the  present  bitteniess  of  Hie  oiasiwaDt 
romantic  war,  are  but  ill  disposed  to  pennit  a  forqgaer 
even  to  approve  or  imitate  them,  without  fading  vmt 
fault  with  his  ultramontane  presumption.  I  can  easily  al- 
ter into  all  this,  knowing  what  would  be  Hioagiit  in  &^- 
land  of  an  Italian  imitator  of  Milton,  or  if  a  traaalafiOB  of 
Monti,  or  Pindemonte,  or  Arid,  should  be  held  op  to  Ae 
rising  generation  as  a  model  for  their  ftiture  poeHeal » 
says.  But  I  peiceive  that  I  am  deviating  Into  an  addraa 
to  the  Italian  reader,  when  my  business  is  with  the  Es^- 
lish  one,  and  be  they  few  or  many,  I  must  take  my  Inre 
of  both. 


CANTO     I. 


Oncr  more  in  man's  frail  world!  which  1  had  left 
So  long  that  f  was  foigotten;  and  I  feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again,  ^  too  soon  bereft 

Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 
My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 
Lilt  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 

Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 
Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale;  and  from  that  place 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 

Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race ; 
Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice  bless  *d 
My  spirit  with  hef  light ;  and  to  the  base 

Of  the  Btemai  Triad  1  first,  last,  best, 
Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God! 
Soul  universal !  led  the  mortal  guest, 

Unblasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 
From  star  to  star  to  reach  the  almighty  throne. 
Oh  Beatrice  I  whose  sweet  limbs  the  sod 

So  long  hath  press'd,  and  the  cold  marble-stone, 
Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love^ 
Love  so  inefibble,  and  Ito  alone. 

That  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom  move^ 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dove. 

Had  wandered  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till  found ;  without  thy  light 
My  Paradise  had  still  been  incomplete. 

Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought, 
Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,  and  bright 

Still  In  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 
With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment. 
And  tetiTS  for  thee,  by  otiier  woes  untaught  ; 

For  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 
By  tyrannous  fiiction,  and  tlie  brawling  crowd ; 
And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 


In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud, 
Whidi  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's  eye 
Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 

Of  me,  can  I  return,  though  but  to  die, 
Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 
Quench'd  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stem  and  higk 

But  the  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set. 
And  the  night  cometh ;  I  am  old  in  days, 
And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 

Destruction  fece  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 
The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me  —  pure, 
And  if  I  have  not  gather'd  yet  its  praise, 

I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure ; 
Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 
May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure. 

Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  or  aim. 
To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame. 

And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  tliat  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class'd 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes. 

In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past  ^ 

I  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  free: 
Oh  Florence  1  Florence  1  unto  me  thou  wast 

Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Ahnighty  He 
Wept  over:  '"but  thou  wouldst  not;  "  as  the  bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gather'd  thee 

Beneath  a  parent-pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  virioe;  but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Agunst  the  breast  that  dierish'd  thee  was  stinr'd 

Thy  venom,  aad  my  state  tiiou  didst  amerce^ 
And  doom  this  body  forfttt  to  the  fire. 
Alas !  how  bitter  is  his  oountiy's  ourse 

To  him  wlio/«r  that  ooontry  would  expire, 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  hf  her. 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ke« 


|[kliVO&,. 


THE  ntOPHECY  OP  DAMTB. 


523 


Phe  day  amy  ooitte  whea  sIm  will  oeaae  to  err, 
The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proad  to  have 
Tlfto  dost  she  dooms  to  scatter*  and  transfer 
X  hifliy  wIuhh  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave  I 
Hvt  this  shall  not  be  granted;  let  my  dust 
Loe  where  it  ialb;  nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 
lie  brettth,  hut  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Me  forth  to  breathe  elsewhexe,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 
Poraooth  is  over,  and  repealed  her  doom. 

No,  -—she  denied  me  what  was  mine — my  roof, 
And  ahall  not  have  what  is  not  hers  —  my  tomb. 
Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 

The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her,  the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  that  was  temptation-proof, 
The  man  who  fought,  tokl'd,  travelled,  and  each  part 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfiU'd,  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  Guelfs  ascendant  art 
Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 
These  things  are  not  made  for  foigetfulness  — 
Florence  shall  be  forgotten  first;  too  raw 
The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrongs  and  the  distress 
Of  such  endurance  too  prolonged,  to  make 
My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less. 
Though  late  repented ;  yet  —  yet  for  her  sake 
I  feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 
My  own  Beatrioe,  I  would  hardly  take 
Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine,    - 
And  still  is  hallowM  by  thy  dust's  return, 
Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine, 
And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 
Though,  like  old  Marius  firom  Mintnrnas's  marsh 
And  Carthage'  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  burn 
At  times  with  evil  feeJings  hot  and  harsh. 
And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 
Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'erarch 
My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph,  —  let  them  go! 
Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 
Who  long  have  sufier'd  more  than  mortal  woe. 
And  yet,  bdng  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 
But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge  —  Revenge, 
Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 
With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst  of  change, 
When  we  shall  mount  agam,  and  they  that  trod 
Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 
O'er  hombledlieads  and  sever'd  necks  —  Great  God ! 
Take  these  thoughts  from  me  —  to  thy  hands  1  yield 
My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  lUl  on  those  who  smote  me,  —  be  my  shield ! 
As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain. 
In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field  — 
la  toil,  and  many  troubles  home  in  vain 
For  Florence.  —  I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee  I 
Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  rdgn. 


Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 

And  live  was  never  granted  until  now. 

And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 
Alas  I  with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come  back, 

Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low, 
The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack. 

Long  day,  and  dreary  night;  the  retrospect 

Of  half  a  century  Moody  and  black. 
And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 

Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 

For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 
On  the  lone  rook  of  desolate  despair 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 

Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare ;. 
Nor  raise  my  voice  —  for  who  would  heed  my  wail  ? 

I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age. 

And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 
Which  ahall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a  page 

Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 

An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :  'tis  the  doom 

Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  ou^  and  consume 

Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone ; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb. 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have  known 

The  name  of  him  —  who  now  is  but  a  name. 

And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  «[one 
Spread  his  —  by  him  unheard,unhceded  —  fame ; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear :  to  die 

Is  nothing;  but  to  wither  thus  —  to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity  — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A  common  sight  to  every  conmion  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 

That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain  —   . 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  crown  — 

To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 

On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be. 

Within  my  all-inexorable  town. 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fiital  she. 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 

Destruction  for  a  dowry  —  this  to  see 
And  foel,  uid  know  without  repair,  hatli  taught 

A  bitter  lesson;  but  it  leaves  me  free : 

I  have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought,  — 
They  made  an  exile  —  not  a  slave  of  me. 


524 


THE  FROPHBCY  OF  DANTK. 


OMMfO\ 


CANTO     IL 


The  spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  o]d, 

When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass,  and  thought 

Flashed  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 
T]ieir  children's  children's  doom  already  brought 

Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half- wrought 
Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality ; 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 

That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me; 
And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear  or  hearing  heed 

This  voice  from  out  the  wilderness,  the  sin 
Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 

The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 

Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia?  Ah!  to  me  such  things,  foreshown 

With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forget 

In  thine  irreparable  wrongs  my  own; 
We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 

Thon'rt  mine  ~  my  bones  shall  be  within  thy  breast. 

My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  once  set 
With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  West ; 

But  I  will  make  another  tongue  arise 

As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  exprest 
The  hero's  ardour,  or  the  lover's  sighs. 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  the^ie 

That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies. 
Shall  realise  a  poet's  proudest  dream, 

And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song; 

So  that  ail  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 

Confess  its  barbarism  when  compared  with  thine. 

This  Shalt  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong, 
Thy  Tuscan  Bard,  the  banish'd  Ghibelline. 

Woe!  woe!  the  veil  of  coming  centuries 

Is  rent,  ^  a  thousand  years  which  yet  supine 
Lie  like  the  ocean-waves  ere  winds  arise. 

Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation, 

Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes ; 
*  The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station. 

The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb, 

The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  creation. 
But  all  things  are'disposing  for  thy  doom; 

The  elements  await  but  for  the  word, 

"Let  there  be  darkness!"  and  thou  growst  a  tomb ! 
Yes  \  thou,  so  beautiful,  sbalt  feci  the  sword. 

Thou,  Italy!  so  fair  that  Paradise, 

Revived  in  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  restored: 
Ah!  must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 

Thou,  Italy !  whose  ever  golden  fields, 

Piough'd  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 


For  tibe  wo/kf  s  granary;  thou,  whose  sky  heaven  gMt 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper  Uiie; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  Bummer  builds 

Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  En|Mre  grew. 
And  form'd  the  Eternal  City's  ormunents 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  overtfuvw ; 

Birthplace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints. 
Where  earthly  first,  then  heavenly  glory  made 
Her  home;  thou,  all  whidi  fondest  foncy  paints. 

And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 
In  feeble  colours,  when  the  eye  —  from  the  Alp 
Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  shade 

Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 
Nods  to  the  storm  —  dilates  and  dotes  o'er  thee. 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  'twere,  for  help 

To  see  thy  sonny  fields,  my  Italy, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach'd,  and  dearest  were  they  free ;  — 

Thou — Thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant's  will: 
The  Goth  hatli  been ,  —  the  German,  Frank,  and  Hnn 
Are  yet  to  come,  —  and  on  the  imperial  hill 

Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 

By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new. 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 

Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding;  and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue. 

And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 
Of  Tiber,  thick  with  dead ;  the  helpless  priest, 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daoghter, 

Yow'd  to  their  God,  have  shrieking  fled,  and  ceased 
Their  ministry :  the  nations  take  their  prey, 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 

And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are;  these  but  goige  the  fiesh  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  way  ; 

But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet, 
With  Ugolino-hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set ; 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  prince's  banner  met, 

Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate ; 
Had  but  the  royal  rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved  thy  fiite. 

Oh !  Rome,  the  spdiler  or  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advance. 

But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 

Oh !  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks!  floods,  whehn  them,  and  forever! 


PMVTD  in. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE, 


525 


Why  sleep  fhc  idle  aTalancbes  bo, 
To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head? 
Wby  doth  Eridaniu  bat  overflow 

rhe  peasant's  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed? 
Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler  prey  ? 
Over  Cambyses'  host  the  desert  spread 

3er  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea  waves'  sway 
RolI'd  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands,  —  why. 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they? 

!knd  yon,  ye  men !  Romans,  who  dare  not  die. 
Sobs  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  overthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 

Ilie  dead  whose  tomb  oblivion  never  knew, 
Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylw? 
Their  passes  more  alluringr  to  the  view 

Of  an  invader  ?  is  it  they,  or  ye. 

That  to  eaoh  host  the  aM>untain-gate  unbar. 
And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage  free? 

Vhy,  Nature's  self  detams  the  victor's  car 
And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  earth 
Could  be  so ;  but  alone  she  will  not  war, 

Tet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 


In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men : 
Not  so  with  those  whose  souls  are  little  worth ; 

For  them  no  fortress  can  avail,  ^  the  den 
Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sting 
Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 

The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 
Are  ye  not  brave?  Yes,  yet  the  Ansonian  soil 
Hath  hearts,  and  hands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  to  bring 

Against  Oppression ;  but  how  vain  the  toil, 
While  still  Division  sows  the  seeds  of  woe 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh !  my  own  beauteous  land !  so  long  laid  low, 
So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 

To  bresdc  the  chain,  yet  —  yet  the  Avenger  stops. 
And  Doubt  and  Discord  step  'twixt  thine  and  thee, 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee  copes : 

What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free. 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light  ? 
To  make  tlie  Alps  impassable ;  and  we, 

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed  —  Unite! 


CANTO    ni. 


PiOM  out  the  mass  of  never*dying  ill, 

The  Plague,  the  Prince,  the  Strangar,  and  the  Sword, 

Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 
And  flow  again,  I  oaanot  ail  record 

That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye:  the  earth 

And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afford 
Spaee  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  forth ; 

Yes,  all,  thoagh  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven, 

There  where  the  farthest  suns  and  stars  have  birth, 
Spread  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 

The  bloody  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 

Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 
Athwart  the  sound  of  archangclic  songs, 

And  Italy,  the  martyr'd  nation's  gore, 

Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 
Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore : 

Like  to  a  harpstring  stricken  by  the  wind. 

The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 
The  seraph-voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 

Ueantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 

Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined 
To  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may  scoff. 

And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 

Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough. 
To  thee,  my  country !  whom  before,  as  now, 

1  loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 

And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 
To  read  the  future;  and  if  now  my  fire 

Is  not  as  onoe  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive! 

I  hut  foretell  thy  fortunes  --  then  expire; 


Think  not  that  I  would  look  on  them  and  live. 

A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak. 

And  for  my  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive ; 
My  heart  shall  be  pour'd  over  thee  and  break : 

Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume 

Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 
Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom 

A  softer  glimpse ;  some  stars  shine  through  thy  night, 

And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 
Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  which  I»eath  cannot  blight; 

And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 

To  ^ve  thee  honour  and  the  earth  delight; 
Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise,' 

The  gay,  the  learn'd,  the  generous,  and  the  brave» 

Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies. 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave. 

Discoverers  of  new  worids,  which  take  their  name ; 

For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save. 
And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 

A  noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee  — 

Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same? 
Oh !  more  than  these  illustrious  fiir  shall  be 

The  being  —  and  even  yet  he  may  be  born  — 

The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  tiiee  free. 
And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed  and  worn 

By  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced; 

And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  mom. 
Thy  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defoced 

And  noxious  vapours  from  Avemus  risen. 

Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 


526 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  BANTS. 


oucni 


By  scnritiufe,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 

Yet  tbroug^h  this  oenturied  eclipse  of  woe 

Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen; 
Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show^ 

And  make  it  broader;  the  same  brilliant  sky 

Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them  glow, 
And  rabe  their  notes  as  natural  and  high; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers :  they  shall  sing 

Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty. 
But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing. 

And  look  in  the  sun's  face  with  eagle's  gase 

All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feather'd  king. 
But  fly  more  near  the  earth ;  how  many  a  phrase 

Sublime  shall  lavish'd  be  on  some  small  prince 

In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise ! 
And  language,  eloquently  folse,  erinoe 

The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty. 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverenoe, 
And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall 

As  guest,  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  booty, 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthral 

A  captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone  — 

The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 
His  spirit ;  thus  the  bard  too  near  the  throne 

Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  to  pleaMe^  — 

How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone ! 
To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign's  ease 

And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 

Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 
Or  force,  or  forge  fit  argument  of  song! 

Thus  trammeird,  thus  oondemn'd  to  flattery's  trebles. 

He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong : 
For  fear  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly  rebels, 

Should  rise  up  in  high-treason  to  his  brain, 

He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 
In's  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  through  his  strain. 

But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers 

There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain. 
And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peers, 

And  love  shall  be  his  torment;  but  his  grief 

Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears. 
And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  Chief 

Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  higher  song 

Of  freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 
But  in  a  farther  age  shall  rise  along 

The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he ; 

The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  fliem  wroQg 
Till  they  are  ashes  and  repose  with  me. 

The  first  will  make  an  epoch  with  hts  lyre. 

And  fill  the  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry : 
His  fancy  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire. 

Like  that  of  heaven,  immortal,  and  his  thought 

Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire; 
Pleasure  shall,  Uke  a  butterfly  new  caught, 

Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme, 

And  art  itself  seem  into  nature  wrouglit 
By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream.  — 

The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood, 
'  Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem; 


He,  too,  shall  sing  of  ams,  and  diriatian  Mood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man;  and  his  high  haip 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood. 

Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  aharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brarc 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 

Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave,        \ 
The  red-eross  banners  where  the  first  red  Cross 
Was  crimsoned  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save. 

Shall  be  his  saered  argument;  the  loss 
Of  years,  of  finvour,  ft^eedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 

Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name, 
And  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame,  — 

Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  1  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  Laureate  —  tliey  reward  him  well ! 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  hanishmcBt, 

Ferrara  him  a  pittanoe  and  a  cell, 
Harder  to  bear  and  less  deserved,  for  I 
Had  stung  the  feotions  whieh  I  strove  to  quell; 

But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 
Will  look  on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  de^ 
To  embalm  with  his  celestial  flattery 

As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to  retgn. 
What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom  ? 
Perhaps  hell  lave,  ^  and  is  not  love  in  vain 

Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb? 
Yet  it  will  be  so  —  he  and  his  compeer, 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 

In  penary  and  pain  loo  many  a  year, 
And,  dying  in  despondeney,  bequciith 
To  the  kind  world,  whieh  scarce  will  yield  a  tear, 

A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 
With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poef  s  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 

Unmatch'd  by  time;  not  Hellas  can  unroll 
Through  her  Olympiads  two  such  namea,  though  uoe 
Of  hers  be  mighty;  —  and  is  this  the  whole 

Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  svn? 
Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling^  sense. 
The  electric  blood  with  whieh  tlieir  arteries  run. 

Their  body's  self  tum'd  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  whieh  is,  and  fency  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a  recompenat 

Conduct?  shalltheir  bright  plumage  on  "the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scatter'd  ?  Yea,  and  it  must  be. 
For,  form'd  of  for  too  penetrable  staff. 

These  birds  of  paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  thar  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  tiielr  pure  pinions  not  agree. 

And  die,  or  are  degraded,  for  tiie  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair. 
And  vulture-passions  flying  close  behind. 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear ; 
And  when  at  length  tiie  winged  wanderers  stoop. 
Then  is  the  prey-birds'  triumph,  tiientbey  share 

The  spoil,  o'erpower'd  at  length  by  one  foU  swoop. 
Yet  some  have  been  untouched,  who  leam'd  to  bear, 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  dro^ 


Nto  it. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


527 


lio  oould  resist  tfiemselves  even,  hardest  care, 
And  task  most  hopeless!  but  some  sach  have  been. 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were  * 

nU  destiny  austere,  and  yet  sereue, 
Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fome  unblest; 
The  Alp's  snow-summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 
ban  the  volcan<rs  fierce  emptiive  crest, 


Whose  splendour  from  the  black  abyss  is  flung. 
While  the  soorch'd  mountain,  from  whose  burning 
breast 

A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung, 
Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung, 

The  hell  which  in  its  entraib  ever  dwells. 


CANTO     IV. 


Eant  are  poets  who  have  never  pcnnM 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best: 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

Imr  thoughts  to  meaner  beings;  they  oompress'd 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin'd  the  stars 
Unkuireil'd  npon  earth,  but  fiir  more  blest 

"haa  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  fi«ilties  link'd  to  fame, 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  sears. 

f  any  are  poets  but  without  the  name^ 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill ;  and  aim 

kt  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate. 
And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men. 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven^  and  then  too  late, 

^Sadiag  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain. 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower. 
Who,  having  lavished  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

ies  chain'd  to  his  lone  rook  by  the  sea-shore? 
So  be  it:  we  can  l>ear.  —  But  thus  all  they. 
Whose  intellci^  is  an  overmastering  power, 

much  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Oc  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay, 

be  bards;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Than  anght  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear ; 

[>ne  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 
Or  deiQr  the  canvass  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below» 

rhat  they  who  kneel  toidoto  so  divine 
Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  transfignrated:  and  the  line 

Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 
With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thooght  reflected. 
Can  do  no  more:  then  let  the  artist  share 

fhe  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Paints  o'er  the  labour  unapproved  —  Alas  I 
Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 

Widila  fte  ages  which  before  me  pass. 
Art  diall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 
Whteh  with  Apelles  and  old  Pliidias 

Oeheid  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 
Ye  shall  be  taught  by  ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 


And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands. 
And  temples,  loftier  than  the  old  tempos,  give 

New  wonders  to  the  world;  and  while  still  stands 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  sour 
A  dome,  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 

Into  a  fime  surpassing  all  before, 
Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in :  ne'er 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 

As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair. 
And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  flie  bold  architect  unto  whose  care 

The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given, 
Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord. 
Whether  into  the  marble-chaos  driven 

His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,  at  whose  word 
Israel  left  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 
Or  hues  of  hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 

Over  the  damn'd  before  the  judgment-throne. 
Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 
Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown, 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  me, 
The  Ghibelline,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clash  of  swords  and  clang  of  helms. 
The  age  wfaieh  I  anticipate,  'no  less 
Shall  be  the  age  of  beauty,  and  while  whelms 

Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 
The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 
A  cedar  towering  o'er  the  wilderness. 

Lovely  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes. 
Fragrant  as  fhir,  and  recognized  afar. 
Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

Soverdgns  shall  pause  amidst  tiicir  sport  of  war, 
Wean'd  for  an  hour  fit>m  blood,  to  tarn  and  gaze 
On  canvass  or  on  stone;  and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell'd  to  praise, 
Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy ; 
And  arf  s  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants,  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy, 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,  who  but  employ 

The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burthen,  and  to  serve  a  need, 
To  sell  his  labours,  and  his  soul  to  boot . 


528 


THE  DR£A3£. 


Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed, 
Bat  free ;  who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  uo  more 
Than  the  grilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee'd. 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish  bowing  at  his  door. 
Ob,  Power  tliat  rulest  and  inspirest !  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 
Least  like  to  thee  in  attribntes  divine, 
Tread  on  the  universal  necks  that  bow. 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  rights  are  thine? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame, 
Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name. 
Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain, 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  borne  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

In  their  own  souls  sustain  a  harder  proof. 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce? 
Florence!  when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roof, 

I  loTcd  thee,  but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse. 
The  hate  of  injuries,  which  every  year 
Makes  greater  and  accumulates  my  curse, 

Shall  live,  outliving  all  thou  boldest  dear. 
Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even  that, 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here. 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings, 
And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date 

As  swept  off  sooner ;  in  all  deadly  tilings 

Which  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one  another. 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  tliat  springs 


: 


From  Death  the  Sin-bora's  inoest  with  hia  motlMr, 

In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 

The  faction-chief  is  but  the  saltan's  brother. 
And  the  worst  despot's  iar  less  human  ape: 

Florence!  when  this  lone  spirit,  which  so  long 

Yeara'd  as  (he  captive  toiling  ^t  eacatpey 
To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong,  • 

An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners. 

Who  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  atroqg. 
Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  bars. 

Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 

Where  —  whatsoe'er  his  fate  —  be  still  were  hers, 
His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth  — 

Florence !  when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 

To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth. 
And  seek  to  honour  with  an  empty  urn 

The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne'er  obtain.  —  Alas! 

"What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people?"  Stern 
Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 

The  limits  of  man's  common  mafioe,  for 

All  that  a  citizen  could  be  I  was ; 
Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war. 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  with  me.  —  Tis  done: 

I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Built  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone. 

Beholding,  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer, 

The  evil  days  to  gifted  souls  fore^own. 
Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear, 

As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 

When  truth  shaU  strike  tiieir  eyes  through  Dany 
a  tear, 
And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb. 


THE   DREAM. 


Our  life  his  twofold:  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence:  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality; . 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath. 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts. 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils. 
They  do  divide  our  being;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time. 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past,  —  they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future;  they  have  power  — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not  —  what  tliey  will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that* s  gone  by, 


The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows  ->  Are  they  so? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?  What  arc  they? 
Creation  of  the  mind?  ~  The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep  —  for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 


XHB  DRBAM. 


529 


tot  a  moflt  living  landscape;  and  the  wave 

f  woods  and  oorn-fieldiy  and  the  ahodes  of  men 

enttefed  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smolLe 

rising  from  such  mstio  rooDi;  —  the  hill 

^as  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

If  trees»  in  drcolar  array,  so  fix'd, 

lot  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 

liese  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

■bang  —  the  one  on  all  that  Was  beneath 

ikir  as  herself  —  but  the  boy  gased  on  her ; 

ixA  botli  were  young,  and  one  was  beantiful: 

^nd  botli  were  young  —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

ks  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horison's  verge 

rhe  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 

Pke  boy  iiad  fewer  summers,  but  bis  heart 

Sad  to  ou^own  his  years,  and  to  bis  eye 

Phere  was  but  one  beloved  (hoe  on  earthy 

hnd  that  was  shkiing  on  him;  he  had  look'd 

Dponit  till  itoouldnotpass  away; 

Bfe  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 

She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her. 

But  trembled  on  her  words;  she  was  his  sight, 

For  his  ^e  foUowM  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 

Which  colour'd  all  his  objects :  —  he  had  ceased 

Fo  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 

fhe  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 

Which  terminated  all:  upon  a  tone, 

k  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously  —  his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share : 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;  to  her  he  was 

Bven  as  a  brother  —  but  no  more ;  'twas  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infimt-friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him; 

Herself  flie  s<^tary  scion  left 

Of  atime-honour'd  race.  —  It  was  a  name 

WMch  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and  why? 

inme  taught  him  a  deep  answer  —  when  she  loved 

Another ;  even  now  she  loved  another. 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  ato  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Us  walb  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd : 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
Theboy  of  whom  I  spake;  —  he  was  alone» 
And  ptJe,  and  pacing  to  and  fro;  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Woids  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean'd 
His  bowM  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion  —  then  arose  again. 
And  wtdi  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  bnt  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  6x  his  brow 
bio  a  kind  of  quiet;  as  he  paused, 
the  faidy  of  his  k>ve  re-entered  there; 
flhe  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved,  —  she  knew, 


For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  tliat  h'ls  heart 

Was  darkeo'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  alL 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  fiided^  as  it  came; 

He  dropped  the  band  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu. 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles:  he  pass'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way ; 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

.    A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams;  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  ho  had  been ;  on  tlie  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  be  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  but  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noon -tide  sultriness, 
Conch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin 'd  walls  that  had  survived  tlie  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goddly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around: 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better:  —  in  her  home , 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his,  ~^  her  native  home. 
She  dwelt,  b^rt  with  growing  infimcy, 
Paughters  and  sons  of  beauty,  *•  but  behold ! 
Upon  her  foce  there  was  flie  tint  of  grief. 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil-wish. 
Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  loved  him  not. 
If  or  given  him  cause  to  deem  hunself  beloved. 
Nor  coiMd  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind  — -  a  spectre  of  the  past 

A  diange  came  o'er  the  sphrit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  retnm'd.  ->  I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar  —  with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  fooe  was  fhir,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood ;  ~  as  he  stood 
Bven  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  ea»e 
84 


530 


DARKNBSS. 


The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quWering  fhodc 

That  in  the  antiqae  oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude ;  and  then  --» 

As  in  that  hoar  —  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  —  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came , 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  tows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reelM  around  him ;  he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been  - 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall. 

And  the  rememberM  chambers,  and  the  place, 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade. 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  bim  and  the  light; 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dreun. 
The  lady  of  his  love;  —  Oh !  she  was  ehaoged 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wanderM  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  i  her  thoughts 
Were  combini^tions  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms,  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  phrensy ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  gUmoe 


Of  melancholy  is  afearfol  gift? 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  I 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  phantasies. 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness. 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore. 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  goae^ 
Or  were  at  war  with  him;  he  was  a  auirk 
For  blight  and  desolation,  oompass'd  round 
With  hatred  and  contention ;  pain  was  stui'd 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him*  until 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 
He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power. 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  j 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains;  with  the  stars 
And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 
He  held  his  dialogues;  and  they  did  tea^ 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries ; 
To  him  the  book  of  night  was  opened  wide. 
And  voices  from  the  de^  abyss  reveal'd 
A  marvel  and  a  secret  —  Be  it  so. 

My  dream  was  past;  it  had  no  farther  c^aqge. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 
Almost  like  a  reality  —  the  one 
To  end  in  madness  -~  both  in  misery. 


DARKNESS. 


I  H4Da  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extingqish'd,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  spaoe, 
Ray  less,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air ; 
Mom  came,  and  went  ^  and  came,  and  brought  no  day. 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Ofthisthdr  desolation;  and  all  hearts 
Were  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light: 
And  they  did  live  by  watchfires-<-and  the  thrones^ 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings  —  the  hats, 
The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 
Were  burnt  for  beacons;  cities  were  eoasumed. 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  biasing  homes 
To  look  once  more  into  eaeh  other's  fiice ; 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcaaos  and  their  mountain^torch; 
A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  worid  cootain'd ; 
Forests  were  set  on  fire  ^  but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  &ded  —  and  the  erackliag  trunks 
Extinguish'd  with  a  crash  —  and  all  was  hlaok, 
The  brows  of  bkii  by  the  despairing  light 


Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  ^i» 

The  flashes  (pli  upon  them ;  some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept;  and  so«ie  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands»  and  smiled; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 

With  mad  disqoietude  on  the  dull  sky» 

The  pall  of  a  past  world ;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dus^      [shrich'4 

And  gnash'd'  their  teeth  and  howl'd :   the  vild  biidi 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings;  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame  and  tremulous;  and  vipers  crawl'd 

And  twined  themselves  amootg  the  multitude. 

Hissing,  but  stingless  —  they  were  slain  for  food : 

And  War,  wluch  for  a  moment  was  no  more. 

Did  glut  himself  again;  a  meal  was  bought 

With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart. 

Gorging  himself  in  gloom:  no  love  was  left; 

AH  earth  was  but  one  thought  —  and  that  was  death. 

Immediate  and  inglorious ;  and  the  pang 

Offaminejed  upon  all  entrails;  men 


PROMBTHHUa 


531 


Bed,  Mid  their  bones  were  tombleM  as  their  flesh ; 

lie  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured, 

^en  dogs  assailM  thdr  masters,  all  save  one, 

jad  he  was  fiuthful  to  a  corse,  aud  Icept 

lie  birds  and  beasts  and  femish'd  men  at  bay, 

HI  hunger  clang  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 

ATed  their  lank  jaws ;  himself  s<nig1it  6i)t  no  ibod, 

hit  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan 

knd  a  quicle  desolate  cry  licking  the  haiid 

PiThlch  answered  not  with  a  caress  —  he  died. 

Eke  crowd  was  femish'd  by  degrees;  but  two 

>f  ao  enormous  city  did  survive,  ^ 

knd  they  were  enemies;  they  met  beside 

Fbe  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 

Whete  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  thiiigs 

Por  an  unholy  usage;  they  raked  up, 

Ind  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  sk^ton-hands 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 


Which  was  a  mockery ;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects  —  saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died  — 

Bven  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend.  The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  ihe  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless, 

A  lump  of  death  *-  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  sti]{. 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

Aud  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal;  as  they  dropp'd 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge  -> 

The  waves  were  dead;  the  tides  w^e  in  their  grave. 

The  moon^  their  mistresibhad  expired  before; 

The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air. 

And  the  clouds  perish'd ;  J>arkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them  —  She  was  the  Universe. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Titan  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality. 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain. 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show, 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness. 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  I  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 
Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill ; 
And  the  inexorable  heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  bate. 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Reftised  thee  even  the  boon  to  die: 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 

Was  thine  —  and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thi&kderer  wrung  from  thee 
Was  but  tlie  menace  which  flung  beck 
Oa  him  the  torments  of  thy  raek ; 
,  The  fate  thoo  didst  so  well  foresee, 
Bat  wouldst  not  to  appease  him  tell : 


And  in  thy  silence  was  bis  sentence, 
And  in  his  soul  a  vain  repentance, 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightmngs  trembled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretohedness, 
And  strengthen  man  with  his  own  mind ; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high. 
Still  in  thy  patient  energy. 
In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 

Of  thine  impenetrable  spirit. 
Which  earth  and  heaven  could  not  convulse, 

A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 
Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  mortals  of  their  fote  and  toce; 
Like  thee,  man  is  in  part  divine, 

A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source , 
And  man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funereal  destiny ; 
His  wretchedness,  and  his  resiataaee, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence: 
To  which  his  spirit  may  oppose 
Itself  —  an  equal  to  all  woes. 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 

Its  own  concentred  recompense, 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy, 
And  making  death  a  victory. 


532 


CHUKCHILL'S  GR4VB. 


CHURCHILL'S  GRAVE, 

A  FACT  LITEIULLY  R£ND£R£]>. 


I  STOOD  beside  the  graye  of  him  who  biased 
The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humblest  of  all  scptilchrcs,  and  gazed 
With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone. 
With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown 
Which  lay  unread  around  it ;  and  I  ask'd 
The  gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 
That  for  this  plant  strangers  his  memory  task'd 
Through  the  thick  deaths  of  half  a  century; 
And  thus  he  answered  — '' Well,  I  do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so ; 
He  died  before  my  day  of  sextonship, 
.  And  I  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 
And  is  this  all?  I  thought,  —  and  do  we  rip 
The  veil  of  immortality  ?  and  crave 
I  know  not  what  of  honour  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  ages,  to  endure  this  blight? 
So  soon  and  so  successless?  As  I  said, 
The  architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread. 
For  earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay    . 
To  extricate  remembranoe  from  the  clay, 


Whose  minglings  might  oonfiue  a  Newton's  Ikoiiglit, 

Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one. 

Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers;  —  as  he  caught 

As  'twere  the  twilight  of  a  former  sun. 

Thus  spoke  he:  —  "I  believe  the  man  of  whom 

You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb. 

Was  a  most  famous  writer  in  his  day, 

And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  tlieir  way 

To  pay  him  honour,  —  and  myself  whatever 

Your  honour  pleases ;"  —  then  most  pleased  I  shook 

From  out  my  pockef  s  avaricious  nook 

Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  'twere 

Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  (hough  I  could  spare 

So  much  but  inconveniently ;  —  Ye  smile, 

I  see  ye,  ye  pro&ne  ones  I  all  the  while. 

Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  tcfL 

You  are  the  fools,  not  I  —  for  I  did  dwell 

With  a  deep  tliought,  and  with  a  soflen'd  eye, 

On  that  old  sexton's  natural  homily, 

In  which  there  was  obscurity  and  fiune. 

The  glory  and  the  nothing  of  a  name. 


MONODY 


DEATH   OF  THE  RIGHT  HON.   R.  B.  SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN  AT  DRURY-LANC  THEATRE. 


When  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 

In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away, 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 

Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 

With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes. 

While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause. 

Her  breathing-moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 

Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime. 

Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 

The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but  weep, 

A  holy  concord  —  and  a  bright  regret, 


A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set? 
'Tis  not  harsh  sorrow  —  but  a  tenderer  woe, 
Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below. 
Felt  without  bitterness  -—  but  full  and  clear, 
A  sweet  dejection  —  a  transparent  tear 
Unmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shed  without  shame  —  and  secret  without  pain. 
Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  Summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 
So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 
When  all  of  (venius  which  can  perish  dies. 


MONODT  ON  THE  SSAIB  OF  SHERIDAN. 


533 


^jnighty  spirit  is  eclipsed  —  a  power 

bth  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness  —  to  whose  hour 

flight  no  likeness  is  beqaeath'd  —  no  name, 

iNnu  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  fame ! 

%e  flasb  of  wit  —  the  bright  intelligence, 

lie  beam  of  song  —  the  blaze  of  eloquence, 

let  wjt{f  .their  sun  ^  but  still  have  left  behind 

lie  endnring  produce  of  immortal  mind ; 

Ihiitsof  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 

i  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 

tat  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 

rhese  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul, 

l?hich  all  embraced  —  and  ]ighten'd  over  all, 

To  cheer  —  to  pierce  —  to  please  —  or  to  appal. 

horn  (he  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board, 

}f  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord ; 

bivhosc  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied, 

Fhe  praised  «-  the  proud  ~^  who  made  his  praise  their 

When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan  [pride. 

bose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 

Bis  was  the  thunder  —  his  the  avenging  rod. 

The  irrath  —  the  delegated  voice  of  God ! 

Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips  —  and  blazed 

TiUnanqmsh'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 

And  here,  oh !  here,  where  yet  all  yonng  and  warm 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm. 
The  matchless  dialogue  —  the  deathless  wit, 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit ; 
The  glowiog  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  fancy,  wrought 
To  fuhiess  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought, 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat, 
ihalo  of  the  light  of  other  days. 
Which  still  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight, 
Hen  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jtr  in  the  music  which  was  bom  their  own, 
Slill  let  them  pause  —  Ah  I  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  vice  might  be  but  woe. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  puhic  gaze 
Is  fix'd  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise ; 
Bepose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name. 
And  Folly  loves  the  martjrrdom  of  Fame. 
The  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stinds  sentinel  —  accuser  —judge  —  and  spy, 


The  foe  —  the  fool  ~  the  jealous  and  the  vain, 

The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others  pain. 

Behold  the  host !  delighting  io  deprave. 

Who  track  the  steps  of  Glory  to  the  grave, 

Watch  every  fault  that  daring  Genius  owes 

Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 

Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 

And  pile  the  pyramid  of  calumny  I 

These  are  his  portion  —  but  if  joined  to  these 

Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 

If  the  high  spirit  musf  forget  to  soar. 

And  stoop  to  strive  with  misery  at  the  door, 

To  soothe  indignity  —  and  face  to  face 

Meet  sordid  rage  —  and  wrestle  with  disgrace, 

To  find  in  hope  but  the  renewed  caress. 

The  serpent-fold  of  further  faithlessness,  -* 

If  such  may  be  tlie  ills  which  men  assail. 

What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 

Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling's  given 

Bear  hearts  electric  —  charged  with  fire  from  heaven. 

Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 

By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne. 

Driven  o'er  the  loweriog  atmosphere  tliat  uurst 

Thoughts  which  have  tum'd  to  thunder  —  acorch —  and 

But  fiir  from  us  and  from  our  mim%  scene  [burst 

Such  things  should  be  —  if  such  have  ever  been ; 

Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task. 

To  give  the  tribute  glory  need  not  ask. 

To  mourn  the  vanished  beam  —  and  add  our  mite 

Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  defight 

Ye  orators !  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  hero  of  your  field ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three! 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  immortality ! 
Ye  bards !  to  whom  the  drama's  muse  is  dear. 
He  was  your  master  —  emulate  him  here  I 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  1 
He  was  your  brother  —  bear  his  ashes  hence ! 
While  powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range. 
Complete  in  kind  —  as  various  in  their  change, 
While  eloquence  —  wit  -  poesy  —  and  mirth. 
That  humbler  harmonist  of  care  on  earth. 
Survive  within  our  souls  ^  while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  merit's  proud  pre-eminence. 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness  —  long  in  vain. 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain. 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man. 
And  broke  the  die  —  in  moulding  Sheridan  1 


534 


HBBRBW  MBLOSIBa 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


She  walks  in  beauty,  like  (he  nigbt 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  ski^s ; 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denicau 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  fiicc ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pore,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  80  eahn,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 

IL 
The  Harp  the  Monarch-l^Iinstrel  swept. 

The  King  of  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 
Which  Music  hallow'd  while  she  wept 

0>r  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given, 

Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven ! 
It  soften'd  men  of  iron  mould, 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own; 
No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold, 

That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone, 

Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throne! 

It  told  the  triumphs  of  our  King, 

It  wafted  glory  to  our  God ; 
It  made  our  gladden'd  valleys  ring. 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod ; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  Heaven  and  there  abode ! 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more, 

Devotion  and  her  daughter  Love 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above. 

In  dreams  that  day's  broad  light  can  not  remove. 

in. 

If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 
Our  own,  surviving  love  endears; 


If  there  the  cherishM  heart  be  fond. 
The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears  — 

How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres ! 
How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die ! 

To  soar  from  earth,  and  find  all  fears 
Lost  in  tiiy  light  —  Eternity ! 

Itmustbeso:  'tisnotforsctf 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink ; 
And  striving  to  overleap  flie  golpb. 

Yet  cling  to  being'ft  aerertng  link. 
Ob  I  in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  eaeh  heart  the  heart  that  shares, 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  aoal  grow  deathless  tlidrs! 

IV. 

The  wild  Gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound. 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 
May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by :  — 

A  step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright. 

Hath  Judah  witness'd  there; 
And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone! 

More  blest  each  pafin  that  shades  thoaeplains 

Than  Israel's  scattered  race; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace: 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birfli, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 

But  we  must  wander  witheringly. 

In  other  lands  to  die ; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be. 

Our  own  may  never  lie: 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone. 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 

V. 
Oh!  weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel's  stream. 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream ; 


HBBBEW  MBLODIES. 


535 


l^eep  for  the  harp  of  Judah's  broken  shell ; 

Eoam  —  where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  godleu  dwell ! 

ind  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding:  feet? 
Lnd  when  shall  Sion's  songps  again  seem  sweet? 
knd  Jadah's  melody  once  more  rejoioe 
The  hearts  that  leap'd  before  its  heavenly  voice? 

Pribea  of  tlie  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
low  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest! 
The  wild  dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
ilankind  their  country  —  Israel  but  the  grave ! 

VI. 
[>ii  Jordan's  banks  the  Arabs'  camels  stray, 
[>n  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray, 
The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep  — 
Yd  there  —  even  there  —  Oh  God !  thy  thunders  sleep : 

There  —  where  thy  finger  scorch'd  the  tablet-stone  I 
There  —  where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone! 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire : 
Thyself —  none  living  see  and  not  expire! 

Oh !  in  the  lightning  let  tliy  glance  appear ! 
Sweep  from  his  shiver'd  hand  tiie  oppressors'  spear: 
How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod ! 
How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  oh  God! 

VII. 

JBPMTHA'S   DA136HTER. 

SiN€£  our  country,  our  God  *-  Oh,  my  Sire! 
Demand  that  thy  Daughter  expire; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow  -^ 
Strike  the  bosom  that's  bared  for  thee  now ! 

And  Ae  voice  of  my  moumiBg  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more: 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low. 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow ! 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  Father  1  be  sure  — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow. 
And  the  hist  thought  that  soothes  me  Mow. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent! 
I  have  won  tlie  great  battle  for  thee, 
And  my  Father  an4  Country  are  free ! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gush'd^ 
When  the  voice  that  tliou  lovest  is  busb'd, 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride, 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  died! 

VIII. 
Oh  !  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  rosea  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  glooai : 


And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head,  ' 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread : 
Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead ! 

Away!  we  know  that  tears  are  vain. 
That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 

And  thou  —  who  tellst  me  to  forget 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet 

IX- 
Mv  soul  is  dark.  -  Oh!  quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear; 
And  lei  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  ear. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear. 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again; 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  tear, 

'Twill  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  brain : 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep, 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first: 
1  tell  thee.  Minstrel,  I  must  weep. 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  will  hurst; 
For  it  hath  been  by  sorrow  nurst. 

And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long;^ 
And  now  'tis  doom'd  to  know  the  worst, 

And  break  at  once  —  or  yield  to  song. 


I  SAW  thee  weep  —  the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue; 
And  tlien  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew : 
I  saw  thee  smile  —  the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine ; 
It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  fiird  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  die, 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart 

XL 

Thy  days  arc  done,  thy  fhme  begun; 

Thy  country's  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword ! 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

The  freedom  he  restored ! 

Though  thou  art  fall'n,  while  weare  free 
Thou  Shalt  not  taata  of  death  1 


536 


HJBBRBW  MBLOmJB& 


The  generoas  blood  that  flow'd  from  thee 
^  Difldaiii'd  to  sink  beneath : 

Within. our  veins  its  currents  be. 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath  I 

Thy  name,  our  charging:  hosts  along. 

Shall  be  the  battle-word! 
Thy  folly  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin-voices  pour'd! 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong  I 

Thou  Shalt  not  be  deplored. 

XII. 
SONG  OF  SAUL  BRFORB  HIS  LAST  BATTLE. 

Warriors  and  Chiefs !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  lung's,  in  your  path : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  I 

Thou,  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe. 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part. 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, 
Or  kii^ly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to*day ! 

XIIL 

SAUL. 

Thou,  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead, 
Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 

'^Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head ! 
King,  behold  the  phantom-seer  V* 
Bartfa  yawn'd;  he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud: 
Light  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  sliroud; 
Peath  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye; 
His  hand  was  withcr'd,  and  his  veins  were  dry ; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter'd  there, 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare: 
From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing  frame. 
Like  cavem'd  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  foils  the  oak. 
At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  tliunder-stroke. 

''Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  thou,  oh  King?  Behold, 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  ooki : 
Such  are  mine ;  and  such  shall  be 
Thine  to-morrow,  when  with  me: 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done. 
Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day; 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay. 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 
Pierced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow : 
And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart  thy  hand  shall  guide: 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  Ihll, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul  1" 


XIV. 

"ALL  18  TANITY,  SAITH  THE  PRBACHBR.' 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine^ 

And  health  and  youth  possess'dme; 
My  goblets  blush'd  from  every  vine, 

And  lovely  forms  caress'd  me; 
I  suna'd  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes. 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender ; 
All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prise,  ^ 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendour. 


I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 

Remembrance  can  discover, 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roU'd  no  hour 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd ; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitter'd. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 

And  spells,  is  won  from  harming; 
But  that  which  ooils  around  flie  heart. 

Oh!  who  hath  power  of  charming? 
It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore. 

Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it; 
But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 

The  soul  that  must  endure  it 

XV. 

When  ooldness  wraps  tUs  suffering  day, 

Ah  I  whither  strays  the  immortal  mnid? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay. 

But  leaves  its  darken'd  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  fliat  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay'd, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  ail. 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Bach  Adnter  trace  that  memory  holds, 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  Creation  peopled  earth. 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes. 

Its  gianoe  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quench'd  or  system  breaks, 

Fix'd  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate^  or  fear, 
It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure : 

An  age  shaH  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 
Its  years  as  moments  shall  endurep 


RBBREW  ]a(LODIB& 


53i 


Away,  awajy  witiioat  a  wing, 

O'er  aU,  throagb  aU,  its  thoii|^t  shall  fly ; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Fofgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 

XVL 

YL5I0M  OF  BBLSHAZZAB. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  Satraps  throng'd  the  hall; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deem'd  divine  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall. 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand: 
The  fingers  of  a  man;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook. 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice; 
AU  bloodless  wax'd  his  look. 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
''Let  the  men  of  lore  appear. 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 

Whieh  mar  our  royal  mirths" 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good. 

But  here  they  have  no  skill : 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  stilL 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore; 
Bat  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw  —  but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth. 
He  heard  the  king's  command. 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night,  — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

^'Belsiiazsar's  ipave  is  made. 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away. 
He,  in  the  balance  weigh'd. 

Is  light  and  wortiiless  olay. 
Tlie  shroud,  his  robe  of  state. 

His  canopy,  the  stone; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne!" 

XVIL 
Bvx  of  Ihc  sleepless  I  melancholy  star ! 
Whoie  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  for, 


That  showst  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel. 
How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remember'd  well! 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days. 
Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  rays; 
A  night-beam  sorrow  watcheth  to  behold. 
Distinct,  but  distant  —  clear  —  but,  oh  how  cold ! 

xvm. 

Wbu  my  bosom  as  fidse  as  thou  deemst  it  to  be, 

I  need  not  have  wandered  from  feur  Galilee ; 

It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 

The  curse  which,  thou  sayst,  is  the  crime  of  my  race. 

If  the  bad  nerer  triumph,  then  God  is  with  thee ! 
If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  free! 
If  the  exile  on  earth  is  an  ontcast  on  high, 
LiTe  OB  in  thy  fiuth,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 

I  have  lost  for  that  fiedth  more  than  thou  canst  bestow. 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know; 
In  his  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope  —  and  in  thine 
The  land  and  the  life  which  for  him  I  resign. 

XIX. 

HEROD^  LAMENT   FOR  MARIAMMB.. 
Oh,  Mariamne !  now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bledst  is  bleeding; 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony. 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne  I  where  art  thou? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading: 
Ah  1  oouldst  thou  —  thou  wouldst  pardon  now, 

Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding. 

And  is  she  dead  ?  —  and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  phrensy's  jealous  raving? 
My  wrath  but  doom'd  my  own  despair: 

The  sword  that  smote  her 's  o'er  me  waving.  — 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murder'd  love! 

And  this  dark  heart  u  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above, 

Andleaveft  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadon; 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing: 
I  swept  that  flower  firom  Judah's  stem 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming; 
And  mine 's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell. 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming ; 
And  I  have  eam'd  those  tortures  well, 

Which  uDoonsnmed  are  still  consuming ! 

XX. 

ON    THB    DAY    OF    TUB    DBSTRTTCnON    OF    JERCSALEM 
BT  TITOS. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I  bdield  thee,  oh  SiON  I  when  render'd  to  Rome: 
'Twas  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames  of  thy  Ihll 
Flash'd  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy  walL 

I  look'd  for  thy  temple,  I  look'd  for  my  home^ 
And  forgot  for  a  moment  my  bondage  to  come; 
34* 


538 


HHBREW  MBLODIBa 


I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  tkat  fed  on  fhy  flme, 

And  the  fast-fetter'd  hainb  that  made  veogeaMie  in  yain. 

On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  a^si  it  blazed; 
While  I  stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  momitain  that  shone  on  thy  shrine. 

And  now  on  that  mountaki  I  stood  on  that  day, 
But  I  mark'd  not  the  twilight-beam  melting  away ; 
Oh !  would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its  stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror's  head ! 

Bat  the  gods  of  the  pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  /ehovah  disdain'd  not  to  reign; 
And  scatter'd  and  soorn'd  as  thy  people  may  be. 
Our  worship,  oh  Father !  is  only  for  thee. 

XXL 

Wb  sat  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters. 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey ; 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daughters ! 
Were  scattered  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roU'd  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song;  but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know ! 

May  this  right  hand  be  withered  for  ever, 
£re  it  string  our  high  harp  for  tlie  foe ! 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended. 
Oh  Salem !  its  sound  should  be  free; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended. 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee: 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me ! 

XXIL 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OP  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  eame  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 


And  the  sheen  of  their  ■pears  was  like  slan  on  (he  so,. 
When  the  bine  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blows, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  DeaA  spread  his  wings  on  the  bhat, 
And  breathed  in  the  fooe  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  fbr  ever  grew  stil? ' 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  aU  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  oChis  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  hisgasping  lay  white  on  the  txut, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surfl 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashnr  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 

xxia 

FROM    JOB. 
A  SPIRIT  pass'd  before  me:  I  beheld 
The  Ihce  of  Immortality  miveii'd  — 
Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine  — 
And  there  it  stood,  —  all  formless  —  but  divine: 
Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake; 
And  as  my  damp  hair  stiflen'd,  thus  it  spake: 

''  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?  Is  man  mote  pore 
Than  he  who  deems  even  Seraphs  inseeure? 
Creatures  of  clay  —  vain  dwdleta  in  the  dost! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Things  of  a  day  I  you  wither  ere  the  ajght. 
Heedless  and  blind  to  wisdom's  wasted  light!" 


539 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


Expende  Annilwlem:  -^  qoot  Ubnu  io  dvcc  iiwinio 

The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate,  by 
the  IUIi«iM»  and  by  the  Provlndals  of  Gaal ;  hl«  moral  virtvet, 
and  military  talento  were  Joadly  celebrated;  and  those  who 
derived  any  private  beneflt  from  hb  government  annoanccd 
in  prophetic  atraini  the  restoration  of  pabUc  fcficity. 


By  this  ihamefal  abditiati»|i,  he  protr««ted  his  life  a  few  years, 
in  a  ytry  ambfgooas  state,  between  an  Emperor  and  an  Eslle^ 
UU  »  ^  .  GiBBoa's  Decline  and  Fall,  Cfaapt  |0. 


'Tis  done  —  bat  yesterday  a  king ! 

And  arm'd  with  kings  to  strive  — 
And  now  thoa  art  a  nameless  thing : 

So  abject  —  yet  alive  I 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strew'd  our  earth  with  hostile  bones? 

And  can  he  thns  sunrWe  ? 
Since  be,  miscall'd  the  morning-star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  for. 


Ul-minded  man !  why  scooige  thy  kind 

Who  bowM  so  low  the  knee? 
By  gaaing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taughtst  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  nnqaestion'd,  —  power  to  save 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipped  thee ; 
Nor,  till  thy  ftll,  oonid  mortals  gness 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson  —  it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  speH  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  nnite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  pagod-things  of  sabre-sway. 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triamphy  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  — 
The  earthquake-shout  of  victory. 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life ; 


The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey. 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife  — 
All  qnell'd!  —  Dark  Spiritl  what  ntist  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory! 

The  Desolator  desolate ! 

The  Victor  overthrown! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  scope? 

Or  dread  (^ death  alone? 
To  die  a  prince  —  or  live  a  slave  — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  tlie  oak, 

Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound; 
Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke. 

Alone  —  how  look'd  he  round?  — 
Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length. 

And  darker  fete  hast  found: 
He  fell,  the  forest -prowlers'  prey; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

The  Roman,  when  his  bnming  heart 
Was  shtked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger  —  dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home. 
He  dared  depart,  in  utter  soorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-  upheld  abandoned  power. 


540 


ODB  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPART& 


Tbc  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  away 
Had  lost  its  qoickening^  spell, 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds. 
His  dotage  trifled  well : 

Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 

A  bigof  8  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou  -^  from  thy  reluctant  hand 
The  thunderbolt  is  wrung  — 

Too  late  thou  leavest  the  high  command 
To  which  thy  weakness  dung; 

All  BtU  Spirit  as  thou  art. 

It  b  enough  to  griere  the  heart. 
To  see  thine  own  unstrung ; 

To  think  that  God's  fiur  world  hath  been 

The  foostool  of  a  thing  so  i 


And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  I 
And  monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne ! 
Fair  Freedom  I  we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore,    - 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain  — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain. 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honour  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again  — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero -dust 

Is  yile  as  vulgar  clay; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality!  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away; 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay; 
Nor  deem'd  contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 

Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth ! 

i 

And  She,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower. 

Thy  still  imperial  bride; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  thronelelM  Homicide? 
If  still  she  loyes  thee,  hoard  that  gem, 
^18  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem  \ 


Then  baste  thee  to  thy  auUen  Isl^ 

And  gase  upon  the  sea; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile. 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  1 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand. 
In  loitering  mood,  upon  the  sand. 

That  earth  is  now  as  freel 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  bis  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

ThouTlmour!  in  his  captive's  cage 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage? 
But  one  —  ''The  world  wa#  mine:" 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth  — 
So  long  obey'd  —  so  little  worth! 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  firom  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven. 

His  vulture  and  his  rock! 
Foredoom'd  by  God  —  by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  wors^ 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock ; 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride. 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died! 

There  was  a  day  —  there  whs  an  hour, 

While  earth  was  Gaul's  —  Gaol  thine -^ 
When  that  inmieasurable  powor 

Unsated  to  resign, 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  ftme 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name, 

And  gilded  thy  decline^ 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king, 

And  don  the  purple  vest,  *- 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast 
Where  is  that  faded  garment!  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear, 

The  star  —  the  string  —  the  crest? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire!  say. 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch'd  away? 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repoae 

When  gazing  on  the  Great; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state? 
Yes  —  one  ^  Uie  first  —  the  tost  —  tite  best  - 
The  (Sncinnatns  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath'd  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  bat  one! 


541 


ENGLISH  BARDS 


AND 


SCOTCH  REVIEWERS; 

A    SATIRE. 


I  bad  rather  be  a  kitten^  and  cry  mew! 

Than  one  of  these  same  metre- ballad •moDgerg. 

SHAKaPBABB. 

Such  ihameless  Bard^  Mre  have;  and  ytt,*tU  tree. 
There  are  a«  mad,  abandoned  Cridct  too. 
Pom. 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


All  my  friends,  learned  and  nnleamed,  have  urged 
me  not  to  pubUsh  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I  were  to 
be  '^torn'd  from  the  career  of  my  humour  by  quibbles 
ijaicky  and  paper -bullets  of  the  brain/'  I  should  have 
eomplied  vnth  thdr  counseL  But  I  am  not  to  be  terrified 
by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  reviewers,  with  or  without  arms, 
[lean  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked  none  personally  who 
hfid  not  commence  on  the  ofiensive.  An  author's  works 
Ptoe  public  property:  be  who  purchases  may  judge,  and 
publish  his  opinion  if  he  pleases;  and  the  authors  1  have 
endearoored  to  commemorate  may  do  by  me  as  I  have 
done  by  them.  I  dare  say  they  will  succeed  better  in  con- 
demning my  scribblings,  than  in  mending  their  own.  But 
By  object  is  not  to  prove  that  I  can  write  well,  but,  ifpos" 
tibU,  to  make  others  write  better. 

As  the  Poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I  ex- 
pected, i  have  endeavoured  in  this  edition  to  make  some 
additions  and  alterations  to  render  it  more  worthy  of 
public  penisaL 

Id  the  first  edition  of  this  Satire,  published  anony- 
mously, fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope 
were  written  and  inserted  at  the  request  of  an  ingenious 
friend  of  mine,  who  has  now  in  the  press  a  volume  of 
poetry.  In.the  present  edition  they  are  erased,  and  some 
of  my  own  substituted  in  their  stead :  my  only  reason  for 
tins  bang  tiiat  which  I  conceive  would  operate  with  any 
o&er  person  in  the  same  manner  —  a  determination  not 
lo  publish  wUh  my  name  any  production  which  was  not 
otirely  and  exclusively  my  own  composition. 


With  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  tlie  poetical 
persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned  or  alluded 
to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the  autlior 
that  there  can  be  little  difference  of  opinion  in  the  public 
at  large;  though,  like  other  sectaries,  each  has  his  sepa- 
rate tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom  his  abilities  are 
overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and  his  metrical  canons 
received  without  scruple  and  without  consideration.  But 
the  unquestionable  possession  of  considerable  genius  by 
several  of  the  writers  here  censured,  renders  their  mental 
prostitution  more  to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pi- 
tied, or,  at  worst,  laughed  at  and  forgotten;  perverted 
powers  demand  the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one 
can  wish  more  than  the  author,  that  some  known  and  able 
writer  had  undertaken  their  exposure;  but  Mr.  Gifford 
has  devoted  himself  to  -Massinger,  and,  in  the  absence  of 
the  regular  physician,  a  country -practitioner  may,  in 
cases  of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed  to  prescribe  his 
nostrum,  to  prevent  the  extension  of  so  deplorable  an 
epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered,  as  it  is  to 
be  feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  recover  the 
numerous  patients  afflicted  with  the  present  prevalent 
and  distressing  rahies  for  rhyming.  ^  As  to  the  EeUn- 
hurgh  Reviewer*,  it  would,  indeed,  require  a  Hercules  to 
crush  the  Hydra;  but  if  the  author  succeeds  in  merely 
^'bruising  one  of  the  heads  of  the  serpent,''  though  his 
own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter,  he  will  be  am- 
ply satisfied. 


Still  must  I  hear  ?  —  shall  hoarse  Fitzgerald  bawl 
Hii  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern-hall. 
And  I  ni»t  sing,  teat,  haply,  Scotch  Reviews 


Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  Muse.' 
Prepare  for  rhyme  —  I'll  publish,  right  or  wrong: 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  Satire  be  my  song. 


542 


BNGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIBWERS. 


Oh !  Nature's  noblest  gift  —  my  gray  gooae-quUliX ,' 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will,  \  ^ 

Torn  from  thy  parent-bird  to  form  a  pen. 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men  1 
The  pen!  forcdoom'd  to  aid  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride : 
What  wits,  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise! 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise! 
Condemn'd  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite, 
With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  tliine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen! 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again, 
Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet's  shall  be  free ; 
Tho'  spum'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day ;  no  common  theme, 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream 
Inspires —  our  path^  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain; 
Smooth  be  the  verse  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sovereign  sway. 
And  men,  tlirough  life  her  willing  slaves,  obey ;    . 
When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Unfolds  her  motley  store  to  suit  the  time ; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  prevail, 
When  Justice  halts,  and  Right  begins  to  fail, 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers, 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  Satire  kept  in  awe, 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  Wit !  but  not  belong 

To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song; 

The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 

A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 

Still  there  are  follies  e'en  for  me  to  chase. 

And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race : 

Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fiune  •— 

The  cry  is  up,  and  Scribblers  arc  my  game; 

Speed,  Pegasus !  —  ye  strains  of  great  and  small. 

Ode,  Epic,  Elegy,  have  at  you  all! 

I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 

I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme  ^ 

A  schoolboy-freak,  unwordiy  praise  or  blame : 

I  printed  —  older  children  do  the  same. 

*Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print; 

A  book's  a  book,  altho'  there's  nothing  in't. 

Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
.>  ''  .  Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave : 
^ .         This  Lamb  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 

Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  force  from  shame. 
X   No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write, 

Tho'  now  the  name  is  vell'd  from  public  sight 
C>  Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 

'  The  setf-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review : 
,    Kpt  seek  great  Jeffrey's  —  yet,  like  him,  will  be 
\  Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade, 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made. 


Take  haduey'djokeslromMiLLtt,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learniog  to  misquote ; 
A  mind  well  slull'd  to  find  or  foige  a  fiiiilt ; 
A  turn   for  punning,  call  it  Attioaalt; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet. 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet: 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit; 
Care  not  for  feeling  —  pass  your  proper  jeat, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated,  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment?  no  —  as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December,  ice  in  June; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff. 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph ; 
Or  any  other  thing  that's  &lse,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore ; 
Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lamb's  Boeotian  head. 

To  these  young  tyrants,  by  themselves  mi^laocd. 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  Taste; 
To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 
And  hail  their  voice  as,  truth,  their  word  as  law ; 
While  these  are  censors,  'twould  be  sin  to  spare; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear  ? 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modem  worthies  run, 
'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike. 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before ; 
If  not  yet  sicken'd,  you  can  still  proceed ; 
Qo  on ;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days 
Ignoble  themes  obtain'd  mistaken  praise. 
When  Sense  and  Wit  with  Poesy  allied. 
No  fhbied  Graces,  flourish'd  side  by  side ; 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiratioii  drew. 
And,  rear'd  by  Taste,  bloom'd  (hirer  as  they  grew 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  m  vaia, 
A  poUsh'd  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim. 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  frmte. 
Like  him  great  l2jiY  den  pour'd  the  tide  of  soqg ; 
la  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doably  stto^g; 
Then  Conoreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  OTWAr'asMlt' 
For  nature  then  an  English  amfienoe  felt 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace. 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  plaoe? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  liQgeriag  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  Ifanes  are  past 
Now  look  around,  and  torn  each  trifliag  pag«, 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  Ikeage; 
This  truth  at  least  let  Satire's  self  allow, 
/No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now : 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labour  groans, 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones; 
While  Southey's  epics  eram  the  creakiag  shelve*, 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  In  liol-|n«sf'd  twelves. 


SHQJJSB  BAK]>S  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIEWER& 


543 


Thus  mitk  the  Pireaelier,  ^  BODgfct  beneath  the  mn 
I  new ;"  yet  still  ^eam  ehangpe  to  ebadge  we  run : 
HThat  varied  wnndeni  tempt  as  as  they  pass! 
die  oow-poxy  tractors,  galvaiusm,  and  gas , 
a  tnrns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgpar  slare, 
rill  the  swoln  babble  bursts  —  and  all  b  air. 
ior  less  new  schools  of  poetry  arise, 
If  here  dall  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prise : 
^er  Taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  preyail : 
Sacfa  dountry-book-clnb  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 
kad,  horling  lawful  genins  from  the  throne. 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own ; 
tome  leaden  calf  —  bat  whom  it  matters  not^ 
hrom  soaring  Southby  down  to  groveltingSTOTT. 

Behold !  in  yarions  flirongs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review ; 
Bseh  spars  bis  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 
kad  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  aa  equal  race; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode; 
bid  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 
Inmeasurable  measures  move  along; 
P'or  simpering  Polly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  Dnlness  still  the  friend, 
kdnures  the  strain  she  cannot  oomprebend. 
Hras  Lays  of  Minstrels  -*-  may  they  be  the  last !  -* 
)n  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast, 
9f  bile  mountain-sfnrits  prate  to  river-sprites, 
rhat  dames  may  listen  to  their  sound  at  nights  1 
ind  goblin-brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood. 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  th^  wood, 
Ind  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 
knd  frighten  foolish  babes,  ^le  Lord  knows  why; 
IIThile  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  ocU 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wiaard's  grave, 
knd  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing'  on  bis  roan, 
rhe  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion,  \*< 

Kow  forging  scrolls,  now  fbremost  in  the  tigfat/^  '*'^^ 
!¥ot  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight,  ^ 

rhe  gibbet  or  the  field  |Mrepared  to  grace — 
k  mighty  ihixture  of  the  great  and  base, 
knd  thinkst  thou,  Sccrrtl  by  vain  coneeit  perchance, 
)n  public  taste  to  foist  thy^^l^eromance, 
rhough  MiTRRAV  with  his  MitXER  may  comhine 
Po  yield  thy  wuse  just  half-a^erown  per  line? 
Wo!  wliea  the  sons  ofsong  descend  to  trade, 
rheir  bays  are  sear,  tbcir  former  laurels  fade. 
Let  such  forego  the  poef  s  sacred  name, 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  hme : 
jow  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 
kfld  soorn  reraanerale  the  mean  attempt! 
iiadi  be  thrir  meed,  sueh  still  the  just  reward 
)f  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard  1 
^or  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 
knd  bid  a  long  ''good  night  to  Marmion/' 

These  are  the  tii«BMf  that  claim  our  plaudits  now ; 
Cheie  are  the  bards  to  whom  themuae  mast  bow: 


While  Milton,  Bmrni,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre  and  Maeo  sung. 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim. 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name: 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years. 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  foce  of  earth. 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  stndn  can  give. 
As  even  in  rain  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards,  content. 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  hibour  spent: 
With  eagle-pinion  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  ballad-monger  Southby  rise; 
To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso,  yield. 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 
First  in  the  rajdcs  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance. 
The  scourge  of  Bngland,  and  the  boast  of  France ! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  Glory's  niche ; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  viiigin  Phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on, 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son; 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  overthrew 
More  mad  magirians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Immortal  Hero!  all  thy  foes  o'eroome,  . 
For  ever  reign  —  the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face. 
Well  wert  thou  doom'd  ^e  last  of  all  tiiy  race  I 
Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence, 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense ! 
Now,  last  and  greatest,  Madoe  spreads  his  Sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  Prince  in  Wales ; 
Tells  us  strange  tales  as  other  travellers  do. 
More  old  than  Mandeviile's,  and  not  so  true. 

Oh  \  SoPTHEY!  SoOTHEV  !  cease  thy  varied  anng ! 

A  Bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long: 
As  thou  art  strong  in  versey  in  mercy  spme! 
A  fourth,  alas !  were  more  than  we  conld  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  worid  can  say. 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  Ihy  weary  way; 
if  still  in  Berkley  Ballads,  most  uncivil. 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil. 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rae : 
<<God  help  thee,"  Southsy,  and  thy  readers  too. 

Next  comes  the  dnil  disciple  of  fliy  school. 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule. 
The  .simple  Wordsworxp,  frnmer  i>f  a  Ity 
As  soft  as  evenmg  in  his  fiivourife  May ; 
Who  warns  his  fri»d  ''to  shake  off  toil  and  trovble ,     « 
And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double;" 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  ezampfe,  shows 
Tliat  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  la  nwisly  prose; 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  ptain^ 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane; 
And  Cbristmas-atoriea,  tottoredinto  rhyme, 


544 


BMOUSH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  ItBVIEWERS. 


(S 


\- 


^K 


Contain  the  eiaenoe  of  the  true  sublime: 
Thus  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Fo^r, 
The  idiot  mother  of  ''an  idiot  boy ;" 
A  moon*struck  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way. 
And,  like  his  bard,  oonfonnded  night  with  day; 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adrentare  so  sablimdy  tells, 
Thut  all  who  Tiew^thr^diotiahis  glory/' 
CoBceiTe  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 


(^^ 


Thinkst  thou  to  gain  tiiy  Terse  a  higher  place 
By  dressing  Camoens  in  a  suit  of  lane? 
^end,  Strangforo!  mend  thy  morals  and  Ay 
pj '  be  warm,  bnt  pore ;  be  amorous,  bat  be  chaste: 
Cease  to  deceive;  thy  pilfered  haip  resting 
Nor  teach  the  Losian  bard  to  oopy  MooUB. 


\ 


-V^ 


U^ 


fW 


Shall  g^KQe  Coieridoe  pass  nnnotiped  here, 
Jo  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
ITet  still  obscurity's  a  welcome  gnest 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  rcftise 
To  him  who  takes  » Fi&y  fora  Miue> . 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  iKytkS^  An  ass.  - 
How  well  the  subfeet  soits  his  noble  mind! 
'^A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind." 

i^^  '^     Oh !  wonder-working  I«bwis  !  Monk,  or  Bard, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  churchyard ! 
lio!  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  tiiy  brow. 
Thy  Muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou ! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand. 
By  gibb'ring  spectres  hail'd,  thy  kindred  band; 
Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page. 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age; 
All  hail,  M.  P.  \  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train;  V   V 

At  whose  oommand,  ''grim  women"  throng  in  crowjds. 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds. 
With  ''small  grey  men,"  —  "wild  ya^gers,"  and  trhatnot, 
To  crown  with  honour  thee  and  Walter  Scott  ! 
Again,  all  hail!  If  tales  like  thine  may  please, 
St  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease; 
Bven  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell. 
And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  helL 

Wbo,  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and  cheek  by  passion  fliish'd» 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are  hiuh'dt 
*Tia  Little!  young  Catullus  of  his  day. 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral  in  his  lay  I 
Grieved  to  condemn,  the  Muse  must  still  be  jas^ 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  bums ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  tarns : 
Yet,  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  tiiee,  "mend  thy  line  and  sin  no  more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  saoh  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  Strangford  1  with  thine  eyes  of  bine. 
And  boasted  locks  of  red,  or  aubom  hue. 
Whose  plaintf ve  strain  each  loveniiek  Miss  «dmireSy 
And  o'er  harmonious  fusdan  half  expires. 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author's  sense. 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  fidse  pretence. 


i 

I 


In  many  marble-covered  Tolumes  view 
Hayley,  in  vain  attempting  something  new  : 
Whether  he  spin  his  comedies  in  rtiyme, 
Or  scrawl,  as  Wood  and  Barclay  walk,  'gainst  tioie^ 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same. 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  "Temper's  Triumphs" 
At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumph'd  over  mine^ 
Of  "Music's  Triumphs"  all  who  read  mi 
That  luckless  Music  nevcx  triumph'd  there. 

V  ^Moravians,  rise !  bestow  some  meet  reward 
bn  dull  Devotion  —  lo !  the  Sabbadi-Bard, 
Sepulchral  Graham,  pours  his  notes  sublime. 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme; 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  consoientioas  qualms, 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  thePsalms. 

«   Hail  Sympathy!  thy  soft  idea  brings 

X  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things. 

And  shows,  dissolved  in  thine  own  melting  tears. 

The  maudlin  prinoe  of  moumftd  sonneteers. 

And  art  thou  not  their  prinoe,  harmonious  Bowles  ! 

Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls? 

Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seekst  reliel^ 

Or  consolation  in  a  yellow  leaf; 

Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 

What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells^ 

Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend, 

In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend? 

Ah !  how  mudi  juster  were  thy  Muse's  hap, 

If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap ! 

Delightful  Bowles  I  still  blessiag  and  still  blesli 

All  love  thy  strain,  but  ctuldren  like  it  best 

'TIS  tiiine,  with  gentle  LrtTLB's  mond  song* 

To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng! 

With  thee  our  nurseiy-daniseb  died  thdr  tears^ 

£re  Miss  as  yet  oompletes  h^  infruat  years : 

But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain: 

She  quits  poor  Bowlbs>  for  Ltttle's  purer  strain. 

Now  to  soft  tiiemes  thou  soomest  to  oonfine 

The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine: 

"Awake  a  louder  and  a  l(rflier  strain," 

Such  as  none  heard  belore>  or  will  iq^; 

Where  all  discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood. 

Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud. 

By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book. 

From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Coos. 

Nor  this  alone;  bnt  pausing  on  the  road. 

The  Bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode; 

And  gravely  t^ls  —  attend  each  beauteous  Miasl  — 

When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss». 


ENGLISH  BAUDS  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIBWBRS. 


545 


iowLES !  in  ttiy  menor^  let  thte  pitoept  dwell, 

tidL  to  thy  Sonnets,  man!  at  least  they  sell. 

iat  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 

^mpt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a  scribe ; 

r  chance  some  bard,  thoagfa  once  by  dances  feared, 

[ow,  prone  in  dost,  can  only  be  revered ; 

rPoPEy  whose  fkme  and  genius  from  the  first  / 

bve  foird  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst, 

to  thou  essay ;  each  faoit,  each  fmlingscan: 

"he  first  of  poets  was,  alas!  but  man! 

take  from  each  ancient  danghill  every  pearl, 

insult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Cubll; 

let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age 

^rch  on  thy  pen  and  flatter  o'er  thy  page ; 

Lffect  a  candour  which  thou  canst  not  feel, 

3othe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal; 

If  rite  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire, 

knd  do  from  hate  what  Mallet  did  for  hire. 

Ih!  hadst  thou  lived  in  th^t  congenial  time, 

To  rave  with  Dbnnis,  and  with  Ralph  to  rhyme ; 

Throng' d  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 

tot  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead ; 

Lmeet  reward  had  crown'd  thy  glorious  gains, 

Lnd  link'd  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains. 

Another  Epic!  who  inflicts  again  \V\*^ 

fore  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  meit  t  ^  ^  ^ ' 
loeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa's  boast,    ^\^  ' 
mports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 
bid  sends  his  goods  to  market  —  all  alive ! 
ines  forty  thousand,  Cantos  twenty-five! 
?resh  fish  from  Helicon!  who'll  buy?  who'll  buy f 
rhe  precious  bargain's  cheap  —  in  faith,  not  I. 
Too  mudi  in  turtle  Bristol's  sons  delight. 
Poo  much  o'er  bowls  of  rack  prolong  the  night: 
f  Commerce  fills  the  purse,  she  clogs  the  brain, 
knd  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vain. 
la  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold  I 
?ondemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold 
>h!  Amos  Cottle  !  Phoebus !  —  what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame !  — 
)h!  Amos  Cottle!  for  a  moment  think 
Wkai  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink  I 
Wbok  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams. 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 
Dh!  pen  perverted!  paper  misapplied ! 
EEad  Cottle  still  adorn'd  the  counter's  side. 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils. 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Ploagh'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 
Bit  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him. 

As  ISsyphns  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock,  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep, 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond !  heaves 
Dnil  Maubicb  all  bis  granite- weight  of  leaves: 
imooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain ! 
fhe  petrifections  of  a  plodding  brain, 
Ihit  ere  they  reach  the  top  fall  lumbering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre  and  cheek  serenely  pala 
b!  sad  ALCAVSwandersdown  the  vale! 


Thoogh  fiur  they  rose  and  might  have  bloom'd  at  last. 
His  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast : 
Nipp'd  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales. 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  eUusie  Sheffield  weep; 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep ! 

Yet  say  I  why  should  the  Bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favour  from  the  sacred  Nine? 
For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  pron  I : 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way : 
Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead, 
No  mercy  find  —  these  harpies  must  be  fed. 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field?  ^ 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fiuigs  retreat. 
Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's  Seat? 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey!  once,  in  name, 
Bngland  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same: 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just. 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resigned  his  trust. 
And  given  the  Spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters  as  he  sentenced  men; 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack ; 
Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  bath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw; 
Since,  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party-tool. 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 
His  scribbling  toils  some  rcoompense  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  Judgmoit^seat? 
Let  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope: 
'*Heir  to  my  virtues  1  man  of  equal  mind! 
Skiird  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind. 
This  cord  receive  -^  for  thee  reserved  with  care, 
To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear," 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey!  Heaven  preserve  his  life^ 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  his  future  wars. 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventiiil  day. 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fktal  firay. 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 
And  Bow-street  myrmidons  stood  langhiag  by  ? 
Oh  day  disastrous!  on  her  firm-set  rock, 
Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock; 
Dark  roll'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groan'd  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  wave  to  forfn  a  tear, 
The  other  half  pursued  its  cahn  career; 
Arthur's  steep  summit  podded  to  its  bas^; 
The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  plao^ 
The  Tolbooth  felt  —  for  marble  sometiqies  cfa^ 
On  such  occasion^  feel  as  much  as  man  — 
35 


546 


BNGUSH  BARP3  AND  SCOTCH  RBVDSWEBS. 


The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  channs 

If  Jeffrey  died,  except  witbin  her  arms ; 

Nay,  last  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn 

The  sixteenth  story,  where  himself  was  bom. 

His  patrimonial  garret  fell  to  ground. 

And  pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  tlie  sound ; 

Strew'd  were  the  streets  around  with  miJk-whitc  reams, 

Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams ; 

This  of  his  candour  soem'd  the  sable  dew. 

That  of  his  valour  shew'd  the  bloodless  hue; 

And  all  with  justice  deem'd  the  two  combined 

The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia's  Goddess  hover'd  o'er 

The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moom; 

From  either  pistol  snatoh'd  the  vengeful  lead, 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  fiivourite's  head ; 

That  head,  wlA  greater  than  magnetic  power, 

Caught  it,  as  Danae  caught  the  golden  show  er. 

And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scaree  refine, 

Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 

'^My  son,''  she  cried,  <^ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again. 

Resign  the  pistol  and  resume  the  pen; 

0*er  poUtics  and  poesy  preside. 

Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide! 

For,  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit. 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign. 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold  a  cbosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  ranks  illustrious  shall  be  seen 

The  travell'd  Thane!  Athenian  Abbrdbbn. 

Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,  and  sometimes, 

In  gratitude,  thou'lt  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 

Smug  Sydney  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek. 

And  classic  Hallah,  much  reoown'd  for  Greek. 

Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lead, 

And  paltry  Pillans  shall  traduce  his  friend ; 

While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  Lamb, 

As  he  himself  was  damn'd,  shall  try  ta  danm. 

Known  be  thy  name^  unbounded  be  thy  sway ! 

Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  tail  rqiay ; 

While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes  • 

To  Holland's  hirdings,  and  to  Learning's  foes. 

Yet  mark  one  caution,  ere  thy  next  Review 

Spread  its  light  winga  of  saflron  and  of  blue, 

Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham  destroy  the  sale, 

Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowera  to  kaiJ." 

Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  Goddess  kist 

Her  son,  and  vanished  in  a  Scottish  mist 

Illustrious  Holland!  hard  woaldbe  liis  lot. 

His  hirelings  mention'd  and  himself  foi-got ! 

Holland,  with  Henry  Petty  at  his  back. 

The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 

Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland-House, 

Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carousel 

Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 

Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kepi  aloof. 

See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork. 

Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 

And,  grateful  to  the  founder  of  tlie  feast. 


Declare  his  landkMrd  can  translata,  at  least! 

Bunedin!  view  thy  children  with  delight. 

They  write  for  food,  and  feed  because  they  write. 

And  lest,  when  heated  with  th'  umHoal  grape. 

Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  i 

And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  check. 

My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique ; 

Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul,  I 

Reforms  each  ccior  and  refines  the  wlrale. 

Now  to  the  Drama  turn,  QV-  W2^^  *igt*  ^ 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite  T 
Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pen^ 
And  Dibdin's  nonsense  yield  coaq^lete  content. 
Though  now,  thank  Heaven !  the  Rosciomania'a  o'er. 
And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more ; 
Yet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please^ 
While  British  critics  sufiier  scenes  like  these? 
While  Reynolds  vents  his  "dammefs  poohs^aadBomMb,** 
And  common-i>laoe,  and  common-sense  confounds? 
While  Kenny's  World,  just  snfier'd  to  proceed. 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed! 
And  Bea  umont's  pilfer'd  Caratach  afibrds  | 

A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ? 
Who  but  must  mourn  while  these  are  all  the  rage,  | 

The  dq^dation  of  our  vaunted  stage  ? 
Heavens !  is  all  sense  of  shame,  and  telent  gone? 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit?  —  none! 
Awake,  George  Colman*  Ccvberland  awake! 
Ring  the  alarum-bell,  let  folly  quake ! 
Oh  Sheridan  1  if  aught  can  move  thy  pen. 
Let  Comedy  resume  her  throne  again ; 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  German  schools^ 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  foob ; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age. 
One  classic  chrama,  and  reform  the  Biage, 
Gods !  o'er  those  boards  shaU  Folly  rear  her  head. 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Kemblb  lives  to  tread  ? 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  bufibonery's  mask. 
And  HooKB  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask  ? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skefpinoton,  and  Mother  Goose? 
While  Shakespeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot, 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  iu  closets  rot? 
Lo !  with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  feme! 
In  grim  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise. 
Still  Skefpinoton  and  Goose  divide  the  prise. 
And  sure  ffrettt  Skefpinoton  must  claim  our  prais^ 
For  shirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renown'd  alike ;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  Green  wood's  gay  designs  ; 
Nor  sleeps  with  '^Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  anon 
In  ^ye  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,  i 

While  poor  John  Bull,  bewilder'd  with  the  scene,  | 

Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean ; 
But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few  I 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now,  ah!  wherefore  should  we  torn 
To  what  our  fethers  were,  unless  to  mMoal 


BNGUSH  BABDS  AMD  SCOTCH  REVIBWEIIS. 


547 


^egcDenie  Britons  I  are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
>r,  kind  to  duliicss,  do  ye  fear  to  blame? 
WeU  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
P^atch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  fkoe ; 
RTcll  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  bufiooas, 
Lnd  worship  Catalani's  pantaloons, 
Snoe  their  own  drama  yields  no  furer  trace 
)f  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grimace. 

Then  let  Ausokia,  skili'd  in  every  art, 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 
P*0ur  her  exotic  follies  o'er  the  town. 
To  sanction  vice,  and  hunt  decorum  down ; 
[rf^  wedded  strumpets  lang:«ush  o'er  Deshayes, 
ind  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays; 
nrhile  Gayton  bounds  before  (he  enraptured  loolcs 
)f  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes: 
[iet  high-bom  letchers  eye  the  lively  Presle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless  veil: 
[<et  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 
Wnve  the  white  arm  and  point  the  pliant  toe; 
Jollini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 
Strain  her  fair  neck  and  charm  the  listening  throng! 
latse  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice ! 
{efonning  Saints !  too  delicately  nice  I 
ly  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save, 
io  sunday-tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave ; 
Lnd  beer  undrawn  and  beards  unmown  display 
four  holy  reverence  for  the  sabbath-day. 

Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
)f  vice  andfblly,  Greville  and  Argylel 
^here  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion's  hidlow'd  ftme, 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
iehold  the  new  Petronius  of  the  day, 
rhe  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play ! 
rhere  the  hired  Eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 
\fhe  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre, 
rhe  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 
Phc  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance. 
The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine. 
'or  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine : 
Sacfa  to  his  humour,  —  Comus  all  alfows ; 
;;hampaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour's  spouse. 
ralk.  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade  1 
)f  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made: 
D  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 
Jor  tiiink  of  Poverty,  except  "en  masque," 
Vhen  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Lppears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 
rhe  curtain  dropp'd,  the  gay  Burletta  o'er, 
!Tie  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor; 
(ow  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep, 
row  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap : 
*he  first  in  lengtben'd  line  majestic  swim, 
•he  laat  display  (he  free,  unfetter'd  limb: 
"hose  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 
ITith  art  the  charms  which  Nature  could  not  spare; 
*heae  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight, 
for  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night 


Oh !  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease! 
Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please^ 
Bach  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial'tliought, 
Each  swun  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught : 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  retnm'd  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  tight  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main; 
The  jovial  caster's  set,  and  seven's  the  nick, 
Or  —  done !  >-  a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick ! 
If  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire, 
And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire, 
Here's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life. 
And,  kinder  stiii,  a  Paget  for  your  wife. 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace ; 
While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 
Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath , 
Traduced  by  liarS,  and  forgot  by  all. 
The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl. 
To  live  like  Clodws,  and  like  Falkland  fall. 

Truth !  rouse  some  genuine  Bard,  and  guide  his  hand 
To  drive  this  pefltilenoe%from  out  the  land. 
Even  I  —  least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng. 
Just  skili'd  to  luiow  the  right  and  c^use  the  wrong. 
Freed  at  that  age  when  Reason's  shield  is  lost, 
To  fight  my  course  through  Passion's  countless  host, 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flowery  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  ali  have  led  astray  — 
E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 
Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal ;      \ 
Altho'  some  kind,  censorious  fiiend  will  say,  j 

''What  art  thou  better,  meddlmg  fooJ,  than  they  r'    ,     ^ 
And  every  brother-rake  will  smile  to  see  j 

That  miracle,  a  Moralist,  in  me.  I 

No  matter  —  when  some  Bard,  in  virtue  strong, 
GipPORD  perchance,  shall  rabe  the  chastening  song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever!  and  my  voiee 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him  and  rejoice; 
Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise;  thOHgh  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  virtue  most  apply. 

A9  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  In  shoals^ 
From  silly  Hafiz  up  to  simpte  Bowles, 
Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode. 
In  broad  6t  Giles's  or  in  Tettenliam  Road  ? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  feakion  noUy  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bofid-street,  or  the  S<|aare  ? 
If  thiiH^  of  ton  their  harmkas  lays  tndile. 
Most  wisely  doom'd  to  shun  the  pvUtosig^t, 
What  hahrn  ?  in  spite  of  every  cBkic  el^ 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanaas  to  hianwrff ; 
Miles  Andrews  still  kU  strength  in  eoapieti  try, 
And  live  in  prologaes,  though  his  dramas  die. 
Lords  too  are  Bards :  such  things  at  times  befaU, 
And  'tis  some  praise  in  Peers  to  write  atalL 
Yet,  did  or  taste  or  leaaon  sway  the  tines, 
Ah  I  who  would  take  theur  titiea  with  their  rhymes? 
Roscommon  !  ShefpiwjdI  with  yomr  spirils  fled. 
No  future  laurehi  deck  a  noble  bead ; 
No  Muse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  smiley 


548 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIBWSR& 


The  paralytic  puling  of  Carlmle  : 

The  puny  schoolbdy  and  his  early  lay 

Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away; 

But  ivho  foigives  the  senior's  oeaseiess  Terse, 

Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  riiymes  grow  worse? 

What  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  Peer ! 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer! 

So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age, 

His  scenes  alone  had  damn'd  our  sinking  stage: 

But  Managers  for  once  cried  <^hold,  enough!" 

Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 

Yet  at  thdr  judgment  let  his  Lordship  laugh, 

And  case  his  Yolumes  in  congenial  calf: 

Yes  I  doff  that  covering  where  morocco  shines. 

And  hang  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  lines. 

With  yon,  ye  Druids!  rich  in  native  lead. 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread, 
With  you  I  war  not:  Gipforo's  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'd,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  <<all  the  Talents"  vent  your  venal  spleen, 
Want  your  defence,  let  Pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  Monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew. 
And  Melville's  Mantle  prove  a  blanket  too ! 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard. 
And  peace  be  with  you!  'tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  ihme  as  Dundads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  dose. 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  bc't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Rosa's  prose  in  masquerade^ 
Whose  strains,  the  faithftil  echoes  of  tier  mind. 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  fiur  behind. 
Though  Crusca's  bards  no  more  our  journals  fill. 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  their  columns  still. 
Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Bell's, 
MATaoA  snivds  yet,  and  Hafez  yells; 
And  Merry's  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  the  signature  of  O,  P.  Q. 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall. 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  Muse, 
Heavens !  how  the  vulgar  stare !  how  crowds  applaud ! 
How  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud ! 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his  jest, 
'Tis  sheer  ill-nature;  don't  the  world  know  best 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme. 
And  Capbl  Lofft  dedares  'tis  quite  sublime. 
Hear,  thm,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade ! 
Swains !  quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade : 
Lo  !  Burns  and  Bloohfisld,  nay,  a  greater  iar, 
GiFPORD  was  bom  beneath  an  adverse  star, 
Forsook  the  labours  of  a  servile  state, 
Stemm'd  the  rude  storm  and  triamph'd  over  Fate 
Then  why  no  more  ?  if  Phoebus  smiled  on  you, 
Bloomfield  !  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too  ? 
Him  too  the  Mania,  not  the  Muse^  has  sdsed ; 
Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased: 


And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode. 

No  common  be  enclosed,  witiiout  an  ode. 

Oh !  since  increased  refinonent  deigns  to  smiie 

On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  Isle, 

Let  Poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole. 

Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechaBio  soul: 

Ye  tuneful  cobblers !  still  your  notes  prok>B!g, 

Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  song ; 

So  shall  the  ikir  your  handy  work  peruse; 

Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please  —  perhaps  your  shoes. 

May  Moorland-  weavers  boast  Pindaric  sidll, 

And  taylors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill! 

While  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes. 

And  pay  for  poems  ~  when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  fiuned  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  doe. 
Neglected  Genius !  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forth,  oh  Campbell  !  give  thy  talents  scope; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope? 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers  1  rise  at  last, 
Recdithe  pleasing  memory  of  the  past; 
Arise  1  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallow 'd  lyre! 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne. 
Assert  thy  country's  honour  and  thine  own. 
What?  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowpbr  sleep ! 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns, 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrd.  Burns! 
No !  tho'  contempt  liath  mark'd  the  spurious  brood. 
The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food; 
Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  'tis  hers  to  boast. 
Who,  least  affecting,  still  affect  the  most; 
Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  fed  — 
Bear  witness  Gifford,  Sothbby,  Macnbl. 

^Wby  slumbers  Gifford?"  once  was  ask'd  in  vain: 
Why  slumbers  Gifford?  let  us  ask  again. 
Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  puigc? 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scouige? 
Are  there  no  sins  for  Satire's  Bard  to  greet? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  Pollution's  path. 
And  'scape  alike  the  Law's  and  Muse's  wrath ! 
Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime? 
Arouse  thee,  Gifford  !  be  thy  promise  daim'd, 
.  Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed* 

^^ 

Unhappy  White!  while  life  was  in  its  spring. 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came,  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  deep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone. 
When  Sdence  self  destroyed  her  fhvourite  son  l 
Yes !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit 
'Twas  thine  own  Genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low : 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  tiie  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  douds  to  soar  again. 


niOUSH  BAKDS  AND  SCOTCH  KBVIBWBRS. 


549 


riew'd  liis  own  feather  on  the  flital  dart, 
iMMd  wing'd  the  shaft  that  qniverM  in  his  heart: 
Leen  were  His  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  fe^ 
Ic  nursed  the  pinion  which  impellM  the  steel, 
HThile  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 
!>Fank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeiUng  breast 

There  be  who  say  in  these  enUghten'd  days 
rhat  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poef  s  praise; 
rhnt  alrala'd  invention,  ever  on  the  wing, 
klone  impels  the  modem  bard  to  sing: 
Tia  troe  that  all  who  rhyme,  nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fotal  word  to  Gknius  —  trite ; 
fet  tmth  sometimes  will  lend  her  noblest  fires, 
Uid  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires: 
riiis  &ct  in  virtue's  name  let  Crabbb  attest  — 
rhongh  nature's  sternest  painter^  yet  the  best 


And  here  let  Shbb  and  genius  find  a  place^ 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace; 
ro  guide  whose  hand  the  sister-arts  combine^ 
hnd  trace  the  poef  s  or  the  painter's  line; 
Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvass  glow, 
Dr  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow ; 
While  honours  doubly  merited  attend 
rhe  poefs  dvai^  but  the  painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  Muses  at  their  natal  hour ; 
Whose  steps  have  press'd,  whose  eye  has  mark'd  afar, 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 
rhe  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore . 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallo  w'd  feelings  for  those  classic  lands  ; 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by. 
And  views  their  remnants  with  a  poef  s  eye ! 
Wbigbt  !  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too ; 
And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  Bards  I  who  snateh'd  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern  sight; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aoniau  odOurs  breathe. 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung. 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue ; 
Now  let  those  minds  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 
Though  soil  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrow'd  tone : 
fiesigu  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause. 
Restore  the  Muse's  violated  laws: 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime, 
That  migbty  mastel^f  unmeaning  rhyme; 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adom'd  than  clear, 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear; 
h  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass. 
Hut  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass ; 


Wh&e  aU  his  strain  of  hoverhtg  sylphs  around, 
Evaporate  in  similies  and  sound : 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die : 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  tiie  eye. 

YeUettiiem  not  to  vnlyar  WoaPHiyffWTHgtnftp^ 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group. 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  ciiildish  prattle  void, 
Seeins  blessed  hannony  to  Lamb  and  Lloyd; 
Let  them  —  but  hold,  my  miise,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach ; 
The  native  g^ns  with  their  feeling  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

Amirt»/v^^  ^^^  g/.k^  I  >^»;pn  ifi  ipinatr*^^  rpf|#> 
Th<rwiid^  Slogan  of  a  Border-feud : 
Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire  — 
Enough  for  genius  if  itself  inspirel 
Let  SouTHET  sing,  although  his  teeming  rouse,, 
Prolifie  every  spring,  be  too  profuse ; 
Let  simple  WoaOiSWORTH  chime  his  childish  verse,  ^ 
And  brother  Colbeidgi^  lull  thp  babe  at  nurse ; 
Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most. 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  Moore  be  lewd ;  letSTRANOFORD  steal  froom  Moo&t, 
And  swear  that  Cavobns  sang  such  notes  of  yore; 
Let  Haylby  hobble  on,  Montoombry  rave, 
And  godly  Graham  chaunt  a  stupid  stave; 
Let  sonnetteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine. 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line; 
Let  Stott,  Carlisle,  Matilda,  and  the  rest 
Of  Grub-street;  and  of  Grosvenor-Place  the  best, 
Scrawl  on,  'till  death  release  us  from  the  strain. 
Or  common-sense  assert  her  rights  again  I 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 
Shonldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  Nine, 
Demand  a  hallow'd  harp  -—  that  harp  is  thine. 
Say !  will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  fields 
Than  the  vile  foray/Of  a  plundering  clan, 
Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ? 
Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
For  outlaw'd  Sherwood's  tales  of  Robin  Hood? 
Scotland !  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  Bard, 
And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward ! 
Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live. 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give ; 
Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more. 
And  tell  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fhme  recall. 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  faU. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poef  s  hope. 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise. 
And  other  victors  fill  the  applauding  skies : 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along. 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song: 
E'en  now  what  once-loved  minstrels  scarce  may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  namel 


550 


BNQLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RBVTBWlBatS. 


\l  hen  Fame'i  load  tramp  hatb  blown  it's  noUeil  blatt> 
Thou^  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last. 
And  Glory,  like  the  Phoenix  midst  her  fires. 
Exhales  her  odours,  biases,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  saUe  sons. 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  pans? 
Shall  these  approach  the  Muse !  ah,  no !  die  flies, 
And  even  spams  the  great  Seatonian  prise, 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,  and  epic  blank  by  Hotue: 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist. 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list 
Ye  who  in  Granta'a  honours  would  surpass. 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  fullgrown  ass  «-^ 
A  foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam, 
Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 
There  Clarke,  stili  striving  piteously  '^  please," 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  aot  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  baifooB, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  iampoon, 
Condemn'd  to  drudge,  the/neanest  of  the  mean, 
And  furnish  falsehoods  for  a  magaslne, 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind  — 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind. 
Oh,  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race ! 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning*  and  disgraoe : 
So  sunk  in  dulness  and  so  lost  in  shame, 
That  Smythe  and  Hoooson  scarce  redeem  thy  <hme! 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave. 
The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave; 
On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  is  wove, 
To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove. 
Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  pocf  s  fires. 
And  modern  Bntons  justly  praise  their  sires. 

For  me,  who  thus  unask'd  have  dared  to  tell 
liiy  country  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well, 
Zeal  for  her  honour  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age. 
No  just  applause  her  honoured  name  shall  lose, 
As  first  in  fk«edom,  dearest  to  the  Muse. 
Oh,  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  (fay  fkme. 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name! 
What  Athens  was  in  scienoe,  Rome  in  power. 
What  Tyre  appear'd  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion,  to  have  been. 
Earth's  chief  dictatress,  Ocean's  mighty  queen: 
But  Rome  dccay'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain, 
And  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shattered  in  flie  main: 
Like  these  tliy  strength  may  sink  in  ruin  hurl'd. 
And  Britain  fiill,  the  bulwark  of  tiie  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate. 
With  warning  ever  scoffed  at,  till  too  late; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine. 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine. 

Then,  hapless  Britain!  be  Hiy  rulers  blest, 
The  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest! 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 


The  flowers  of  rhetorie,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  Canming's  eoNeagucs  bate  him  for  his  wit, 
And  old  dame  Portland  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Yet  OBoa  agmn  adieu!  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale: 
And  AInc's  coast  and  Calpe's  adverse  height. 
And  Stamboul's  minarets  must  greet  my  sight: 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  native  t 
Where  Kaff  isclad  in  rooks,  and crown'd  with  \ 
But  should  I  back  return,  no  letter'd  rage  1 1 

Shall  drag  my  common-plaoe-book  on  the  stage : 
Let  vain  Valentia  rival  luckless  Carr, 
And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar; 
Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  lirtft : 
Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks, 
Misshapen  monuments  and  maim'd  antiques; 
And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art: 
Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  to  classic  Gell  ; 
And  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  mankind  with  poesy  or  prose. 


Thus  fiir  I've  held  my  uikfisturb'd « 
Prepared  for  rancour,  stecl'd  'gainst  selfish  fear: 
Tliis  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  ow  a  — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown: 

I  My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud; 

I  My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd; 

I  And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away: 

f  Cheer  on  the  pack !  the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne -ROtrse, 
By  Lamb's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse, 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallak's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough. 
And  feel  they  too  are  ^'penetrable  stuff :" 

I  And  though  I  hope  not  henoe  unscaHied  to  go. 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall, 
Nor  fools  nor  fbllies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  errs: 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  ehangt?d  since  yonlh, 
I've  learned  to  think  and  sternly  speak  the  truth; 
Leam'dto  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me ; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss. 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hisx: 
Nay,  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  fh>wii, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down; 
And>  arm'd  in  proof,  the  gauntiet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  Southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I've  dared  to  do;  how  far  my  lay 
Hath  wrong'd  these  righteous  times^el  others  say; 
This  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare, 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare. 


551 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 


IramoUit,  eC  f 


PallM  !•  hoe  Tulnere,  Pallaf 

m  fcclBrato  ex  UDpiine  suuit 


Slow  sinks,  more  loTely  ere  his  race  l>e  nm, 
Uong*  Morea's  hills  the  setting  son : 
l^ot,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright. 
Bat  one  ancloaded  blase  of  living  light! 
3'er  the  hnsh'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Silds  the  green  wave^  that  trembles  as  it  glows : 
>n  old  Mgina,*9  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
rhe  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 
3'er  his  own  regions  lingering  lores  to  shine, 
rhoDgfa  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  -shadows  kiss    , 
rhy  glorious  gulph,  nnconquer^d  Salamis! 
rheir  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
tfore  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 
knd  tenderest  tints,  along  l;be&r  summits  driven, 
Ifark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven ; 
rill,  darkly  shaded  fipom  the  land  and  deep, 
Sehind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  east, 
WheDy  Athens!  here  thy  wisest  kwk'd  his  last: 
low  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  ftirewell  ray, 
rhat  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day ! 
lot  3ret  —  not  yet  —  Sol  pauses  on  tlie  hill  -~ 
rhe  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still : 
lat  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
Lnd  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes; 
tlooni  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seemed  to  pour, 
rhe  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  befbre ; 
lat  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaoron's  head, 
!1ie  cup  of  woe  was  qualTd  —  the  spirit  fled ; 
lie  soul  of  him  that  soom'd  to  tsar  or  fly  — 
Who  Kved  and  died  as  none  can  lire  or  die! 

Bat,  lo!  from  high  Hymettns  to  the  phun, 
lie  qaeen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign ; 
fo  murky  vapour,  heraki  of  the  storm, 
Qdcs  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  fom: 
nih  oomioe  glimmering  as  the  moonbeaaAS  play, 
herB  the  white  oofaimn  greets  her  grateftil  ray, 
fid  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
[er  eoihlem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret: 
he  groTCfl  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide, 


Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, 
And,  dun  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus '  fime,  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinged  with  varied  hoes,  arrest  the  eye  — 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  .^gean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle. 
That  frown  —  where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 

As  thus  within  the  walls  of  PaHas'  fktie 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main. 
Alone  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore. 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  Five  in  poet's  lore^ 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  tnm'd  to  scan. 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man. 
The  past  return'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease, 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece. 
Hours  roli'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Hadgain'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky; 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanished  god ; 
But  chiefly,  Palhu  1  thine,  when  Hecate's  glare, 
Check'd  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  Mdly  Ihir 
O'er  the  chlU  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 
Long  had  I  mused,  and  measured  every  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  raea^ 
When,  lo!  a  giant*form  before  me  strode^ 
And  Pallas  hail'd  me  in  her  own  abode. 
Tes,  'twas  Minerva's  self,  but,  ah  I  how  changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged  I 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  oommaod, 
Her  form  appear'd  from  Phidias'  pkurtio  hand; 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow. 
Her  idle  ifigis  bore  no  Gorgon  now ; 
Her  helm  was  deep  indented,  and  her  iaoce 
Seem'd  weak  and  shafUess,  ci'en  to  aortal  glance 


552 


THB  CURSB  OF  HIKBRVA. 


The  oliTe-brancb,  which  still  she  deignM  to  clasp. 

Shrunk  from  her  touch  and  withered  in  her  grasp: 

And,  ah!  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 

Celestial  tears  bedimmM  her  large  blue  eye; 

Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow, 

And  mourn'd  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  woe. 

'Mortal !  ('twas  thus  she  spake)  tiiat  blush  of  shame 

Proclaims  thee  Briton  —  once  a  noble  name  ^ 

First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free. 

Now  honoured  Ust  by  all  —  and  least  by  me: 

Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found:  — 

Seekst  thou  the  cause?   O  mortal,  look  around  1 

Lo  I  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 

I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire; 

'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Groth, 

Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  both! 

Survey  this  vacant  violated  fane; 

Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain; 

J%e9e  Cecrops  placed  r-  tku  Pericles  adorn*d  — 

not  Hadrian  rear'd  when  drooping  science  mourn'd : 

What  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest  — 

Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest 

That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  came, 

Th'  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name. 

For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads: 

Below,  his  name  ^  above,  behold  bis  deeds ! 

Be  ever  bailM  with  equal  honour  here 

The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer. 

Arms  gave  the  first  his  right  —  tlie  last  had  none, 

But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won  I 

So  when  the  lion  quits  liis  fell  repast. 

Next  prowls  the  wolf  —  the  filthy  jackal  last : 

Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood,  the  former  make  their  own; 

The  last  base  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 

Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  crost  — 

See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost  I 

Another  name  with  liis  pollutes  my  shrine, 

Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine! 

Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim, 

When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame.'' 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply. 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye:  — 
"Daughter  of  Jove !  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim ! 
Frown  not  on  England  —  England  owns  him  not  — 
Atiiena^tto!  the  plunderer  was  a  Scot! 
Askst  thou  the  diflerenoe?  From  fair  Phyle's  towers 
Survey  Boeotia  —  Caledonia 's  ours. . 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard- land 
Hath  wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command: 
A  barren  soil,  where  nature's  germs,  confined. 
To  stem  sterility  can  stint  the  mind; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth, 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth. 
Bach  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist, 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist: 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzling  brain, 
nil  burst  at  length  each  watery  head  o'erflows, 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows : 


Ten  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 

Despatch  her  scheming  children  &r  and  wide ; 

Some  east,  some  west,  some  —  every  where  but  north. 

In  quest  of  lawless  gain  they  issue  forth ; 

And  thus,  accursed  be  the  day  and  year, 

She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 

Yet,  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth. 

As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth  — 

So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave. 

Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  o'er  the  grave. 

Shake  off  tibe  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land. 

And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand : 

As  once  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place, 

Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched  race! " 

^'Mortal,"  the  blue -eyed  maid  resumed,  ''onoe  mort. 
Bear  back  ray  mandate  to  thy  native  shore; 
Though  fallen,  alas !  this  vengeance  still  is  mine. 
To  turn  my  counsels  fiur  from  fainds  like  thine. 
Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  stem  behest; 
Hear  andbeBeve,  for  time  shall  tell  the  rest 
First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  the  deed 
My  curse  shall  light,  —  on  him  and  all  his  seed: 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  tlie  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire: 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace. 
Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  rao&; 
Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate. 
And  folly's  praise  repay  for  wisdom's  hate! 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  teU, 
Whose  noblest  native  gusto  —  is  to  sell : 
To  sell,  and  make  (may  shame  record  the  day !) 
The  state  recover  of  his  pilfer'd  prey! 
Meantime,  the  flattering  feeble  dotard.  West, 
Europe's  worst  dauber  and  poor  Britain's  best, 
With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er. 
And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore: 
Be  all  the  bruisers  caU'dfrom  all  St  Giles, 
Tliat  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles; 
While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare. 
And  marvel  at  his  lordship's  stone-skop  there. 
Round  tlie  throng'dgate  shall  saunteringcoxoorabscrcc^ 
To  lounge  and  lucubrate^  to  prate  and  peep : 
While  many  a  languid  maid,  with  iongiiig  sigh. 
On  giant-  statues  casts  the  curious  eye ; 
The  room  widi  transient  glance  appears  to  skim. 
Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb; 
Mourns  o'er  the  difference  (nfnow  and  iken; 
Exclaims,  '^ese  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men;" 
Draws  slight  comparisons  of  iJkete  with  Mmv, 
And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux : 
When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  titesc-! 
Alas!  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules ! 
And  last  of  all,  amidst  tlie  gaping  crew. 
Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view. 
In  silent  indignation,  mix'd  with  grie^ 
Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 
Loathed  throughout  life  ^  scarce  pardonM  k  the  dustp 
May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust! 
Link'd  with  the  fool  who  fired  th'  Ephesian  dome. 
Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb ; 


THS  CURSB  <MP  MINBRVA. 


553 


tooctiatwi  and  Bipn  e'er  shall  sbioe 
ft  HMUftj  a  braading  page  and  barning  line  I 
like  oondemn'd  for  aye  to  stand  accursed  — 
Perchance  the  second  viler  than  the  first: 

0  let  him  stand  throngfa  ages  yet  unborn, 
Ix'd  statae  on  the  pedestal  of  soorn  I 
lioiigli  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait, 
tut  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate: 

Ecra  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
'o  do  If  hat  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
«ook  to  the  Baltic  blazing  from  afar  — 
roar  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war: 
rot  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 
^  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made; 
ffur  from  such  councils,  from  the  ftithless  field 
lie  fled  —  hut  left  behind  her  Gorgon  -shield  ; 

1  fiital  gift»  that  tum'd  your  inends  to  stone^ 
tad  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  alone. 

iook  to  the  east,  where  Ganges'  swarthy  race 
f|»m|i  shake  your  usurpation  to  its  base; 
ifo!  th^re  rebellion  rears  her  ghastly«head, 
tad  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead, 
Rn  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureai  flood, 
Uid  claims  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood, 
lo  may  ye  perish!  Pallas,  when  she  gave 
four  free-bom  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 
jook  OB  your  Spain,  she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates, 
lot  ooldiy  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
iear  witness  bright  Barrossa,  thou  canst  tell 
i^hose  wexe  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell, 
WWe  Lusitanta,  kind  and  dear  ally, 
^Svk  q^are  a  few  to  fight  and  sometimes  fly. 
>hglorioas  field!  by  femine  fiercely  won; 
rhe  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done ! 
Int  when  did  Pallas  teach  that  one  retreat 
Etetriered  three  long  olympiads  of  defeat  ? 
[iOok  last  at  home— ye  love  not  to  look  there, 
)b  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair ; 
four  dty  saddens:  loud  though  revel  howls, 
Sere  fionine  fiaints,  and  yonder  rapine  prowls : 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft— 
Ho  misers  tremble  when  there's  nothing  left. 
'Bltsi  paper-credit"  who  shall  dare  to  smgT 
[tdogs  like  lead  corruption's  weary  wing: 
ret  Pallas  pluck'd  each  Premier  by  the  ear. 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain'd  to  hear; 
But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state, 
On  Pallas  calls,  but  calls,  alas !  too  late; 
rhea  raves  for  *  *  * ;  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
rhcni^  be  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends : 
Bfim  senates  hear  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
CSoatemptuous  onoe,  and  now  no  less  absurd : 
3o  onee  of  yore  each  reasonable  frog 
Swoie  fisith  and  fealty  to  hU  sovereign  log. 
rhus  hail'd  your  rulers  tiieir  patridan  clod, 
^  Egypt  ofaose  an  onion  for  a  god. 


>  ^ow  flue  ye  well,  e^joy  your  little  hour; 
Go,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish'd  power;  • 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme^ 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind. 
And  pirates  barter  all  thaf  s  left  behind ; 
No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and  fiir. 
Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war; 
The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay , 
Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away; 
Or,  bade  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 
Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encamber'd  shores; 
The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom, 
And  desperate  mans  him  'gainst  the  common  doom. 
Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state. 
Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  l)ave  weight 
Vain  is  each  voice  whose  tones  could  once  command ; 
B'en  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land ; 
While  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister-isle. 
And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

'"Tis  done,  'tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain,  ^ 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign ; 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remidns, 
And  Craul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains. 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files. 
O'er  whose  gay_trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles ; 
The  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum. 
That  bid  the  foe  defiance  ere  they  come; 
The  hero,  bounding  at  his  country's  call. 
The  glorious  death  that  decorates  his  fall. 
Swell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 
And  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  anns. 
But  know,  a  lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught-- 
With  death  alone  are  laureb  cheaply  bought ; 
Not  in  the  conflict  havoc  seeks  ddight. 
His  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  flght ; 
But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
Though  drenoh'd  .vith  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun. 
His  deeper  deeds  ye  know  yet  but  by  name ; — 
The  slaughtered  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  dame. 
The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foenreap'd  field, 
III  suit  with  souls  at  home  untaught  to  yield. 
Say  with  what  eye,  along  the  distant  down. 
Would  flying  burghers  mark  the  biasing  town? 
How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames  ? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion !  for  the  torch  was  thine 
That  lit  sudi  pytes  fW>m  Tagus  to  the  Rhine ; 
Now  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coasi, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom,  who  deserves  them  most? 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life; 
And  she  who  raised  m  vain  regretf  the  strife/' 

1819. 


85* 


554 


mMBoevmcmm. 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE; 

CARMEN  SECULASE  ET  ANNUS  HAUD  MISABILI& 


*|inp«r  Coofrtsimt  AckllH." 


Thb  "good  old  line8"-*-ttll  timei^  wbes  oBA,  are  food- 
Are  gone :  tiie  pr^0^^  migi^  be»  tf  they  woiM; 
Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  still 
Want  little  of  mere  norlals  baft  their  nill: 
A  wider  space,  a  grcevei  field  is  given 
To  those  who  play  their  <<triok9  befio4re  Mgh  HeaYMK** 
I  know  not  if  the  angds  weep,  hM  men 
Have  wept  enough— for  what?^|D  weep  again. 

AH  is  exp]oded-«*be  it  good  or  had. 
Reader !  remember  when  thon  weit  a  la4 
Then  Pitt  was  aU ;  or,  ifnotaUySomoeb, 
His  very  rival  almost  decmM  him  sneh. 
We,  we  have  secB  the  intoHeetnal  raee 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Tkans,  ihce  to  ihco-*- 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashmg  sea 
Ofeloqaence  between,  wUch  tow'd  all  flwey 
As  the  deep  billows  of  the  i!^ean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  Hie  Phrygian  shore. 
Bat  where  are  they — ^rivaki?— a  Ibw  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  w]Rding>-sheet. 
How  peaceful  and  bow  powerAil  Is  the  grave 
Which  hashes  all  I  a  ealm,  nostormy  wave 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.  The  theme  is  old 
Of  <'dust  to  dust;"  hut  half  its  tale  nntold. 
Time  tempers  not  its  teirora^slill  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  Its  form^ 
Varied  above,  bat  still  alike  below; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
Though  Cleopatra^f  mommy  cross  the  sea. 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Anthony ; 
Though  Alexander^  urn  a  show  be  grown 
On  shores  he  wept  to  eonquer,  thongli  unknowns- 
How  vain,  how  wor^e  than  vain  at  length  appear 
The  madman^s  wish,  the  Macedonian's  tear  I 
He  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer— half  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  Ids  death,  and  birth. 
And  desolation;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "wept  for  worlds  to  conquer!"  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe  he  panted  not  to  spare! 
With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown. 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  neter  knew  lus  throne. 


Bat  where  is  he,  the  modem,  mIgMer  thr. 
Who,  bom  no  king,  made  monarehs  ih«w  his  ear ; 
The  new  Sesostris,  whose  onharness'd  kings, 
Free'd  from  the  bit,  hefieve  Hiemselves  ytkh  wings, 
And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  they  erawPd  of  Infe, 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state  ? 
Yes  1  where  is  he,  the  (Champion  and  the  Chill 
Of  all  that's  great  or  little^  wise  or  wild  ? 
Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whosestakes  were  thrones? 
Whose  table,  earth— whose  diee  were  hnmaB  benes? 
Behold  the  grand  result  In  yon  lone  iste. 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  Quetler  of  the  Nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  e*er  dispnted  ration*; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  hediae% 
O'er  curtail'd  dishes  and  o*er  sHnted  wines; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things — 
Is  this  the  man  who  sconrged  or  feasted  kiaga? 
Behold  the  soak'S  in  which  his  fortmie  liangs, 
A  surgeon's  statement  and  an  earl's  haran^gnea! 
A  bust  delay'd,  a  book  reftised,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  World  awake; 
Is  tins  indeed  the  Tmner  of  die  Great, 
Now  slave  of  all  eould  tease  or  irritate— 
The  paltry  jailor  and  Ibt  prying  spy. 
The  staring  stranger  with  his  note4iook  nigbl 
Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  heluid  still  been  great; 
How  low,  how  little  was  this  middle  state. 
Between  a  prison  and  a  palace^  where 
How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear  I 
Vain  his  complaint, — my  Lord  presents  hts  bill; 
His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still: 
Vain  was  his  sickness, — never  was  a  eiime 
So  free  from  homicide — to  donbt  *8  a  crime; 
And  the  stiff  Surgeon,  who  maintaia'd  bis  cansc. 
Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gain'd  the  workPs  apphmsb 
But  smile — though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 
Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends,  and  imaged  face 
Of  (hat  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace. 
None  stand  by  bis  low  bed—tliough  even  the  mind 


«m  AQtt  Of  SMOMBB. 


555 


le  waTcriair*  wMeh  tong  awed  and  awes  nmnUiid ; — 
hnlle^for  the  fetter'd  Ea^rle  breaks  hi«  chain, 
UMilugher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again. 

How,  if  that  soaring  Spirit  BtiH  retain 
k«0B8eioii8  twilight  of  liis  biasing  reign, 
iow  nraat  he  smile,  on  looidng  down,  to  see 
rhe  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be  I 
nrhftt  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
rhan  his  ambition,  though  with  soaroea  bound; 
rhong^h  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 
le  tasted  empire's  biessings  and  its  curse ; 
Fhoi^g;fa  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
Tkoaa  chains,  would  gfaidly  be  their  tyrant's  ape; 
iow  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone  grave, 
rhe  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave ! 
il^hat  though  his  jailor^  duteous  to  the  last, 
Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fiist, 
Kefoaing  one  poor  liae  along  the  lid, 
ro  date  the  birth  and  death^of  aU  it  hid; 
VkBt  name  shall  hallow  4he  ignoble  shore, 
k  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore: 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast : 
When  Victory's  Gallic  ooluma  shall  but  rise, 
fJkft  Pompey's  pillar.  In  adeserf s  skies, 
rhe  looky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
SbaH  crown  the  Atlantic  Uke  the  hero's  bust, 
Ind  mighty  Nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Oo  more  than  niggard  Envy  still  denies. 
Bat  what  are  these  to  him?  Can  glory's  lust 
roach  the  free'd  spint  or  the  fetter'd  dust? 
Sniall  care  hath  he  of  what  bis  tomb  consists  $ 
lloagfat  if  he  sleeps — nor  more  if  he  exists : 
klike  the  better-seeing  Shade  wUl  smile 
Jn,  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rooky  isle, 
ks  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 
[n  Rome's  Pantheon,  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 
Be  wants  not  this;  but  France  shall  feel  the  want 
Of  this  last  consoladon,  though  so  scant; 
Ber  honour,  feme,  and  feifh,  demand  his  bones, 
To  rear  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones; 
[>r,  oairied  onward,  in  the  battle's  van 
To  form,  like  Guesclin's  dust,  her  tafisman. 
Bat  be  it  as  it  is,  the  time  may  come 
EGjb  nsune  shall  beat  the  alarm  like  Ziska's  drum. 

Oh» Heaven!  ofwhidihe  wasinpowerafeatnre; 
Ml,  Barth !  of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature; 
rhoa  Isle  I  to  be  remember'd  long  and  well, 
rhat  aawst  the  un6edged  eaglet  clnp  his  shell  I 
fe  Alps,  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  fligiits 
Barer,  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  1 
rboa  Rome,  who  sawst  thy  Caasar's  deeds  outdone  t 
ItesI  why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon? 
rhe  Rabioon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights. 
To  herd  with  vdlgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 
Igyptl  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 
rorgotten  Pharaohs  firoin  tiidr  long  repose, 
hod  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 
Inew  Cambysesthun^tering  in  their  car; 


While  the  dark  shades  Of  forty  sges  stood 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  ihmous  flood ; 

Or  from  the  pyramid's  tall  pinnacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell, 

With  chishing  hosts,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand 

To  re-manure  the  uncnldvated  land  1 

Spain !  which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  fiduting  thy  Madrid ! 

Austria  1  which  saw  thy  twiob-ta'en  capital 

Twice  spared,  to  be  the  traiteess  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic  1 -^Frederics  but  in  name 

And  fiUsehood— heirs  to  all  exc^t  his  fiime ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  croach'd  at  Berlin,  fell 

Firsts  and  but  rose  to  follow ;  ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debt ! 

Poland  I  o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  pass'd, 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste. 

Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  daim> 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish'd  name ; 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long-flowing  tear, 

That  sound  that  orates  in  the  tyrant's  ear ; 

Kosciusko  I  on—on— on— the  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfe  and  of  their  Czar ; 

The  half-barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  'tis  a  sun  that  sets! 

Moscow  !  thou  limit  of  his  long  career. 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  has  frosen  tear 

To  see  in  vain— JU  saw  thee — how  ?  with  ^ire 

And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match. 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage-thatch. 

To  this  the  merchant  flung  his  hoarded  store, 

The  prince  his  hall— and,  Moscow  was  no  morel 

Sublimest  of  volcanoes !  Etna's  fiame 

Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Heda's  tame ; 

Vesuvius  shows  bis  blaze,  an  usual  sight 

For  gaping  tourists,  from  bis  hackney 'd  height : 

Thou  standst  alone  nnrivali'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shall  expire^ 

Thou  other  element  I  as  strong  and  stem. 

To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn, 

Whose  icy  wing  flapp'd  o'er  tiie  fhltering  foe, 

Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 

How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fimg 

Pierce,  tiU  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  |>ang ! 

In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 

For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks  $ 

In  vain  shaU  Fiance recailbeneath  her  vines 

Her  youth— their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wines ; 

Or  stagnant  in  thdr  human  ice  remains 

In  frozen  mummies  on  the  polar  plains. 

In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 

Her  offspring  chill'd ;  its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 

Of  all  the  trophies,  gather'd  from  the  war. 

What  shall  return?  The  conqueror's  broken  car  I 

The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  h«rt  I  Again 

The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 

Lutsen,  where  feU  the  Swede  of  victory. 

Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas !  not  die: 

Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  onoe  mora 


i    I 


556 


THE  AGS  OF  MEtONSUk 


Before  their  soTereigny^sovereisny  as  before; 

Bat  there  exliauflted  Fortane  quits  the  field, 

And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquish'd  jieid ; 

The  Saxon  Jackal  leaves  the  Lion's  side 

To  turn  the  Bear's,  and  Wolfs,  and  Fox's  guide; 

And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 

The  forest-monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair  I 

Oh  ye  I  and  each,  and  all  I  Oh,  France!  who  found 

Thy  long  fiEur  fields  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground. 

Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  still 

His  only  victor,  from  Montmartre's  hill 

Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris ;  and  thou.  Isle, 

Which  seest  Btruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile, 

Thou  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride. 

Till  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride ; 

Oh,  France  I  retaken  by  a  single  march. 

Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch ! 

Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo, 

Which  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  fortane  too, 

Won,  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery; 

Oh,  dull  Saint-tlelen !  with  thy  jailor  nigh— 

Hear!  hear!  Prometheus  from  his  rock  appeal 

To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 

His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 

A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year; 

He  teaches  tiiem  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

80  oft,  so  vainly— learn  to  do  no  wrong ! 

A  idngle  step  into  the  right  had  made 

This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray 'd; 

A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 

His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven ; 

The  reed  of  fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod. 

Of  Fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demi-god ; 

His  country's  Cassar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 

Without  their  decent  dignity  of  falL 

Yet  Vanity  herself  had  better  taught 

A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought. 

By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page 

Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 

While  Franklin's  quiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven, 

Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven, 

Or  drawing  firom  the  no  less  kindled  earth 

Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth : 

While  Washington's  a  watch-word,  such  as  ne'er 

Shall  sink  while  there's  an  echo  left  to  air : 

While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 

Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar ! 

Alas !  why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 

Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave— 

The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 

Who  burst  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 

The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through. 

And  crush 'd  the  rights  of  Burope  and  his  own 

To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne  ? 

But  'twill  not  be,  the  spark's  awaken'd,  lo  I 
The  swartliy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow ; 
The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the  Moor 
Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore 
Revives— and  where?  in  that  avenging  clime 
Where  Spain  was  once  synonymous  witii  crime, 


Where  Cortes' and  I^saiTo's  banner  flew  ; 

The  infant-world  redeems  her  name  of '' A«w." 

'Tis  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh. 

To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh. 

Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore 

Where  Greece  woi — ^No !  she  still  is  Greece  once  naoRk 

One  Qonunon  cause  makes  mytiadu  of  one  brenat. 

Slaves  of  the  East,  or  Helots  of  the  West; 

On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  unfurl'd. 

The  self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either  world; 

The  Athenian  wears  again  Harmodius'  sword; 

The  Cbili-chief  abjares  his  for^gn  lord; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek ; 

Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  Cactqiie; 

Debating  despots,  hemm'd  on  either  shore, 

Shrink  vainly  from  the  roosed  Atlantic's  roar ; 

Through  Calpe's  strait  tiie  rolliog  tides  advance. 

Sweep  slightly  by  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fiun 

Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main: 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o'er  th'  ij^ean,  mindful  of  the  day 

Of  Salamis-*  there,  there  the  waves  arise. 

Not  to  be  luird  by  tyrant-victories. 

Lone,  lost,  abancton'd  in  their  utmost  need 

By  ChristianSyUnto  whom  they  gave  their  creed. 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle^ 

The  foster'd  feud  cufsouraged  to  bqpiile. 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong'd  but  in  tlie  hope  to  make  a  prey ;  — 

These,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  show 

The  frJse  friend  worse  tlian  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well :  Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  Autocrat  of  Bondage  be 

The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan; 

Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await. 

The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate,— 

Number'd  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 

A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall. 

Lotted  by  thousands,  as  a  meet  reward 

For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Casar's  regard; 

While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 

His  sle^,  #«iw  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair. 

And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

But  not  alone  widiin  the  hoariest  clime, 
Where  Freedom  dates  her  birth  with  that  of  Time; 
And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 
Of  Incas  darken  to  a  dubious  cloud. 
The  dawn  revives :  renown'd,  romantic  Spain 
Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 
Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 
Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword ; 
Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 
Pollute  the  plains  alike  abhorring  both; 
Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 
The  warlike  fathers  of  a  tlaoosand  years. 


TSa  AGB  OF  BRONZE. 


557 


tkat  flccd  it  iowii  and  reap'd,  af  oft  the  Moor 

BglM  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Ui^gr  ui  the  peasaot's  song  or  poet's  pi^ 

las  dw^  the  memory  of  AbeBoerrage» 

rbe  Zegri,  and  the  captive  viotors,  ttong 

laA  to  llie  bartMuroQS  realm  from  whence  they  sprang. 

hat  Hiesearegone—  their  foith,  their  swords,  their  sway, 

fet  left  more  anti -christian  foes  than  they : 

Hie  bigot  monarch  and  the  batcher  priest, 

riie  Inquisition,  with  her  borniog  feast, 

nie  Froth's  red  '<aato,"  lied  with  human  fuel, 

HThile  sat  the  Catholic  Moloch,  calmly  eruel, 

bgoying,  with  inexorable  eye, 

rhat  fiery  festival  of  agony  *. 

rbe  stem  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  botii 

iy  turns ;  the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  sloth; 

rbe  long  degenerate  noble;  the  debased 

BEidaJigo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced 

Bat  more  degraded  ,*  the  unpeopled  realm ; 

Hie  onoe  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm; 

Hie  once  impervious  phalanx  disarrayed, 

rbe  idle  foige  that  form'd  Toledo's  blade; 

rbe  foreign  wealth  that  fiow'd  on  every  shore. 

Save  bers  who  earn'd  it  with  the  natives'  gore; 

rbe  Tery  language,  which  might  vie  with  Rome's, 

lUid  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  home's, 

Neglected  or  forgotten:  —  such  was  Spain; 

Bat  smh  she  is  not,  nor  sliall  be  again. 

rbeae  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 

rbe  new  Numantine  sool  of  old  Castile. 

Dpi  up  again!  undaunted  Tauridor ! 

the  boll  of  Pbalaris  renews  bis  roar; 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo  I  not  in  vain 

Bevlve  the  cry  ->  '<Iago !  and  dose  Spain  1" 

TeSy  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round. 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found,  — 

The  exterminating  war;  the  desert  plain ; 

The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain ; 

The  vrild  Sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 

Of  vnltnre- plumed  Guerillas,  on  the  stoop 

Por  tbeir  incessant  prey ;  the  desperate  wall 

Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 

Waving  ber  more  than  Amazonian  blade ; 

Tbe  luufe  of  Arragon,  Toledo's  steel; 

The  fiimoos  ianoe  of  chivalrous  Castile ; 

Tbe  nnerriag  rifle  of  the  Catalan ; 

Tbe  Andatnsian  courser  in  the  van ; 

The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid; 

And  In  each  heart  the  spirit  of  tbe  Cid :  — 

gneh  bave  l>een,  sneh  shall  be,  such  are.  Advance, 

And  win  —  not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom,  France  I 

Bat  b> !  a  Congress  t  What,  that  hallowed  name 
Wbieb  free'd  the  Atlantic?  May  we  hope  the  same 
ror  outworn  Europe!  With  the  sound  arise, 
like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes, 
rbe  prophets  of  youqg  Freedom,  summon'd  far 
Pkom  dimes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar; 
Benry,  tbe  forest- born  Demosthenes, 
Wboae  thunder  shook  the  PhiKp  of  the  i 


And  stoic  FrahkUa's  energetic  shade. 

Robed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  band  allay'd ; 

And  Washington,  the  tyrant -tamer,  wake. 

To  bid  us  blush  tot  these  old  chains,  or  break. 

But  Who  compose  this  Senate  of  tlie  few 

That  should  redeem  the  many?  Who  reaew 

This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign'd 

To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind? 

Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ?  — 

The  bless'd  Alliance^  which  says  three  are  all ! 

An  earthly  Trinity,  which  wears  the  shape 

Of  Heaven's,  as  man  is  mimick'd  by  the  ape, 

A  pious  unity!  in  purpose  one  — 

To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 

Why,  Egypt's  gods  were  rational  to  these ; 

Thdr  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees. 

And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed. 

Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed ; 

But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  more  • 

The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 

Ah,  how  much  happier  were  good  ifisop's  frogs 

Than  we  I  for  ours  are  animated  logs. 

With  ponderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro. 

And  crushing  nations  with>i  stupid  blow ; 

All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 

Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

Thrice  bless'd  Verona !  since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
Honour'd  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  **M  the  Capulets ;'' 
Thy  Scaligers  —  for  what  was  ''Dog  the  Great," 
''Can'  Grande"  (which  1  venture  to  translate,) 
To  these  subllmcr  pugs  ?  Thy  poet  too, 
Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new ; 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate ; 
And  Dante's  exile,  shelter'd  by  thy  gate ; 
Thy  good  old  man,  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in: 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  outl 
Ay,  shout  t  inscribe!  rear  monuments  of  shame. 
To  tell  Oppression  that  the  world  is  tame ! 
Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage  — 
The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage; 
The  show  is  rich  in  ribbonry  and  stars  — 
Then  gaae  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  -  bars ; 
Chip  thy  permitted  pahns,  kind  Italy, 
For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free! 

Resplendent  sight  1  behold  the  coxcomb  Czar, 
The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war  1 
As  eager  for  a  plaudit  as  a  realm. 
And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  hebn  i 
A  Cahnuck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit. 
And  generous  spirit,  when  'tis  not  frost* bit; 
Now  half  dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw, 
But  harden'd  back  whene'er  the  monung's  raw ; 
With  no  objection  to  true  liberty. 
Except  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 
How  well  the  Imperial  Dandy  prates  of  peace. 


5jo 


THE  AOfi  OF  BlIONZB. 


How  fain,  if  Greeks  woold  be  kis  stoves,  free  Greeee! 

How  nobly  g^ve  lie  bmck  tlic  Poles  their  Piet, 

Then  told  pugnacioas  Poland  to  be  qniet ! 

How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraiiie» 

With  all  her  pleasant  pntks,  to  lecture  Sfiaiii ; 

How  royally  show  oflfin  proud  Madrid 

His  goodly  person,  from  the  South  long  hid,  — 

A.  blessing  cheaply  purchased,  the  world  knows, 

By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 

Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  Great  Philip's  son  I 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on ; 

And  that  which  Soytliia  was  to  him  of  yore, 

Find  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 

Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  OA  the  banks  of  Pruth ; 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine, 

Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine. 

Spain  too  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles  — > 

Tlie  bear  may  rush  into  tiie  lion's  toils. 

Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xeres'  sunny  ^Ms ; 

Thinkst  thou  to  thee  Napoleon's  victor  yields  ? 

Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 

To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  hordes, 

Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  tiie  knout, 

Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route, 

To  infest  the  clime,  whose  skies  and  laws  are  pnr», 

With  thy  foul  legions.  Spain  wants  no  manure ; 

Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe; 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago  ; 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey? 

Alas !  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 

I  am  Diogenes,  tliough  Russ  and  Hun 

Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun ; 

But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I'd  wander 

Rather  a  worm  than  suck  an  Alexander ! 

Be  slaves  wha  will,  the  Cynic  shall  be  free, 

Hjs  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope: 

Still  will  he  hold  his  lanthom  up  .to  scan 

The  fiice  of  monarchs  for  an  "honest  man." 

And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all -prolific  land 
Of  ne  plus  ultra  Ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries  ?  and  her  noisy  Chambers 
And  Tribune,  which  each  orator  first  clunbcra 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and,  when  'tis  found. 
Hears  <*llie  lie"  echo  for  his  answer  round? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  ''hear  2" 
A  Gallic  Senate  hath  more  longve  than  ear ; 
Even  Constant,  tiieir  sole  master  of  debate, 
Must  fight  next  day,  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had  rattier 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  faAer. 
What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot. 
To  listening  long,  and  interrupting  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  Tully  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Dcmostliencs  has  sanotion'd  the  transaction. 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  '^Action,  action !" 

But  Where's  the  Monarch  ?  bath  ho  dined  ?  or  yet 
Groans  beneath  indigostioa's  heavy  debt  ? 


Have  revolutkMiary  pit^  risen, 

And  tum'd  the  royal  entraHs  to  a  prison? 

Have  discontented  moveraenis  Sftirr*d  the  troops  ?  ' 

Or  have  no  movements  followed  traiterous  soups  ? 

Have  Carbonaro  cooks  not  carbonadoed 

Each  course  enough  ?  or  doctors  dire  ^Hssuaded  | 

Repletion  ?  Ah !  in  thy  dejected  looks 

I  read  all 's  treason  in  tier  cooks ! 

Good  classic !  is  k,  canst  thou  say. 

Desirable  to  be  the «« V^ 

Why  wouldst  thou  leave  calm —  's  green  abode, 

Apician  table  and  Hoiatian  ode. 

To  rule  a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled. 

And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  scbool'd  f 

Ah!  thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 

For  thrones  —  the  table  sees  thee  better  placed: 

A  mild  Epicurean,  form'd,  at  best, 

To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest, 

To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 

One  half  the  poef  s,  all  the  gourmand's  art; 

A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit, 

And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit  — 

But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free ; 

The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee ! 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phtaxe 
From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  |>raise? 
"Arts  —  arms — aiid  George  —  and  glory^andtheistes  ' 
And  happy  Brifiun—wealth-^and  freedom's  smiles  — 
White  cliffs,  that  held  invasion  for  aloof  ~- 
Contented  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof  — 
Proud  Wellington,  with  cagle-beidc  so  cail*d, 
That  nose,  tlie  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world! 

And  Waterloo  —  and  trade  ~  atad (huihlBotytt 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt)  —  -^ 

And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 

Whose  pen-knife  sKt  a  goose-quill  fother  day  — 

And  pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  storm  — 

(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  rcfom).'' 

These  are  the  themes  dius  sung  so  oft  befine, 

Metbinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more ; 

Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near. 

There's  no  occasion  you  idiould  find  them  herew 

Yet  something  may  remain  perchance  to  ohime 

With  reason,  and,  whaf  s  stranger  still,  with  riiyme; 

Even  this  thy  genius,  Canning  1  may  permit, 

Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  was  born  a  wit. 

And  never,  even  in  that  dull  house,  couldst  tame 

To  uinleaven'd  prose  thine  own  poctie  flame; 

Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator. 

Even  I  can  praise  thee  —  Tories  do  no  more, 

Nay,  not  so  much ;  —  they  hate  thee,  anan,  because 

Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes,  —  : 

The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman's  h<»llo» 

And,  where  he  leads,  the  duteous  pack  wiUlbllow; 

But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  ery^  j 

Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy ; 

Less  foithfol  for  than  the  fomvfooted  padt> 

A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back; 

Thy  saddle-girtlis  are  not  yet  quite  secure, 

Nor  royal  stallion's  feet  extremely  sure  $ 


THB  A€tt  W  mONZJI* 


550 


he  unwieldy  otd  WUte  Horse  i9  apt  at  iMt 
^  stnmble,  kkk^  and  saw  and  then  ttiolL  tet 
nth  hiaf^reataeiraad  rider  la  Ike  mad; 
Ittt  what  oflhatf  Iha  aoknalihfripa  blood. 

Ahtf,  theooontry !  how  shall  toni^e  or  pea 
tewail  her  now  aneomntry-fcnUeBieii  ?  -- 
"he  last  to  bid  the  ciy  of  warlare  oeas^ 
'he  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 
br  wbal  were  all  these  oomtry-patrlots  horn? 
'o  hiiat,  and  vote,  and  raise  tiie  priee  of  com. 
Nit  cein,  like  every  morialthiny^  mast  ftdl  -^ 
ilngu^  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  alL 
imd  most  ye  fidi  with  every  ear  of  grain? 
HThy  would  yon  trouble  Boonapar:  e's  reiga  i 
le  was  your  great  Tiiplolemas!  his  viote 
leatrqy'd  but  realSMy  and  still  maintained  year  psftoss 
le  amplified,  to  every  Lord's  content, 
rhe  grand  agrarian  alcbymy  ^  high  renL 
Whj  did  the  tyrant  stnndde  on  the  Tartars, 
Lnd  lower  wheat  to  such  deapondiag  quarters  I 
PVIiy  dfid  you  ehidn  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone  ? 
rhe  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne^ 
iVae,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt. 
Bat  what  of  that?  the  Qaal  may  bear  flie  guilt; 
lot  bread  was  lugh,  the  termer  paid  has  way, 
ind  aeiea  told  upon  the  appointed  day» 
Int  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit-«le? 
rhe  purse-proud  tenant  never  known  to  fiul  ? 
Fhe  ium  which  never  yet  was  left  on  band? 
rbe  nmrsh  reclaimed  to  most  improving  land  I 
rhe  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease? 
Fhe  doubling  rental!  What  an.evil 's  pcaeel 
[n  Tain  the  prise  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 
a  vain  the  Coounons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 
rhe  lamded  uOertH  —  (you  may  understand 
rhe  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  lend)  ^ 
rhe  land  setf-tnterest  groans  from  shore  to  Aote, 
?or  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 
Up !  op  again  I  ye  rents,  exalt  your  notes, 
)r  else  the  Ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 
ind  Patriotism,  so  delicately  nice, 
ier  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market-price; 
?or  ah !  '^e  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high, 
kre  gone  —  their  oven  dosed,  their  ocean  dry , 
Ind  nought  remains  of  all  tiie  millioas  spent, 
Sxcepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content 
rhey  who  are  not  so,  hud  their  tarn  —  and  turn 
kboot  atiU  fiows  from  Fortune's  equsJ  urn; 
t|ow  let  their  virtue  be  Its  own  reward, 
\nd  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared. 
See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 
>krmers  of  war,  Dictators  of  the  farm ! 
TkHr  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hands. 
Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands ; 
We  in  their  bams,  (liese  Sabine  tillers  sent 
Fhetr  brethren  outto  battle  —  why  ?  for  rent! 
fear  alter  year  they  voted  cent  per  cent 
Mood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions  —  why  ?  for  rent  I 
fbey  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  they 
fo  Ae  lor  Sngland  —  why  then  live?  for  rent!      [meant 


The  poaee  has  made  one  general  unkonteat 

Of  these  higfi*market  patriots ;  war  was  reat  t 

Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mis^spent. 

How  reconcile?  —  by  reeondUng  rent 

And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent? 

No :  down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rentl 

Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  disconleni. 

Being,  end,  aim,  religion— rent,  rent  reat! 

Thou  soldst  thy  birth«right,  Bsau !  for  a  aaess: 

Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more,  or  eaten  leas; 

Now  thou  hast  swiU'd  thy  pottage,  thy  deamnda 

Are  idle;  Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 

Such,  bndlords,  was  your  appetite  km  was. 

And,  gorged  with  blood,  yoa  grumhie  at  a  scar  I 

What,  would  they  sprcstdtheirearthquakeeveao*cr€adi? 

And  when  land  crumbles^  bid  firm  paper  ciash? 

So  rent  may  rise,  hid  hank  and  nation  fidl. 

And  found  oa  Change  a  Aadttiy  Hospital} 

Lo,  Mother  Church,  while  all  religion  writhe^ 

like  Niobe,  weeps  o^er  her  olispixQg,  Tithes ; 

The  Prelates  go  to  —  where  the  Saints  have  gone. 

And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one ; 

Church,  state,  and  fibotion,  wrestle  in  tttt  dark^ 

Toss'd  by  the  Deluge  in  thehr  eonmiott  ark. 

Shorn  of  her  Bishops,  banks,  and  dividends^ 

Another  Babel  soars  ^  but  Britain  ends. 

And  why  ?  to  pamper  the  self-^eekiag  wants. 

And  prop  the  bin  of  these  agrarian  ants. 

<<6o  to  these  ants,  tiiou  sluggard,  and  be  wise;" 

Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice^ 

TiU  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride^ 

The  prioD  of  taxes  and  of  honucide: 

Admire  thor  justiDe^  which  would  fiua  dei9 

The  debt  of  nations: — pray^tsAs  suideat  Atjrik.' 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  ahifliag  ro^KS^ 
The  new  Sympl^;ades  —  the  crushing  Stocks, 
Where  Midas  might  again  hhi  wish  behold 
In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 
That  magic  palace  of  Aleiaa  shows 
More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  losc^ 
Were  all  her  aloass  of  uakaven'd  ore. 
And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus'  shore. 
There  Fortane  plays,  while  RusMwr  holdi  the  stake. 
And  the  world  frembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 
HowrichisBritaiii.l  not  indeed  in  mines. 
Or  peace,  or  plenty,  corn,  or  oil,  or  wines; 
No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey. 
Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money : 
But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse,. 
Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews? 
Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 
And  now,  ye  kings !  they  kindly  draw  your  own; 
All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns  they  controul, 
-  '^Afid  waft  a  loan  "from  Indus  to  the  Polo." 

The  banker  —  broker  —  baron  —  brethren,  speed 
To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 
Nor  these  alone;  Columbia  feeto  no  less 
Fresh  speculations  foltow  each  success; 
And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 
Her  mild  per  oentage  from  exhausted  Spain. 


560 


THE  AGIS  OF  BRONZB. 


Not  withoat  Abildiam'B  Med  can  Riusia  maroli  — 
'Tis  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 
Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  oonunand 
In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land: 
Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old : 
Two  Jews  ~*  butuot  Samaritans  —  direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect 
What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them? 
A  Congress  forms  their  "New  Jerusalem/' 
Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite — 
Oh,  holy  Abraham  I  dost  thou  see  the  sight? 
Thy  followers  nungling  with  these  royal  swine, 
Who  spit  not  ^on  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 
But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show  — 
(Where  now,  oh,  Pope!  is  thy  forsaken  toet 
Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks? 
Or  has  it  ceased  to  ^<kick  against  the  pricks  r ') 
On  Shylock's  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh^ 
To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  ''pound  of  flesh." 

Strange  sight  this  Congress  I  destined  to  unite 
All  thaf  s  incongruous,  all  thaf  s  opposite. 
I  speak  not  of  the  Sovereigns  —  they're  alike, 
A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike: 
But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings. 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 
Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine, 
While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design : 
There  Mettemich,  power's  foremost  parasite. 
Cajoles;  thereWellington  forgets  to  fight; 
There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs; 
And  subtle  Greeks  intrigue  for  stupid  Tartars ; 
There  Montmorency,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters, 
Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat, 
To  Airnish  articles  for  the  '']>ebats :" 
Of  war  so  certain  —  yet  not  quite  so  sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  <<Moniteur." 
Alas  I  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err? 
Can  peace  be  worth  an  Ultra -Minister? 
He  foils,  indeed,  —  perhaps  to  rise  again, 
''Almost  as  quickJly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain." 

Enough  of  this  —  a  sight  more  mournful  woos 
The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  Muse. 
The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride^ 
The  imperial  victim  —  sacrifice  to  pride; 
The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy, 
The  young  Astyanax  of  modem  Troy; 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 


That  earth  has  fet  to  flee,  or  e'er  hath  seen ; 

She  fits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  tke  hour» 

The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreek  of  power. 

Oh,  cruel  modceryt  Could  not  AiostriA  spate 

A  daughter?  What  did  France's  widow  there? 

Her  fitter  place  was  by  St  Helen's  wave  — 

Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave* 

But,  no,  ^  she  still  must  hold  a  petty  reign, 

Flank'd  by  her  formidable  Chamberlain; 

The  martial  Ai^us,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 

Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageantries. 

What  though  Ae  share  no  more  and  shared  La  vain 

A  sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

Which  sw^t  from  Moscow  to  the  southern  sebs. 

Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  dMcse, 

Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mumic  court 

But  she  appears !-  Verona  sees  her  shoni 

Of  all  her  beams  —  while  nations  gaze  and  nKHm  ^ 

Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  have  had  time 

To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime 

(If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold  — 

But  no,  —  their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  moold)^ 

She  comes!  —  the  Andromache  (  but  not  Radne's, 

Nor  Homer's);  lo!  on  Pyrxhus' arm  she  leans! 

Yes  I  the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  half-^shatter'd  aoqptee  throqgk, 

Is  offer'd  and  accepted!  Could  a  slave 

Do  more?  or  less?  —  and  A«  in  hia  new  grave! 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife. 

And  the  JEEc^Kmpreas  grows  as  £r  a  wife! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts  1 

Why  spare  men's  feeUnga,  when  their  own  are  jests! 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  tnin  home, 
And  sketdi  the  group  —  the  ^eture's  yet  to  come. 
My  Muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  spills 
She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt! 
While  throng'd  the  Chiefs  of  every  Highland  chm 
To  hail  their  brother,  Vidi  Ian  Alderman! 
Guildhall  growa  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Brae  roar, 
While aU  the Common-CQuncU  cry,  "Cfaiymofe!" 
To  see  proud  Albyn's  Tartans  as  a  belt 
Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  City-Gelt, 
She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  extreme, 
That  I  awoke  ^-  and  lo!  it  was  n»  dream! 


Here,  reader,  will  we  pause:  —  if  tltcre's  no  I 
This  first  —  you'll  have,  perhaps,  a  second  K^tfmaL" 


561 


THE  VISmN  OF  JUDGMENT. 

BY  (^UEYEDO  RED1V1VU& 

Suggested  by  the  composition  so  entitled  by  the  author  op    «wat  tyler." 


A  Diinicl  come  to  Jadtnient!  yea,  a  Daniel! 
1  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teadilng  me  that  word. 


1. 

iAorr  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate; 

[lis  keys  were  msfy,  and  the  lock  was  doll,  / 

9o  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late ; 

Kot  tiMt  tlie  place  by  any^  means  was  full, 

Bat  nnoe  the  Gallic  era  ''eighty  -  eigiit," 

the  deviU  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger  pull, 

lad  **9i  pull  altogether/'  as  they  say 

At  sea  —  which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 


The  anigels  all  were  singing  oat  of  tune» 
iad  hoarse  witli  having  little  else  to  do. 
Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon. 
Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two. 
Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 
Spfitting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail. 
As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale« 


Hie  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 
Fmding  their  charges  past  all  care  below ; 
Terrestrial  business  fill'd  nought  in  the  sky, 
Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau ; 
Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 
With  aucb  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 
That  be  had  stripped  off  both  his  wings  In  quills, 
Aad  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  Ills, 

4. 
His  Ini^ess  so  augmented  of  late  years, 
Tliat  be  was  foroed  against  his  will,  no  doubt 
(iMt  Cke  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers), 
9or  soine  resource  to  turn  himsdf  about, 
And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers. 
To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out 
By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks; 
8U  aagels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks. 


This  was  a  handsome  board  -^  at  least  for  heaven ; 

And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do. 

So  many  conqU^ors'  cars  were  daily  driven. 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew ; 

Each  day,  too,  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 

They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust  -^ 

The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  and  dust 


This  by  the  way ;  'tis  not  mine  to  record 
What  angels  shrink  from:  even  the  very  devil 
On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd, 
So  surfeited, with  the  infernal  revel ; 
Though hehimself  had  sharpened  every  sword. 
It  almost  quench'd-his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 
(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion— 
'Tis,  timt.  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 

7. 
Let's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace. 
Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont. 
And  heaven  none— they  form  the  tyrant's  lease, 
With  nothing  but  new  names  subscribed  upon 't; 
'Twill  one  day  finish:  meantime  they  increase, 
^'With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"  and  all  in  fW)nt, 
Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beast;  but  ours  are  bom 
Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 


In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 
Died  George  the  Third;  although  no  tyrant,  one 
Who  shidded  tyrants,  till  eadi  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun : 
A  better  iaxmer  ne'er  brush 'd  dew  from  lawn, 
A  wonfe.king  n^er  left  a  realm  undone  I 
He'died-^but  left  bis  subjects  (ftHl  behind. 
One  half  as  mad^and  t'other  no  less  blind. 
36 


562 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


He  died ! — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth ; 
His  burial  made  some  pomp ;  there  was  proftuion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 
Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion; 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth : 
Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion^ 
Bought  also ;  and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 

10. 
Form'd  a  sepulchral  melo-drame.  Of  all 
The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see  the  show. 
Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ?  The  funeral 
Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  woe.  [pall ; 

There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced  the 
And  when  the  gorgeous  cofifin  was  laid  low, 
It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

11. 
So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !  It  might 
Return  to  what  it  muMi  for  sooner,  were 
The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  £ght 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 
But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 
As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay-- 
Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay* 

12. 
He's  dead— and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done : 
He's  buried;  save  the  undertaker's  bill. 
Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 
For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will; 
But  Where's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 
In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon. 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 

18. 
"God  save  the  king !"  It  is  a  Uirge  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like ;  but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better ;  for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still : 
I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction. 
The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 

14. 
Iknow  thisLsonpopular;  I  know 
'Tis  blasphemous;  I  know  one  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so ; 
I  know  my  catechism;  I  know  we  are  cnimm'd 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow ; 
I  know  that  all  save  England's  chorch  have  shamm'd, 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  dumn'd  bad  purcliase. 


16. 


God  help  us  all  I  God  help  me,  too  SI  am, 
God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish. 
And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn 
Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hook'd  fish, 
Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb; 
Not  that  I'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 
As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  Cry 
Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die. 

le. 
Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate. 
And  nodded  o'er  his  keys;  when  lo !  there  came 
A  wonderous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late — 
A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great, 
Wliich  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint  exdaini; 
But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink. 
Said,  ^'There's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think! " 

17. 
But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 
A  cherub  flapp'd  his  right  wing  o'er  his  eyes — 
At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn'd,  and  mbb'd  his 
<'Saint  porter,"  said  the  angel,  '*pritfaee  risel" 
Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes ; 
To  which  the  Saint  replied,  "^  WeU,  whaf  s  the 
Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter?'' 

18. 
**SOy"  quoth  the  Cherub ;  ''George  the  Third  is  dead," 
<<And  who  u  Geoi^ethe  Third?"  repUed  the  Aposfie; 
"  What  Geort^e?  what  nirdr"  **The  King  of  Bngland," 
The  Angel,  ''Well  I  he  wo'nt  find  kings  to  jostle      [said 
Him  on  his  way ;  but  does  he  wear  his  head  T 
Because  the— we  saw  here  had  a  tussfe,' 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good  graces. 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  (hces. 

19. 
He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of— 
That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 
On  eartli,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 
A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own: 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 
When  I  cut  ears  ofi*,  I  had  cut  him  down ; 
But  having  but  my  key$,  and  not  my  brand, 
I  on  ly  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl. 
That  all  the  Saints  came  out,  and  took  him  in ; 
And  there  he  sits  by  Saint  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl; 
That  fellow  Paul--the  parvenu  I  The  skin 
Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  make»  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  eardi  redeem'd  bis  sin 
So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 
Bettor  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 


THB  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


563 


St. 
Hi  had  it  oome  ap  here  upon  its  ihoiilden, 
here  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to  tell : 
he  feUow-feeling  in  the  Saintfl  beholders 
eems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell, 
nd  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 
lack  on  its  trunk :  it  may  be  very  well, 
jid  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 
^hatever^as  been  wisely  done  below." 

lie  Angel  answer'd,  *<Peter  I  do  not  pout; 
Pile  kii^  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 
kad  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about— 
le  did  aa  doth  the  puppet— by  its  wire, 
Ind  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt: 
lly  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 
nto  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  i 
i¥hich  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 


l?hUe  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 
Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
[^leaving  the  fields  of  spaoe^  as  doth  the  swan 
Some  silverHrtream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Inde, 
Dr  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  midst  them  an  old  man 
WUh  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Sealed  their  feUow-traveUer  on  a  cloud* 

34. 
Bat  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  hofi, 
Agpirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved  / 

Bis  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast 
Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved; 
His  brow  was  fike  the  deep  when  tempest^tost; 
Pierce  and  unfothomable  thoughts  depraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face. 
And  where  he  guced  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gased  upon  the  gate^ 
Ne'er  to  be  entered  more  by  him  or  sin. 
With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate. 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within; 
He  patter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate. 
And  sweated  through  bis  apostolic  skin : 
Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 
Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 


The  very  cherubs  huddled  altogether, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon;  and  they  felt 

A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather. 

And  form'd  a  cirde,  like  Orion's  belt, 

Around  their  poor  old  charge,  who  scarce  knew  whither 

ffis  guards  had  let  him,  thoqgh  they  gently  dealt 

With  royal  manes  (for,  by  many  stories. 

And  tm^  V6  leam  the  angels  all  are  Tories). 


27. 
As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 
Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 
Of  many-colour'd  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reached  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a  new 
Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North  Pole ;  the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound. 
By  Captain  Parry's  crew,  in  <<Melville's  Sound." 

38. 

And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 
A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 
Radiant  with  glory»  like  a  banner  streaming 
Yiclorious  from  some  world-o'erthrowing  fight: 
My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 
With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southed  ravuige- 

Twas  the  Archangel  Michael:  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  sLoce 
There's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to  show. 
From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  prinee. 
There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though  ^ 
I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evinoey/ 
One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits;  / 
But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

ao. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good ; 
A  goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise;  the  portal  pass'd  —  he  stood ; 
Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints  hoary ; 
(I  say  yeun^,  begpng  to  be  understood 
By  looks,  not  years;  aud  should  be  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  Saint  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seem'd  a  little  sweeter.) 

81. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow'd  down  before 
That  arch  -  angelic  Hierarch,  the  first 
Of  Essences  angelical,  who  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  god ;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 
No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

83. 
He  and  the  sombre  silent  Spirit  met — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill; 
Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe;  but  still 
There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  r^ret 
In  eith^s  eye,  as  if 'twere  less  their  will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Their  date  of  war,  and  their  ''Champ  Clos"  the  spheres. 


564 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


33. 


But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space:  we  know 
From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so ; 
And  that  "the  Sons  of  God,"  lilce  those  of  clay, 
Must  keep  him  company;  and  we  might  show. 
From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil  —  but  'twould  take  up  hours; 

34. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 

To  prove  witli  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic 

If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact, 

But  a  true  narrative;  and  thus  I  pick 

From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  on  act 

As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 

'Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

35. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 

The  gate  of  heaven ;  like  eastern  thresholds  is 

The  place  where  Death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'er, 

And  souls  despatched  to  tliat  world  or  to  this; 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 

A  civil  aspect;  though  they  did  not  kiss. 

Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 

There  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeneis. 

i      86. 

The  Archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modern  beau. 
But  with  a  graceful  Oriental  bend. 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 
The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
He  turn'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low. 
But  kindly ;  Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castilian 
Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

37. 
He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 
An  instant;  and  then,  raising  it  he  stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 
Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 
Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 
Eternal,  more  than  other  kings  endued 
With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions, 
Who  long  have  "paved  hell  witli  their  good  intentions." 


Michael  began:  "What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man. 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord?  What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began. 
That  thou  canst  claim  him?  Speak!  and  do  thy  will, 
If  it  be  just:  if  in  this  eartlily  span 
He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say. 
And  he  is  thine;  if  not,  let  him  have  way." 


89. 


"Michael !"  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  "even  here. 
Before  the  gate  of  him  thou  servest,  must 
I  claim  my  subject;  and  will  make  appear 
That  as  he  was  n^y  worshipper  injtust,- 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 
To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 
Were  of  his  weaknesses !  yet  on  the  throne 
He  reign'd  o'er  miUions  to  serve  me  alone. 

40. 
Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine ;  it  was, 
Once,  more  thy  master's :  but  I  triumph  not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest,  nor,  alas ! 
Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot: 
With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  wwlds  which  pass 
In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things ; 
I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  didr  kings, 

41. 
And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit- rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  Lord ;  and  even  bad 
I  such  an  inclination,  'twere  (as  you 
Well  know)  Superfluous;  they  are  grown  so  fasd, 
That  hell  has  notliing  better  left  to  do 
Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  mudi  more  mad 
And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse. 
Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 

4X 
Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again; 
When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor 
Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 
The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form. 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 
Of  ocean  call'd  him  king :  through  many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 
For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  thor  clime. 

43. 
He  came  to  his  sceptre,  young;  he  leavea  it,  old: 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm. 
And  left  it ;  and  his  annals,  too,  behold. 
How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm ; 
How  grew  upon  his  hearia  jthiutXST  ffold. 
The  begg;ar's  vice,  which  can  but  overwhelm 
The  meanest  hearts ;  and  for  the  rest,  but  glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  Franee! 

44. 
'Tis  true,  he  was  a  jjiiol^from  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe) ;  but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed !  From  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  tlie  rule 
Of  monarchs  —  from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 
Of  sin  and  slaughter  —  from  the  Caesar's  school. 
Take  the  worst  pupil,  and  produce  a  reign 
More  drench'd  with  gore,  OKxe  eumber'd  with  the  "i*^- 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


565 


46. 
le  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free: 
VatnSns  as  men,  honi^'SiahJ'eets,  foreign  foes, 
So  that  they  ntter'd  the  word  ''liberty !" 
Pound  George  the  Third  their  ficat  OESgonent  Whose 
Sistory  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individoal  woes? 
[  grant  Ida  household  abstinence ;  I  grant 
Bis  neatral  virtues,  which  most  monarohs  want; 

46. 
[  know  he  was  a  constant  consort;  own 
He  was  a  decent  aire,  and  middling  lord. 
All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne; 
As  temperance,  if  at  Apicins'  board, 
Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord ; 
And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

47. 
The  new  world  shook  him  <»ff|  tin*  iilil  y  I' >  groans 
BstfMUl  Vvhat  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed:  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion  for  him  —  his  tame  virtues;  drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  foigot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re^taught  them^  wake 
Upon  the  thrones  of  Earth ;  but  let  them  quake! 

48. 
Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 
The  foith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 
A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old,  — 
Fr^sfomto  worship  —  not  alone  your  Lord, 
H^taet^  but  yon,  and  yOu,  Saint  Peter !  Cold 
Most  be  your  soals»  ifyoo  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
in  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  natioa. 

49. 
True!  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God ;  but,  as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 
With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe.'' 
Bat  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 
And  cried,  **You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw : 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelf, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself! 

60. 
Sooner  will  I  with  .Cerberus  exchange 
My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  sec  this  royal  Bedlam-b|got  range 
The  asure  fields  of  heaven^of  that  be  sure!" 
*SBint!"  replied  Satan,  <*yOu  do  well  to  aveng6 
The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure; 
And  if  to  this  exchange  yon  should  be  given, 
FH  try  to  coax  imr  Cerberus  up  to  heaven." 


61. 
Here  Michael  interposed:  "Good  saint!  and  devil ! 
Pray,  not  so  fast :  you  both  out-run  discretion. 
Saint  Peter!  you  were  wont  to  he  more  civil : 
Satan!  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression. 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level : 
Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say  V  —  **No!"  —  "If  you  please, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

62. 
Then  Satan  tnrn'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand, 
Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 
In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  off  the  artillery,  whidi  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions. 

63. 
This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 
Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  pasty  present,  or  to  come ;  no  station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 
Of  hell  ass^ed;  but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game. 
They  may  range  freely  —  being  damn'd  the  same. 

64w 
They  are  proud  of  this  —  as  very  well  they  may. 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 
Stuck  in  their  loins;  or  like  to  an  ''entr^" 
Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  firee-masonry : 
I  borrow  my  comparisons  firom  clay. 
Being  clay  myself.  Let  not  those  spirits  be 
Offended  with. such  base  low  likenesses; 
We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

66. 
When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell. 
About  ten  million  times  the  distanoe  reckon'd 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 
How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second, 
For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 
The  fogs  of  London;  through  which,  dimly  beaoon'd, 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt,  some  thrice  a  year. 
If  that  the  iummer  is  not  too  severe:  ^ 

66. 
I  say  that  I  can  tdl  —  'twas  half  a  minute; 
I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it; 
But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 
And  if  they  ran  a  race,  tliey  would  not  win  it 
'Gainst  Satan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own  dime. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal  —  the  devil  not  half  a  day. 


566 


''X../A 


THB  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


67. 


Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 
Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appeared 
(I've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 
In  tlie  ^Egean,  ere  a  squall) ;  it  near'd, 
And)  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise ; 
lake  an  aerial  ship  it  taok'd,  and  stcer'd 
Or  wa$  steer'd  (I  am  dpubtfol  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stamsa 

da 

But  take  your  choice) ;  and  then  it  grew  a  cloud ; 
And  so  it  was  —  a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  sudi  a  cloud !  No  land  e'er  saw  a  crowd 
Of  locusts  numerous  as  th^  heavens  saw  these ; 
They  shadowM  with  their  myriads  space;  their  loud 
And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild-geese 
(If  nations  may  be  liken'd  to  a  goose), 
And  realised  the  phrase  of  <'heU  broke  loose.'' 

69. 
Hero  crashed  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 
Who  damn'd  away  his  eyes,  as  heretofore :  [ wull  f* 

There  Paddy  brogued  **by  Jasus!"  —  "What's  your 
The  temperate  8cot  exidaim'd ;  tiie  French  ghost  swore 
In  certain  terms  I  shaVt  translate  in  full, 
As  the  first  coachman  will ;  and  'midBt  the  war 
The  voice  of  Jonatlian  was  heard  to  express, 
j'Our  President  Is  golBg  to  war,  I  guess." 

do. 

Besides,  there  were  the  Spaniard,  I>otdi,  and  Dane ; 
In  short,  an  universal  shoal  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  Isle  to  Salisbury  Pb^ 
Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trades. 
Ready  to  swear  agunst  the  good  king's  reign. 
Bitter  as  dubs  in  cards  are  against  spades : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  ''subpoena,"  to 
Try  if  kings  mayn't  be  damn'd,  like  me  or  you. 

61. 

When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale, 
As  angels  can ;  next,  like  Italian  twilight, 
He  turn'd  all  colours  —  as  a  peacock's  tail, 
Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 
In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  staler 
Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  fy  night, 
Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 
Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

63. 

Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Satan:  ''Why  — 
My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you,  though 
Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 
I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  di personal (ob; 
Our  difference  ispoUtical,  and  I 
Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 
You  know  my  great  respect  for  you ;  and  this 
Makes  me  regret  whate'cr  you  do  amiss  — 


6a. 


Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  yon  abuse 

My  call  for  witnesses  ?  I  did  not  mean 

That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  prodoee; 

'Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  dean ^ 

True  testimonies  are  enough :  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 

The  accusation  and  defence :  if  we 

Hear  both,  'twiU  stretch  our  immortality." 

64. 

Satan  replied :  "To  me  the  matter  is 

Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view : 

I  can  have  fifty  better  souhi  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 

Already;  and  I  merdy  argued  his 

Late  Majesty  of  Britain's  case  with  yon 

Upon  a  point  of  form:  yon  may  dispose 

Of  him ;  I've  kiqgs  enough  below,  God  knows  r 

6& 
Thus  spoke  tiie  Demon  (late  oalTd  ^mltjiiiniiir 
By  multo-scribbliagSottthey).  "Then  we'kcaH 
One  or  two  persons  of  tiie  myriads  placed 
Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  ail 
The  rest,"  quoth  Miohad :  "Who  may  be  so  graced 
As  to  speak  first?  there's  choice  enough  —  who  shall 
It  be  7"  Then  Satan  answer'd,  "There  are  onny ; 
But  you  may  choose  JaaUmibaus  wdl  as  any." 

66. 
A  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious  looking  Sprite^ 
Upon  the  instant  started  from  the  throng, 
Drcss*d  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite; 
For  all  the  (hshions  of  the  flesh  stick  kNig 
By  people  in  the  next  world ;  where  unite 
All  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right  or  wmng, 
From  five's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  pettioMt, 
Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

67. 
The  Spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled)  and  exdaim'd,  "My  friokbi  of  all 
The  spheres,  weidiall  catch  cold  amoagst  these  drndi,* 
So  let's  to  business :  why  this  general  call  ? 
If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  dirouds. 
And  'tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl. 
Behold  a  candidate  with  untum'd  coat! 
Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  votef 


Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "you  mistake:  these 
Are  of  a  former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august;  to  judge  of  kings 
Is  the  tribunal  met;  so  now  you  know." 
«'Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with  wings," 
Said  Wilkes,  "are  cherubs ;  and  that  soul  below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third ;  but  to  my 
A  good  deal  older  —  Bless  Bfiel  is  he  Uindr' 


THB  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


567 


Qc  is  what  yon  behold  biiii|aiMl  his  doom 
Impends  apon  his  deeda/'  the  Ai^l  mid. 
If  yoa  l^ave  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 
vives  license  to  the  humblest  be§;gar's  head 
To  lift  itsdf  against  the  loftiest"  —  ''Some," 
Md  Wilkes,  ''don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  lead, 
for  such  a  liberty  —  and  I,  for  one, 
lave  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sun." 

70, 
'Ah^ve  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the  ArefaangeL  "Why," 
Replied  the  Spirit,  "since  old  scores  are  past, 
y[ust  I  turn  e videnee  ?  In  faith,  not  I. 
Sesides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 
HTitfa  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :  in  the  sky 
I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  siuoe  ^ 

iis  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince, 

71. 
PooDsh,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
K  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling; 
But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  ^d  Grafton,  and  shaU  be  unwilling 
To  M^niim'puaish'd  here  for  their  excess, 
SiBcc  diey  were  both  damn'd  long  ago,  and  still  in 
rheir  place  below ;  forme,  I  have  forgiven, 
Ud  vote  his  "habeas  corpus"  into  heaven." 

72. 
<Wilkcs,"  said  the  Devil,  "I  understand  ail  this; 
foirtSmtd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died, 
Ind  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 
To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
!)rCTiaron*s  ferry ;  you  forget  that  kit 
Krign  is  concluded ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more :  you've  lost  your  labour, 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbour. 

73. 
Bowever,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
When  I  beheld  you,  in  your  jesting  way, 
nStting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day. 
With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
iis  pupil;  I  knew  what  to  think,  1  say  : 
tliat fellow  even  in  bell  breeds  farther  ills; 
ill  have  him  ^a^^<f — 'twas  one  of  his  own  bills. 

74. 
M  Junius  !"  From  tlie  crowd  a  Shadow  stalk'd, 
Lad  at  th'c'name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 
io  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 
■  comfort,  at  tlicir  own  aerial  ease, 
Int  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd  (but  to  be  balk'd, 
ks  we  shall  see)  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 
Jke  wind  eompress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 
h  like  a  human  cholic,  which  is  sadder. 


7ft. 
The  Shadow  came  I  a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figure, 
That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth; 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour. 
But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth :  * 
Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger. 
With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth ; 
But  as  you  gaised  upon  its  features,  tiiey 
Changed  every  instant— to  what,  none  could  say. 

76. 
The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 
Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were; 
The  Devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled  even  to  guess ; 
They  varied  tike  a  dream— now  here,  now  there; 
And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press, 
They  knew  him  perfectly ;  and  one  could  swear 
He  was  Ms  father:  upon  which  anothef 
Was  sure  hd  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother : 

77. 
Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight, 
An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man>midwife;  but  the  wight 
Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds :  though  in  full  sight 
He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased; 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself-^he  was  so  volatile  and  thin ! 

78. 
The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one, 
Presto !  his  (hoe  changed,  and  he  was  another; 
And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on. 
It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  motlier 
(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 
Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  f  other, 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task. 
At  this  epistolary  "ironHOnask." 

79. 
For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem-- 
"Three  gentlemen  at  once"  (as  sagely  says 
Good  Mrs.  Malaprop);  then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one ;  now  many  rays 
Were  flashing  round  him ;  and  now  a  thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight— like  fogs  on  Lotidon  days : 
Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies, 
And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis. 

80. 
I've  an  hypothesis— 'tis  quite  my  own ; 
I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne,    - 
And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer 
On  whom  Hie  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown; 
It  is— my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear !     • 
'Tis,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call. 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  alL 


568 


THB  VISION  OF  JUJ>6MBNT. 


81. 


I  douH  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  sinue  we  daily  Tiew 
Them  written  without  heads;  and  books  we  see 
Arc  fiird  as  well  without  the  latter  too : 
And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 
For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due. 
Their  author,  like  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 
The  world  to  say  if  tA«r#  be  mouth  or  author. 

82. 

"And  who  and  what  art  thou?''  tlie  Archangel  said. 
''For  thml,  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  tliis  mighty  Sliadow  of  a  Shade: 
"If  I  haTe  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now."  —''Canst  thou  upbraid,'' 
Continued  Michael*  "George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further?"  Junius  answer'd,  "You  had  better. 
First  ask  him  for  Ait  answer  to  my  letter: 

83. 

My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 
The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 
"Repenf  St  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "of  some  past 
Bxaggeration?  something  which  may  doom 
Thyself,  iffiUse,  as  him  if  true?  Thou  wast 
Too  bitter  —  is  it  not  so?  in  thy  gloom 
Of  passion  V  "Passion!"  cried  the  Phantom  dlm» 
"I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him. 

84. 

What  I  have  written,  I  have  written:  let 

The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine!"  So  spoke 

Old  "Nominis  Umbra;"  and  while  speaking  yet^ 

Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 

Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  "Don't  forget 

To  call  Geoige  Washington,  and  John  Home  Tooke, 

And  Franklin :"  —  but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 

A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd* 

86. 

At  length,  with  jostling^  elbowing,  and  the  aid 
Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post. 
The  deyil  Asinodeus  to  the  circle  made 
His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  oost 
Some  trouble.  When  his  burden  down  be  lud, 
"What's  tius  ?"  cried  Michael ;  "why,  'tis  not  a  ghost  V 
"I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus ;  "but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  afiieur  to  me. 

8o« 

Confound  the  Renegado !  I  have  sprained 
My  left  wing,  he's  so  heavy;  one  would  think 
Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 
Bat  to  the  point:  while  hovering  o*er  the  brink 
Of  Slciddaw  (where,  as  usual,  it  still  rain'd), 
I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink. 
And,  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel— 
No  less  on  History  than  tlie  Holy  Bible. 


87. 


The  former  is  the  devil's  seripture,  and 
The  latter  yours,  good  Michael;  so  the  i 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  yon  understand. 
I  snatoh'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there. 
And  brouglit  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand : 
I've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  ike  air — 
At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be: 
I  dare  say  that  hb  w  ife  is  still  at  tea." 

86. 

Here  Satan  said,  **l  know  this  man  of  old. 
And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold. 
Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere: 
But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 
Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear! 
We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 
With  oarriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

80. 

But  since  he's  bere^  let's  see  what  he  has  done." 
"Done !"  cried  Asmodeos,  "he  aatkipatcs 
The  very  business  you  are  now  upon. 
And  scribbles  as  if  head^erk  to  the  Fates. 
Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run. 
When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  piates?" 
"Let's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "what  he  has  to  say ; 
You  know  we're  bound  to  thai  in  every  wi^." 

.     .  ♦  ■;  ;...«>• 

Now  the  Bard,  glad  to  get  an  audienee,  whiok 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below. 
Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem*  and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 
Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme's  in  flow; 
But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter. 
Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir. 

91. 

But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could  be  sporr'd 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay 

Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array; 

And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way,  [best- 

And  cried,  "For  God's  sake  stop,  my  friend!   'twere 

"Nqh  Di,  non  homines — "  you  know  the  rest" 

.  93. 

A  general  bustle  spread  tliroughout  the  throng. 

Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation; 

The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 

When  upon  service;  and  the  generation 

Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 

Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion ; 

The  Monarch,  mute  till  then,  cxclaim'd  "What!  what ! 

Py#  come  again  ?  No  more — no  more  of  that !" 


LV 


\J 


1«4. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


569 


donTalsed  the  sicies,  as  diifiDg  a  debate. 

When  Castlereagh  ha5  been  up  long  enough 

(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 

I  mean — the  slaves  hear  now);  some  med  ''off,  off/' 

As  at  a  fiuroe;  till  grown  quite  desperate, 

The  Bard  Saint  Pet^  pray'd  to  interpose 

(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 


I    J^^ 


] 


The  varlct  was  not  an  ill-fovour'd  knave; 
A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face, 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 
A  smart  and  sharper  looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave. 
Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case; 
Bat  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be. 
Quite  a  poetic  felony  ^*de  seJ' 

Then  Michael  blew  his  tnimp,  and  still'd  the  noise 

With  one  still  greater,  asis  yet  the  mode 

On  earth  besides;  except  some  grumbling  voice, 

Whidi  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 

Upon  decorous  silenoe,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow'd; 

And  now  the  Bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  canse. 

With  all  the  attitudes  of  setf-applauoe. 

96. 
He  smd— (I  only  give  the  heads)  ~  he  said, 
He  Boeant  no  harm  in  scribbling;  'twas  his  way 
Upon  all  topics;  'twas,  besides,  his  bread, 
Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides;  'twould  delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 
And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a  day, 
To  name  his  works— he  would  but  cite  a  few^ 
Wat  Tyler,  Rhymes  on  Blenheim,  Waterloo. 


k 


97. 


[e  bad  written  praises  of  a  regicide; 
He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever; 
He  had  written  for  republics,  for  and  wide, 
And  then  against  them,  bitterer  than  ever; 
For  pautisocracy  he  once  had  cried 
Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  'twas  clever; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  antijaoqbin— 
Had  tnm'd  his  coat^and  would  have  tum'd  his  skin. 

He  had  song  against  all  battles,  and  again 
la  their  high  praise  and  glory ;  he  had  call'd 
Reviewing  ^'tlie  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd-^ 
Fed,  paid,  and  pampcr'd  by  the  very  men 
By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd : 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  any  body  knows. 


99. 


He  had  written  Wesley's  life :  —  here,  turning  round 
To  Satan,  "Sir,  I'm  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound. 
With  notes  and  prefeoe,  all  that  most  allures 
The  pious  purchaser:  and  there's  no  ground 
For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  pwn  reviewers : 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 

100. 
Satan  bow'd,  and  was  silent  '<WeU,  if  you. 
With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  Michael  ?  There  are  few 
Whose  memoirs  could  be  render'd  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work ;  not  so  new 
As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet;  by  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown* 

101. 
But  talking  about  trumpets,  here's  my  Vision ! 
Sovr  you  shall  judge,  all  people;  yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment  I  and  b^rmy-deciuoA 
Be  guided^whp  shalli»iter-heav<»i  or  Ml  I 
f  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 
Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell^juid  all, 
Like  King  Alfonso!  When  I  thus  see  double^ 
I  save  the  Deity  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

103. 
He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ;  and  no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints. 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent;  so 
He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents ; 
But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 
Had  vanish'd  with  variety  of  scents, 
Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 
Like  lightning,  off  from  his  ''melodious  twang.'' 

103. 
Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell : 
The  angels  stopp'd  their  ears  and  plied  their  pinions; 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell; 
The  ghosts  fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own  dominions  — 
(For  'tis  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell. 
And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions); 
Michael  took  reftige  in  his  trump-^but  lol 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blowl 

104. 
Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 
And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  Poet  down ; 
Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  ease. 
Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown ; 
A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 
Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 
Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 
36* 


570 


MISCBLLANEOUS  POEM& 


105. 


He  fii«t  sunk  to  tlie  bottoai — like  his  works. 
But  «oon  rose  to  the  aurfaee—  like  himself ; 
For  all  corrupted  tbiiigs  ch^  hiioy'4  like  corks, 
By  their  own  rottenness,  lig^ht  as  an  elf, 
Or  wisp  that  flits  o'er  a  morass :  he  lurks, 
U  may  be,  still,  like  dull  hooks  on  a  slielf, 
In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  *'Liife"  or  "Vision," 
As  Wellhorn  says—  "the  derii  turn'd  preeisiaii*'* 


UM. 


As  for  the  rest,  to  oome  to  the  oonohukm 

Of  this  true  dream,  the  telesoope  is  gone 

Which  kept  my  optics  free  frt>m  all  < 

And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  torn  haTe  sboim : 

All  I  saw  further  in  the  lastoonfoston. 

Was,  that  King  Geoiye  slipp'd  into  faeaTen  fbr  oae; 

And  when  the  twnalt  dwindled  to  a  oabn, 

I  left  him  practisiiqp  the  haadredlii  pialm. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  SKETCH  FROM  PRIVATE  LIFE. 

Honest  —  honest  lagol 

ir  tb«f  ^OQ  Ik'A  a  devil,  1  cAili«t  IrfH  tftwe. 

Born  in  the  garret,  in  tlie  kitakefi  brtf^ 
Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head ; 
Next  —  for  some  gracious  service  unexprest. 
And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guess'd  — 
Raised  from  the  toilet  to  the  tabic,  where 
Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair : 
Witli  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabash'd, 
She  dines  from  ofl'  the  plate  she  lately  wash'd. 
Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie, 
The  genial  confidante,  and  general  spy ; 
Who  could,  ye  gods  I  her  next  employment  guess. 
An  only  infant's  earliest  governess ! 
She  taught  the  child  to  read,  aud  taught  so  well 
That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learned  to  spell. 
An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows, 
As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  show's: 
What  she  had  made  the  ptipil  of  her  art. 
None  know  —  b#tthat  high  soul  ^eeored  the  heart. 
And  panted  for  tlie  thith  it  coHifd  not  hear. 
With  longing  breast  and  ikod^fluded  ear. 

Foil'd  was  '|f>eiVersk>n  hy  that  yocrfMhl  mind. 
Which  flattery  fool'd  not,  baseness  could  not  blind. 
Deceit  infect  not,  near  contagion  soil, 
Indulgence  weaken,  aor  example  spoil, 
Nor  mastered  science  lempt  her  to  look  down 
On  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown, 
Nor  genius  swell,  nor  beauty  render  vaiu. 
Nor  envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pfmi, 
Nor  fbrtune  change,  pride  raise,  nor  |>assionhow. 
Nor  virtue  teadi  austerity  -^  till  now. 
Serenely  purest  of  lier  sex  that  live» 


But  wanting  Ottt  sweet  wealdHMM  -^  to  ibiffrre; 
Too  shock'd  at  foult»  her  mqI  «aa  wtwt  laum, 
She  deems  that  all  cottM  1^  libe  her  hetow : 
Foe  to  all  viee,  yet  hardly  virtue's  IHend  — 
For  virtue  pardoof  tfiMe  sitt  iroiild  mamd. 

But  to  the  theme  —  now  laid  aside  too  long, 
The  baleful  burthen  of  this  honest  soag  — 
Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more^ 
She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers  —  none  know  why  —  before  her  quake; 
If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mother^s  sake; 
If  early  habits  —  those  false  links,  which  bind 
At  times  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind  — 
Have  £^ven  her  power  too  deeply  to  iustii 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  walls. 
Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawh; 
If  like  a  viper  to  the  heart  she  wiad, 
And  leave  the  venom  there  she  did  not  ihid; 
What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latetft  as  she  Itfi-kA, 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  Where  she  dwells, 
And  reign  fhe  Hecate  of  domestic  hdis? 

SkiN'd  by  a  touch  to  dee|»en  scaadal's  timfs, 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints. 
While  mingling  truth  with  Msehood,  sneers  with  smiles. 
A  thread  of  candour  with  a  web  of  wiles; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming. 
To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-harden'd  scheming; 
A.  lip  of  lies,  a  face  form'd  to  conceal, 
And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel ; 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown; 
A  clicek  of  parchment,  and  an  eye  of  stone. 
Mark  how  the  chaoneis  of  her  yellow  blood 


mSCEIXANBOUS  POBMS. 


571 


Nise  to  lier  skiii>  tmd  staynato  Ihore  to  nudi 
Sued  like  the  oentipwie  io  saffroo  nuiil, 
fw  liarker  grcenuesa  of  the  ssoipion's  scale, 
Por  drawn  from  reptilos  only  may  we  traoo 
Congenial  coloors  ia  that  foul  or  fyuce), 
lOok  on  her  features  I  and  behold  her  mind 
kS  in  a  mirror  of  itaelf  defined: 
«ook  on  the  picture!  deem  it  not  o'erobaigfed  — 
liere  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged ; 
fet  true  to  ^'Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made 
rhia  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade,  — 
This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky, 
M^herc  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh !  wretch  without  a  tear  —  without  a  thought, 
laTe  joy  aboTe  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought  — 
rhe  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shaft  feel  fiur  more  than  thou  inflictest  now ; 
?eel  for  thy  Tile  self-loving  self  in  vain, 
knd  turn  thee  howling  in  unpltied  pain. 
Hay  the  strong  curse  of  crush 'd  affections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight! 
iad  make  thee,  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind, 
is  loathsome  to  thyself  as  to  mankind ! 
nil  all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate. 
Black  as  thy  will  for  others  would  create : 
mi  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 
Ind  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust 
Dh,  may  tiiy  grave  be- sleepless  as  the  bed. 
The  widow'd  couch  of  fire,  that  thou  hast  spread! 
rhen,  when  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  heaven  witli  prayer, 
Look  on  thine  earthly  victims  —  and  despair! 
Down  to  the  dust!  —  and,  as  thou  rott'st  away, 
Bven  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 
But  for  the  love  I  bore,  and  still  must  bear, 
To  her  fliy  malice  from  alt  ties  would  tear, 
Hiy  name  —  thy  human  name  -^  to  every  eye 
rhe  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high, 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorred  compeers, 
lad  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 

Itaeii  SO,  181S. 


ADDRESS, 

IPOKBN    AT   THE   OPENING    OP   DRURYLANE   THEATRE, 
SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  10,  1813. 

In  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust  the  Drama's  to  w  ^r  of  pride ; 
la  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
IpoUosink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Te  who  beheld,  (oh !  sight  admired  and  mourn'd, 
nrhose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adorn'd !) 
rhrough  c:louds  of  fire,  the  massy  fragments  riven, 
like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven; 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
ftake  its  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames, 
KThile  thousands,  throng'd  around  the  burning  dome, 
Shrank  back  appall'd,  and  trembled  for  their  horiic, 
Ugtared  the  volumed  bhize,  and  ghastly  shone 


The  skies,  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own. 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mark'd  lier  fall; 
Say  —  shall  tliis  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Rear'd  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  ihvour  which  tlie  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare  —  worthy  liim  and  ^en? 

Yes  —  it  shall  be  —  the  nwgic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  torch  of  flame;       •  ' 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  bids  the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been: 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell  — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say.  Haw  well! 

As  soars  tliis  fitme  to  emulate  the  last. 
Oh !  might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  past, 
Some  hour  propidous  to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost 
On  Drury  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 
O'erwhelm'd  the  gentlest,  storm'd  the  sternest  heart 
On  Drury, Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 
Sigh'd  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu : 
But  stilt  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom 
That  only  waste  their  odours  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Drury  claim'd  and  claims  —  nor  you  refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse; 
With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander's  head ! 
Nor  hoard  your  honours  idly  for  tlie  dead! 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  ceased  to  write. 
Heirs  to  their  labours,  like  all  high-born  heura. 
Vain  of  our  ancestry  as  they  of  tkeire  ; 
While  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo's  glass 
To  claim  the  sceptred  shack>ws  as  they  pass. 
And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  emblaaonM  on  our  line. 
Pause  —  ere  their  feebler  otbprlng  you  eondeflm. 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  1 

Friends  of  the  stage!  to  whom  both  Players  and  Plays 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon,  or  for  praise 
Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject; 
If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fjsme. 
And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame; 
If  e'er  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste,  it  dare  not  mend, 
Ail  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refote, 
And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mnte! 
Oh !  since  your  fiat  stamps  the  Drama's  laws. 
Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause ; 
So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  t!ic  actor's  powers. 
And  reason'^  voice  be  erho'd  bark  by  ours! 

Tliis  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd, 
The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid, 
Receive  evr  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
^  Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 


i 


572 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  curtain  rises— may  our  stage  unfold 
Scenes  not  unworthy  Drary's  days  of  old ! 
Britons  our  judges.  Nature  for  our  guide, 
StiJl  may  we  please— long,  long  may  yM  preside! 


ODE* 


Oh  Venice!  Yenioe!  when  thy  marble^walls 
Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 
A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea ! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee. 
What  should  thy  sons  do?— any  thing  but  weep : 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide-foam. 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home. 
Are  they  to  those  that  were ;  and  thus  they  creep, 
Crouchiitg  and  crab-like,  through  their  sapping  streets. 
Oh !  agony  —  that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest!  Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  tum'd  to  dust  and  tears ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears, 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum. 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song. 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas — and  to  tlie  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  uvcrbcating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  battling  witli  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors. 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay. 
When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften'd  terrors, 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay  ; 
And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a  lalse  delay. 
The  sick  man's  Cgfatning  half  an  hour  ere  death, 
When  FaiDtness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  Death  is  winning, 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'ertortured  c^lay, 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath. 
And  fteedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain;  — 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feels  his  spirits  soaring—  albeit  weak. 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek; 
And  as  be  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps. 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps, 
And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him — and  the  diszy 
Chamber  swims  round  and  round—  and  shadows  busy 
At  which  be  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strajigled  scream. 


AndallisioeaadblBdmess, — andHieetflh  ' 

That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  hirtli. 

There  is  no  hope  for  natloBs!  —  Seafcb  the  pc^e 
Of  many  thousand  years— the  daily  scene. 
The  flow  and  ebb  of  eaeh  reeurring  age, 
The  everlasting  to  be  which  kmtk  Arm, 
Hath  taught  us  nought  or  htHe:  still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air; 
For  'tis  our  nature  strikes  usdown :  the  beasts 
Slaugfater'd  in  hourly  heoatombff  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — they  must  go 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though  sosfawghtn 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as  water. 
What  have  they  given  your  children  iaretnm? 
A  heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 
A  blindfold  bondage,  where  your  hire  is  blows. 
What!  do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares  bum. 
O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal. 
And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  reed; 
Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  soars. 
And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  Time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  History  of  sublime. 
Spring  from  a  different  theme !  —  Ye  see  and  read. 
Admire  and  sigh,  and  then  succumb  and  bleed ! 
Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all. 
And  worse  than  all^jthe  sudden  crimes  engender'd 
By  the  dOwn-thundering  of  the  prison- wall. 
And  thirst  to  swallow  the  sweet  waters  tendered. 
Gushing  from  Freedom's  fountains — when  the  crond, 
Madden'd  with  centuries  of  draughl,  are  loud. 
And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chain 
Heavy  and  sore, — in  which  long  yoked  they  ploughed 
The  sand, — or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  grain, 
'Twas  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much  bov^'d. 
And  their  dead  palates  chew'd  the  cud  of  pain:  — 
Yes!  the  few  spirits — who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 
Those  momentary  starts  frt>m  Nature's  laws. 
Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smite 
But  for  a  term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a  few  summers,  and  again  pat  forth 
Cities  and  generations — iair,  when  free — 
For,  Tyranny^  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee ! 

Glory  and  Empire!  once  upon  these  towers 
With  freedom— godlike  Triad!  how  ye  sate! 
The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate. 
But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit — in  her  late 
All  were  enwrapp'd:  the  feasted  monarchs  knew 
And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to  hate. 
Although  they  humbled  —  with  the  ktngly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  the  voyager's  worship ;  —  even  her  criniei 
Were  of  the  softer  order — born  of  Love, 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten'd  on  the  dead. 


MISCBLLANBOUS  POEMS. 


573 


M  gteddenM  where  her  harmfesi  itooqnests  ipread ; 
"or  these  restored  the  Cross,  that  from  ahore 
lallow'd  hersbeUeriog  banners,  which  incessant 
lev  betfreen  earth  and  the  unholy  Crescent, 
V'hich,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled.  Earth  may  thank 
rhe  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Tow,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
"be  name  of  Freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles ; 
fet  she  but  shares  with  them  a  common  woe. 
Lad  call'd  the  ^kingdom"  of  a  conquering  foe,  — 
Uit  knows  what  all  —  and,  most  of  all,  we  know  — 
Vith  what  set  giUed  terms  a  tyrant  juggles  I 

The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 
)'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe; 
Venice  is  erush'd,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 
i  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe ; 
f  the  free  Switaer  yet  bestrides  alone 
lis  ehunless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time; 
^or  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown, 
knd  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
rhe  sparkles  of  our  ashes.  One  gr^cat  clime, 
^hose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Ue  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
)f  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  and 
lequeatb'd  —  a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
knd  proud  distiuotion  from  each  other  land, 
^ose  SODS  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion, 
U  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 
full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  sdenee  — 
kill  one  great  clime,  in  AiJl  and  free  defiance, 
fet  rears  her  crest,  unconqucr'd  and  sublime, 
kbove  the  for  Atlantic !  —  She  has  taught 
ler  Esau* brethren  that  the  haughty  flag, 
Ete  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 
fay  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 
tighta  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.  Still,  still,  for  ever 
letter,  tliough  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river, 
rhat  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 
rhrough  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
)amm'd  like  tiie  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains, 
ind  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep, 
Three  paees,^  and  then  faltering :  ^  better  be 
RThere  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free, 
a  ttidr  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 
rhan  stagnate  in  our  marsh,  —  or  o'er  the  deep 
^y,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add, 
)ne  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 
>ne  firecmaamore,  America,  to  thee  I 


ODE. 

Oh,  sliaine  to  thee.  Land  of  the  Gaul ! 
Ob,  shame  to  thy  children  and  thee ! 
Jawias  In  tiiy  glory,  and  base  in  thy  fall. 
How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be ! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 
A  mockery  tliat  never  shall  die; 
Phe  curses  of  hate,  and  the  hisses  of  scorn, 
ShaU  burden  the  winds  of  thy  sky ; 


And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be  burl'd 
The  laughter  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  world! 

Oh,  where  is  thy  spirit  of  yore. 

The  spirit  that  breathed  in  thy  dead. 
When  gallantry's  star  was  the  beacon  before, 

And  honour  the  passion  that  led  ? 
Thy  storms  have  awaken'd  their  sleep, 

They  groan  from  the  place  of  theur  rest, 
And'wrathfully  murmur,  and  sullenly  weep, 

To  see  the  foul  stain  on  thy  breast ; 
For  where  is  the  glory  they  left  thee  intrust? 
'Tis  scattered  in  darkness,  'tis  trampled  in  dust! 

Go  look  through  the  kingdoms  of  earth, 

From  Indus  all  round  to  the  pole. 
And  something  of  goodness,  of  honour,  and  worth, 

Shall  brighten  the  sins  of  the  soul. 
But  thou  art  alone  in  thy  shame. 

The  world  cannot  liken  thee  there; 
Abhorrence  and  vice  have  disfigured  thy  name 

Beyond  the  low  reach  of  compare; 
Stupendous  in  guilt,  thou  shall  lend  us  through  time 
A  proverb,  a  bye-word  for  treachery  and  crime ! 

Willie  conquest  illufflined  his  sword, 

While  yet  in  his  prowess  he  stood, 
Thy  praises  still  folio  w'd  tiie  steps  of  thy  lord. 

And  welcomed  the  torrent  of  blood : 
Though  tyranny  sat  on  his  crown, 

And  wither'd  the  nations  afar. 
Yet  bright  in  thy  view  was  that  despof  s  renown. 

Till  fortune  deserted  his  car; 
Then  back  from  the  chieftain  thou  sinnkest  away. 
The  foremost  t'  insult,  the  first  to  betray ! 

Forgot  were  the  feats  he  had  done, 

The  toils  he  had  borne  in  thy  cause; 
Thou  turnedst  to  worship  a  new  rising  sun, 

And  waft  other  songs  of  applause. 
But  the  storm  was  beginning  to  lower, 

Adversity  clouded  his  beam; 
And  honour  and  faith  were  the  brag  of  an  hour, 

And  loyalty's  self  but  a  dream :  — 
To  him  thou  hadst  banish'd  thy  vows  were  restored. 
And  the  first  that  had  scoffed  were  the  first  that  adored ! 

What  tumult  thus  burthens  the  air? 
What  throng  thus  encircles  his  throne? 
'Tis  the  shout  of  delight,  'tis  the  millions  that  swear 
His  sceptre  shall  rule  them  alone. 
Reverses  shall  brighten  their  seal. 
Misfortune  shall  hallow  his  name. 
And  the  world  that  pursues  him  shall  mournfully  feel 

How  quenchless  the  spirit  and  flame 
ThatPrenohmen  will  bieathe,  when  their  heartsare  on  fire. 
For  the  hero  they  love,  and  the  chief  they  admire  I 

Their  hero  has  rush'd  to  the  field; 
His  laurels  are  covered  with  shade  -- 
But  where  is  the  spirit  that  never  sbo«ld  yields 


574 


MISC£LLAN£OUS  POKMa 


Tbe  loyalty  never  to  fade? 
lu  a  moment  desertion  and  guile 

Abandoned  him  up  to  the  foe; 
The  dastards  that  flourished  and  grew  in  his  a 

Forsook  and  renounced  him  in  woe; 
And  the  millions  tliat  swore  they  would  perish  to  save, 
Beheld  him  a  fugitive,  captive,  and  slave  1 

The  savage  all  wild  in  his  glen 

Is  nobler  and  better  than  thou; 
Thou  standest  a  wonder,  a  marvel  to  men. 

Such  pertidy  blackens  thy  brow  I 
If  thou  wert  the  place  of  my  birtli, 

At  once  from  thy  arms  would  I  sever; 
I'd  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

And  quit  thee  for  ever  and  ever; 
And  thinking  of  thee  in  my  long  after-years, 
Should  but  kindle  my  blushes  and  waken  my  tears. 

Oh,  shame  to  tliee.  Land  of  the  Gaul! 
Oh,  shame  to  tliy  children  and  thee ! 
Unwise  in  thy  glory,  and  base  in  thy  fall, 
How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 
A  mockery  that  never  shall  die; 
The  curses  of  hate,  and  tlie  hissi^s  of  sooniy 

Shall  burthen  the  winds  of  thy  sky ; 
And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be  hurl'd 
The  laughter  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  tiie  world ! 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by: 

Thus  when  thou  vicwst  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year. 

Reflect  on  mc  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 

Scplembcr  14,  1809. 


T0**» 

Oh  Lady !  when  Ilefl  the  shore, 

The  (fistant  shore  which  gave  me  birth, 
I  hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more, 

To  quit  another  spot  on  earth : 
Tct  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 

Where  panting  Natnre  droops  the  bead. 
Where  only  thou  art  seen' to  smile, 

I  view  my  partuig  hour  with  dread. 
Though  far  from  Albin's  oraggy  sliorc, 

Divided  by  the  dark  blue  main ; 
A  few,  brief,  rolling  seasons  o'er, 

Perchance  I  view  her  otifis  again: 
But  wheresoe'er  I  now  may  roam, 

Through  soor«hing  clime  and  varied  sea, 


Thongli  time  reatore  om  to  my  hone, 

I  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  tiMe: 
On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  ooaspire 

All  charms  wliioh  heedless  haafts  oai 
Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire. 

And,  oh !  forgive  the  word  —  to  love. 
Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 

With  suob  a  word  can  more  oftiMi; 
And  sinoe  thy  heart  I  cannot  share. 

Believe  me,  what  I  am,  thy  friend. 
And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee. 

Thou  lovely  wanderer,  and  be  kaa  ! 
Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be. 

The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress? 
Ah !  who  would  think  that  form  had  past 

Through  Danger's  most  destructive  patii, 
Had  braved  the  deatli^wing'd  tempest*!  htast. 

And  'scaped  a  tyraaf  s  Heroer  wimth? 
Lady!  when  I  shall  view  the  walls 

Where  free  Byeantium  oncearoae. 
And  Stamboul's  OrienUl  balls 

The  Turkish  tyrants  now  enclose; 
Though  mightieflt  m  the  lists  of  fame^ 

That  glorious  city  still  shall  be; 
On  me  'twill  hold  a  dearer  claim. 

As  spot  of  thy  nativity ; 
And  tliough  I  bid  thee  now  fisrewdl, 

When  I  behold  that  wonderoos  scene, 
Since  where  thou  art  I  may  not  dwell, 

'Twill  soothe  to  be,  where  thou  haat  been. 

Scptembeij  iSM. 


STANZAS. 

WRITTBN  IN  FAtSSihO  TH£  kUBSUCUh  GVIMr 

N0\£MB£RI4»  ISSS. 

Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen. 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actiiun's  coast: 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt's  queen. 
The  ancnent  world  was  won  and  lost 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look. 
The  asure  giave  of  many  a  Roman; 

Where  stern  Ambition  one  forsook 
His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 

Tlorence!  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 
(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell) 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I  am  young; 

Sweet  Florence !  those  were  pleasant  times. 
When  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies'  eyes: 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes, 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antlionies. 

Thougli  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be. 
Yet,  by  thine  eye  and  ringlets  curl'd! 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee. 
But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  workl. 


MISCBLLANBOU8  POBMa 


575 


STANZAa 

■posed  October  lltb,  1899,  daring  the  ntghC,  in  a  thonderBtorm, 
•Then  tho  gnidet  bad  Io*t  the  road  to  ZItn,  mw  tbo  range  of  moon' 
tains  formerly  called  Pindoa,  in  Albania. 

Chill  ftnd  mirk  ia  the  nightly  bJut, 

Where  Pindos'  monnteins  rise» 
And  angry  cloods  are  pouring  fhit 

The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone>  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play. 
But  show  where  toeks  our  path  hate  erost, 

Or  gild  (he  torrent's  spray. 

Is  y^on  a  eot  I  saw,  though  low  ? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gioom  ~ 
How  welcome  were  its  shade!  — ah,  no! 

'Tis  but  a  Turkish  tomK 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfhlls, 

I  hear  a  Toicc  exclaim  — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired  ^  by  foe  or  friend? 

Another  —  'tis  to  tell 
The  mountain-peasants  to  descend. 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh  I  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 

To  tempt  the  wilderness? 
And  who  'mid  thunder-peals  can  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress  ? 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road  ? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

donds  hurst,  «kies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour ! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm! 
Yet  here  oae  thought  has  stiU  thepewer 

To  keep  my  bosom  warn. 

While  wand'ring  through  each  broken  path, 

O'er  brake  and  craggy  bro^ ; 
While  dements  exhaust  their  wrath. 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea. 

Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone : 
Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me, 

Bow  down  my  head  alone! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

Impelled  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe;  nay,  long  ere  now 
H«st  trod  the  shore  of  Spain; 


Twere  hard  if  ought  so  foir  as  thou 
Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread, 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped ; 

Do  thou  amidst  the  fair  white  walls, 

IfCadizyetbefrce, 
At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear'd  by  days  gone  by; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half-form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace, 

Again  thou'lt  smiie,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  railfery; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  tfaooghtst  of  one. 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 
When  sever'd  hearts  repine. 

My  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main, 
And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS. 

JANUARY  10,  1819. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown ! 

Tims  is  it  with  life's  fiTful  fever : 
We  madly  smile  when  wc  should  groan ; 

Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 

Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 
Recalls  tlie  woes  of  Nature's  charter, 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought, 
But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM  SESTOS 
TO  ABYDOS. 

MAYS,  1810. 

If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(  What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember?) 

To  oitM»  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont! 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  cwrentipour'd. 

Fair  VeonsI  how  Ipitytettit 


576 

For  me,  degenerate  modem  wretoh. 
Though  in  tlie  genial  month  of  ICa j, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I've  done  a  feat  to-day. 


But  since  be  cross'd  the  rapid  tide. 

According  to  the  doubtful  story, 
To  woo,  —  and  —  Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fored  the  best: 
Sad  mortab !  thus  the  Gods  still  plague  you ! 

He  lost  his  labour,  I  my  jest: 
For  he  was  drown' d,  and  I've  the  ague. 


MJSCBLLANBOUS  POEMS. 


SONG. 
Za!i]  payv^  oviq  A/and* 

ATHENS,  1810. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  £^ve  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Z»ti  fiov,  aui  uyaxi. 

By  those  tresses  onconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  i£gean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  firinge 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Ziiri  /tov,  aoc  uyunu. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone -encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token- flowers  that  tell 
What  words  c^ji  never  speak  so  well; 
By  Love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Ziarj  fiov,  aiiq  uyaiiM, 

Maid  of  Athens!  I  am  gone: 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone.  — 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee?  No! 
Ziiri  ftovy  aitq  ufwaia* 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FAMOUS  GREEK 
WAR- SONG. 

Written  by  Riga,  who  perltfa«d  In  the  attempt  to  revoletiwilM  Greece. 
The  following  tran»in(iou  it  u  literal  as  the  antlkor  eonM  nake  it  in 
verge ;  it  it  of  the  tame  meatare  us  that  of  the  originaL 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise! 

The  glorious  hour's  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties, 

Pisplay  who  gave  us  hirtfa. 


CHORUS. 
Sons  of  Greeks!  letosgo 

In  anns  against,  the  foe, 
Till  their  hated  blood  shall  floir 

In  a  river  past  our  feet 

Then  manfully  despisiog 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  your  country  see  you  rising, 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coming  strife ! 
Hellenes  of  past  ages, 

Oh,  start  again  to  life! 
At  the  soond  of  my  trumpet,  breaki^ 

Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me  I 
And  the  seven-  hill'd  city  seeking. 

Fight,  oonquer,  till  we're  free. 

SonsofGffeekj,eib 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  lie? 
Awake,  and  join  thy  numbers 

With  Athens,  old  ally  I 
Leonidas  recalling, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song. 
Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling, 

The  terrible!  the  strong! 
Who  made  tliat  bold  diversion 

lu  old  Thermopyla9, 
And  warring  witli  the  Persian 

To  keep  his  country  free; 
Witli  his  three  hundred  waging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood. 
And  like  a  lion  raging, 

E  spired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  tk. 


WRITTEN  BENEATH  A  PICTURE. 
,  Dear  object  of  defeated  oare ! 

Though  now  of  love  and  thee  bereft, 
To  reconcile  me  with  despair 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left, 

'Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope; 

But  this  I  feel  can  ne'er  be  true : 
For  by  the  death  -  blow  of  my  hope 

My  memory  immortal  grew. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ROMAIC  SONG. 

The  aoog  from  which  this  it  taken  is  a  great  fmvosrlte  with  the  ««| 
girit  of  Athens  of  all  ciasaes.  Their  manner  of  singing  iK  b  by  ««« 
in  rotation,  the  whole  number  present  joining  in  the  cWni.  1 1*'* 
heard  it  freqneuUy  at  oar  "/O^Of^  in  the  winter  of  ISI*— IL  Tl*  ai 
is  plaintiTe  and  pretty. 

1  ENTER  thy  garden  of  roses. 
Beloved  and  £ux  Haidce, 


mSCELLANBOUS  POEMS. 


577 


Bach  morning  where  Flora  reposes, 

For  sorely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
ObyliOTelyl  thus  low  I  implore  thee, 

Receive  thi«  fond  trath  from  my  tongue^ 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Tet  trembles  for  what  it  has  swig; 
As  the  branch,  at  thebidding of  Natore^ 

Adds  fragnmoeand  frak  to  the  trae^ 
Throngh  her  eyes,  through  her  every  tetore^ 

Shines  the  sool  of  the  yonng  Haid^. 

But  fbe  lovefiest  garden  grows  hatefol 

When  Love  has  abandon'd  the  bowers ; 
Bring  me  hemlock  —  since  mine  is  nngratefol. 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  ponr'd  from  the  chalice, 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl; 
Bot  when  drank  to  escape  from  thy  malice, 

The  dranght  shall  be  sweet  to  my  sool. 
Xoo  crnel !  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  tiiese  horrors  to  save : 
Win  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee  ! 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 

Seoore  of  his  conquest  before. 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances. 

Hast  pierced  throu^  my  heart  to  its  core. 
Ah,  tell  me^  my  soul!  must  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel  ? 
Would  the  hope,  which  thou  once  badst  me  cherish. 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  but  false  Haid^e ! 
There  Flora  all  withered  reposes. 

And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 


ON  PARTING. 


Thb  kiss,  dear  maid!  thy  lip  has  left, 

Shall  never  part  from  mine. 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting-glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see: 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  m^e  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast. 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write — to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak : 
Oh  I  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  eould  speak? 


By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe. 
That  heart,  no  longer  free, 

Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 
And  silent  ache  for  thee. 


TO  THYRZA. 


Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot. 

And  say,  what  Trutli  might  well  have  said, 
By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot, 

Ah!  wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid? 
By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee 

To  bid  us  meet  —  no  —  ne'er  again! 
Could  this  have  been  —  a  word,  a  look 

That  softly  said,  "We  part  in  peace,*' 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook. 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 
And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 

Prepared  a  light  and  pangless  dart, 
Once  long  for  him  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 

Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart? 
Oh  I  who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here? 

Or  sadly  mark'd  thy  glazing  eye^ 
In  that  dread  hour  ere  Death  appear, 

When  silent  Sorrow  fears  to  sigh,      ' 
Till  all  was  past?  But  when  no  more 

'Twas  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe, 
Affection's  heart -drops,  gushing  o'er. 

Had  flow'd  as  fast  —  as  now  they  flow. 
Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers. 
Ere  caU'd  but  for  a  time  away, 

Aiiection's  mingling  tears  were  ours? 
Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand; 
The  whisper'd  thought  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand ; 
The  kiss  so  guiltless  and  refined 

That  Love  each  warmer  wish  forbore; 
Those  eyes  proclaim'd  so  pure  a  mind. 

Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 
The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice. 

When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine; 
The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice. 

But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine ; 
The  pledge  we  wore  —  I  wear  it  still. 

But  where  is  thine?  —  ah!  where  art  thou? 
Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

But  never  bent  beneath  till  now ! 
Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  woe  for  me  to  drain. 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I  would  not  wish  thee  here  again; 
But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere. 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss. 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here, 

3? 


578 


MISCELLANEOUS  TOEJKB. 


Teach  me  —  too  early  iSLUghi  by  tliee  I 
To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven : 

On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me, 
It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven! 


STANZAS. 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe ! 

Be  silent,  thou  on^c  soothing  strain. 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence,  for,  oh ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days  — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas ! 
I  must  not  tliink,  I  may  not  gaze 

On  what  I  am,  on  what  I  was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

Is  hush'd,  and  alUheir  charms  are  fled; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead  I 
Yes,  Thyrzal  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 

Beloved  dust!  since  dust  thou  art; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart  I 

'Tis  silent  all !  —  but  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill ; 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still ; 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake : 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone. 
Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza!  waking  as  in  sleep. 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep, 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  he,  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  vcil*d  in  wratli, 
WilHong  lament  the  vanished  ray 

That  scatter'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 


TO   THYRZA. 

One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain ; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  Xoye  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before: 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below. 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more  ? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring; 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone : 
I'll  be  tliat  light  unmeaning  tiling 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 


It  was  not  fliufl  in  days  more  dear. 
It  never  would  have  been,  but  tiioo 

Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here; 
Thou*rt  nothing,  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vidn  my  lyre  wovld  ligMy  breattel 

The  smile  that  flortow  ftoii  wOttM  wew 
But  mocdcs  the  woe  that  larks  beneatli, 

Liks  roMB  o'er  a  M|Mdehrc. 
Though  gay  oompaiilons  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  flie  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  fiiea  the  maddrglng  soul, 

The  heart  —  the  heart  is  loBely  f  till  1 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  lught 

It  soothed  to  gase  upon  (he  sky ; 
For  then  I  deem'd  the  heavesJy  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye ; 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon. 

When  sailing  o'er  the  iCIgean  wave, 
'^Now  Thyrza  ga«ee  on  that  oaooa  —  '* 

Alas,  it  gleam'd  upon  her  grave ! 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed. 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"'TIS  comfort  still,"  I  fainUy  said, 

'^That  Thyrsa  cannot  know  my  pains:" 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  'tis  idle  then  to  givcv 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live! 

My  Thyrza's  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new ! 
How  different  now  thou  meetst  my  gaze! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent  —  ah,  were  mine  as  still! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be. 

It  feeb,  it  sickens  with  the  chilL 

Thou  bitter  pledge!  thou  monniftil  token! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast! 
Still,  stifl,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou'rt  prest ! 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallo w'd  when  its  hope  is  fled: 
Oh!  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

When  Tune,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 

Oblivion!  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep,  or  wish,  the  ooming^blow ; 

No  maiden,  witii  diSheveU'd  hahr, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  deeoroos  woew 


ia8€!»U.ANB0ir8  FOJBHS. 


579 


But  silent  ktiBe,4iri(  to  «fMrth,     . 

With  no  officious  mporaers  iie»r ; 
I  wovid  not  mar  ooe  boor  of  mirtb. 

Nor  startle  frieadship  viitb  a  fear. 

Yet  love,  if  lo¥e  in  siioh  an  hour 
Coald  nobly  cbeok  its  useless  sigbs, 

'Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  ber  wbo  lives  and  bim  wbo  dies« 

'Twere  sweet,  my  Psyche!  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see; 

Forgetful  of  its  strug^g^les  past. 
E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

Bat  vain  the  wish  ^  for  beauty  still 
Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbingp  breath ; 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  wilt. 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 
Without  r^ret,  without  a  groan! 

For  thousands  detrth  hath  ceased  to  lower, 
And  pain  been  tranment  or  unknown. 

<'Ay ,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go ! 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe ! 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free. 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  hem, 
'Tis  something  betin:  not  to  be. 


STANZAS, 

Hn^qaanto  mioos  est  cam  reliqais  versari  qaam  tai  memlnluci 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  returned  to  Earth ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

1  will  not  ask  where  thou  Uest  low. 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot) 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  wiU  may  grow. 

So  I  behold  them  not: 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Tet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou, 
Who  didst  not  change  tiirough  all  the  past^ 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 


The  love  Where  Btemth  has  set  Itis  s^ai,  . 
Nor  «geoan  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  fidsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worsen  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  cnr  friuk  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine : 
The  sun  tliat  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away, 
I  might  have  wateh'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fhll  the  earliest  prey; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away: 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  foir. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last; 

Extinguished,  not  decay'd ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  br^test  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed. 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace. 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free. 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain^ 

Than  thus  remember  thee! 
The  all  of  thine  tliat  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity, 

Returns  again  to  me. 
And  niore  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  iU  living  years. 


STANZAS. 

If  sometimes  in  the  liannts  of  men 
Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  Me, 


580 


MISCBLLANBOUS  POSITS. 


The  iooely  boor  presents  agdn 
The  semblanoe  of  thy  gentle  shade: 

And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hoar 
Thus  mudi  of  thee  can  still  restore, 

And  Sorrow  unobserved  may  poor 
The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Ohy  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile, 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee, 
And,  seJf-oondemn'd,  appear  to  smile, 

Unfaithful  to  thy  memory! 
Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear, 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  whoUy  tkiju. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  anqiia£rd, 

It  is  not  drain'd  to  banish  care ; 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught, 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  Oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
rd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  vanished  from  my  mind. 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honour  thine  abandon'd  urn? 
No,  no  —  it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil ; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'Tis  meet  that  I  remember  sdll. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmoum'd  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene. 

Where  none  regarded  him,  bat  thou: 
And,  Oh!  I  feel  in  Ma^  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  Heaven, 

For  earthly  love  to  merit  thee. 

Mardi  14th,  1813. 


ON  A  CORNBLUN  HBART  WHICH  WAS 
BROKEN. 

Ill-fated  Heart!  and  can  it  be 
That  thoa  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain? 

Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employed  in  vain? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shattered  part, 
And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 

Since  he  who  wears  thee,  feels  thoo  art 
A  fitter  emblem  of  Au  awn. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 
Few  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 

Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 
And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 


But  now,  like  me^  toawei  thon  koowst 
What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall; 

And  those  who  once  have  loved  ttie  most 
Too  soon  fofg«t  they  kyved  at  alL 

And  soeh  the  ohange  ISke  heart  displays. 
So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 

A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhi^  a  day's, 
WiU  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 
To  moorn  the  loss  of  saeh  a  heart; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thoa  art 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 
So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow ; 

And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide 
Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow  ? 

It  boots  not,  that  together  bred. 
Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy; 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled ; 
Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth, 
Slaves  to  the  specious  world's  control, 

We  sigh  a  loQg  farewdl  to  trath; 
That  world  oorrupts  the  noblest  sooL 

Ah  Joyous  season!  when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  bat  to  lie; 

When  thought  ere  spoke  is  anconfined. 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  Man's  maturer  years, 
Wheu  Man  himself  Is  but  a  tool; 

When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears, 
And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same, 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend, 

And  those,  and  those  alone  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man: 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan. 
Nor  be  what  all  in  torn  mast  be? 

No,  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fhte 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been; 

Man  and  the  world  I  so  much  hate, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  thoo,  with  spirit  frail  aiid  Iig|it, 
Wilt  shine  awhile  and  pass  away ; 

As  glow-  worms  sparkle  through  the  nigh^ 
But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 


TifificaH,T,AWOTO  tomuL 


581 


Alaal  wJittieverlbilycaUs 
Where  paruites  anil  prinoea  meet, 

(For  elieriab'd  lust  in  royal  halls 
The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet) 

Even  now  tfaoa'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  fluttering  orowdf 

And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad. 
To  join  the  Tain,  and  eoort  the  proud* 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  Mt, 
Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste, 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre, 
That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 

But  say,  what  nymph  will  price  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapours  move^ 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame, 
An  ignis-fotaus-gleam  of  love? 

What  friimd  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined. 
Will  d^gn  to  own  a  kindred  care? 

Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind, 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share? 

In  time  forbear;  amidst  the  tlirong 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along: 
Be  something,  any  thing,  but  —  mean. 


TO 


41  «  «  «  «  * 


Well!  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
Tliat  I  sboirid  thus  be  happy  too; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband's  blest  —  and  'twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot: 

But  let  them  pass  —  Oh !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favourite  child, 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 

Biit  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it,  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs 

Its  father  in  its  &ce  to  see; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  1  I  must  away: 

While  thou  art  blest  I'll  not  repine; 

Bat  near  thee  I  can  never  stay; 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deemM  that  pride 
Had  qnench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side. 
My  heart  in  all,  save  hope,  the  same. 


Tetwasloakat  Iknewthetime 
My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  Idok ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime  -^     • 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gace  apm>  my  fece 
Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there: 

One  only  feeling  couldat  thou  trace; 
The  sullen  calouiess  of  despair. 

Away!  away!  my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake: 

Oh!  where.is  Lethe's  fabled  stream? 
My  foolish  heart  be  still,  or  break  I 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 
In  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

"My  life  I"  with  tenderest  tone,  you  cry; 
Bear  words !  on  which  my  heart  had  doted, 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 
To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll. 

Ah  I  then  repeat  those  accents  never; 
Or  chang;e  "my  life!"  into  "my  soul!" 

Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND. 
When  fit>m  the  heart  where  sorrow  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high. 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits. 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink: 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well: 
Back  to  my  breast  tlic  wanderers  shrink. 

And  droop  within  their  silent  celL 


TO    TIME. 


Time!  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 

The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 
Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring. 

But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die  — 
Hail  thou !  who  on  my  birth  bestow'd 

Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known; 
Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load. 

For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 
I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share   . 

The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given; 
And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  couldst  spare 

All  that  I  loved,  to  peace  or  heavcn«    • 
To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 

Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  vain; 
I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  theo^ 

A  debt  already  paid  in  pain. 
Yet  e'en  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power: 
Tlio  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 


582 


inSCELLANBOOB  POBM8. 


In  joy  I've  sigli'd  to  think  thy  iliyiit 

Would  soon  subside  from  swift  lo  slow ; 
Thy  cloud  could  OTorcast  the  light. 

But  oould  not  add  a  night  to  woe; 
For  then,  however  drear  and  dark^ 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky; 
One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spark 

To  prove  thee  —  not  Eternity. 
/  That  beam  hath  sunk;  and  now  thou  art 

A  blank;  a  thing  to  count  and  curse 
Through  each  dull  tedious  trifling  part^ 

Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 
One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed, 
Wlien  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed: 
And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weak 

Thine  efforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 
Wlien  all  the  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 

Must  fall  upon  r~  a  nameless  stone! 


TRANSLATION  OP  A  KOMAIC  LOVK-SONG. 
Ah  !  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang^  tlie  Agony,  Uie  doubt. 
Which  rends  my  he-art  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  night  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  vmtp 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the  blow. 
That  Love  bad  arrows,  well  1  knew; 
Alas !  I  find  them  poison'd  too. 

.  Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net« 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  bath  set! 
Or  circled  by  liis  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring; 
But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare, 
I  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain. 
Can  neither  frel  nor  pity  pain. 
The  eold  repulse,  the  look  askance, 
The  lightnii]^  of  Love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mine : 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline ; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  Kfe !  ah,  leR  me  why 
That  pouting  lip,  and  aitef'd  eye? 
My  bird  of  love!  my  beauteous  mate! 
And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate* 

liline  eyes  Bke  wintry  streams  o'erflow : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe! 
My  bird !  relent :  one  note  ooold  give 
A  charni,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 


My  onrdling  blood,  my  mad^feniiig  brain. 
In  silsutvnguiA  I  sustain; 
And  still  thy  heart,  whliout  partaking 
One  pang,  exnlts  --  while  nme  is  breakup. 

Poor  JMa  tbe  poison ;  fear  mit  tboa ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  moire  thaa  now  : 
I've  lived  to  cnne  my  natal  day. 
And  Love^  that  thus  can  lingeriDg  alay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast. 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest  2 
Alas !  too  late,  I  dearly  know. 
That  joy  is  barbinger  of  woe.     . 


A  SONG. 


Thou  art  not  fiOse,  b«t  thou  art  feklc. 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought; 

The  tears  that  thou  bast  forced  to  triekfe 
Are  doubly  bittor  from  that  tfaoogbt: 

'Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  tbo«  grievert, 

Too  well  thou  lo  vest  -^  too  soon  thou  Jeavest 

« 
The  wholly  false  the  heart  despiaei^ 

And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit; 
But  she  who  not  a  thought  disguises. 

Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 
When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly, 
It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doom'd  to  all  who  love  or  Kve} 

And  if,  when  conscious  om  ifce  morroir. 
We  scatee  our  Ihaey  can  foigive^ 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  oo^. 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely. 

What  must  they  feet  whom  BO  ftJse  visioB, 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm'd? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  tnmsitioa. 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charm'd? 

Ah !  sure  such  grief  is  flinoy's  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming! 


ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS  THE  «OKIGtf 
OF  LOVE?" 

The  "Origin  of  Love  r'  —  Ah  why 
That  cruel  question  ask  of  me,  i 

When  thou  mayst  read  in  many  an  eye 
He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  theeZ 

And  shouldst  tliou  seek  bis  end  to  know : 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee. 

He'll  liqgcr  k>ng  in  siloDt  woe; 
Bat  live  —  until  I  cease  to  be. 


KISCBLLAKEOOS  P0BM5. 


583 


M  IMBB 

INSCRIBED  UPOX  A  CUP  F0RM1E0  PROM  A  SKULL. 

\       Start  not  —  nor  deem  my  spirit  fled : 
'  In  me  behold  tlie  only  skull 

From  which;  unlike  a  living  h^d, 
Wliatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quafTd  like  tbce; 
I  died,  let  earth  my  bones  resign : 
J        Fill  up  —  thou  canst  not  injure  me ; 

The  worm  bath  fouler  lips  than  tiiine. 

Better  to  bold  the  sparkling  grape. 
Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood; 

And  circle  in  tlie  goblef  s  shape 
The  drink  of  Gods,  than  reptile's  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone. 

In  aid  of  others'  let  mc  shine ; 
And  when,  alas !  our  brains  arc  goiM^ 

What  nobler  substitute. tlian  wind 

Quaff'  while  thou  canst  —  another  race, 
When  thou  afld  thine  like  nSe  arc  sped. 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not?  since  through  Ufc's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  cflects  produce ; 

Redeemed  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 

Ncwitead  Abbey,  1808. 


R£]^££MB£R  HIM. 

Remember  him,  whom  passion's  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved: 

Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved' 

That  yielding  bn^ast,  tliat  melting  eye. 

Too  much  invited  to  be  blest: 
That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh, 

The  wilder  wish  reproved,  represt 

Oh !  lei  me  feel  that  all  I  lo«t. 

But  saved  thee  all  that  conscience  (bars ; 
And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 

To  spare  tlie  vain  remorse  of  years, 

Tet  think  of  this  wlien  many  a  tongue. 
Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame, 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong. 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'cr  to  otliers,  thou 
Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued : 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 
£ven  now,  In  midnight  solitude. 


Oh,  God !  that  v«c  hdd  met  in  tlme> 
Our  hearts  as  ibnd,  thy  bond  more  free ; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime. 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  theel 

Far  may  thy  days,  as  heretofoiPe, 
From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past! 

And,  that  too  bitter  moment  o'^, 
Oh !  may  such  trial  be  thy  last ! 

This  heart,  alas!  perverted  long, 
Itself  destroy'd  might  there  destroy } 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glitterlog  throng, 
Would  wake  presumption's  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe, 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all. 

That  world  resign  —  such  scenes  forego. 
Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youtli,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness, 
Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure; 

From  what  even  here  hatli  past,  may  guess, 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  endure. 

Oh !  pardon  that  imploring  tear, 
Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain, 

My  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear ; 
For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be, 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet; 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree, 
And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine ; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part, 
As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER,  BART. 
There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 

A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave; 
But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry. 

And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  Sorrow's  purest  sigh 

O'er  Ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent: 
In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 

All  earth  becomes  their  monument ! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue. 
The  present  hours,  die  future  age, 

For  tliem  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hush'd,  tAtrr  iuiiii«  the  oaly  sound; 

While  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet's  tribotary  round. 


584 


MISGBLLANBOUB  POBM& 


k  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not. 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes. 
Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot? 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they 

And,  gallant  Parker!  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  tliy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  he; 

And  early  valour,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 
In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell; 

And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 
Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  feiL 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish'd  name? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulness. 

While  Griefs  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame. 

Alas !  for  them,  though  not  for  thee, 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more; 

Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be. 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 


TO  A  LADY  WEEPING. 

Weep>  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay; 

Ah,  happy !  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away ! 

Weep  —  for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears  - 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles ; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  nnilest 

March,  181S. 


FROM  THE  TURKISH. 

The  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound. 

The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine; 
And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, 

Alas !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch ; 

That  lute  was  sweet  —  till  thou  couldst  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  liim,  who  from  tiiy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp. 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  tiie  Qhords>  renew  the  clasp. 


When  thou  wert  ohasc^  they  aJter'd  too; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute ; 
'Tis  past  ^  to  them  and  thee  adieu  — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  nlent  lute! 


SONNET. 


TO     OBNBYRA. 
Trine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features  —  caught 
From  contemplation  —  where  serenely  wrought, 
Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair^ 
Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  ah, 
That  —  but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloyed  and  stainless  thought  — 
I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 
With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 
When  from  his  beauty-brealfaiQg  pendl  bom* 
(Except  that  tkau  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  tte  mom  — 
Such  seemst  thou  —  but  how  much  more  excellent! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim  —  nor  Yirtne  soon. 


SONNET. 


TO     OBNBTRJI. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 
My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow:  — 
And  dazBle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes  —  but  oh! 
While  gasing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush. 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush. 
Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  how. 
For,  through  tliy  long  dark  ladies  low  dq[>ending. 
The  soul  of  melancholy  gentleness 
Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending. 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress; 
At  once  such  majesty  witli  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 


INSCRIPTION 


ON  THB  MONUMBNT  OF    k  NEWFOUNDLAND  -  D0& 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth. 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe. 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been: 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend. 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend. 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own. 
Who  labours,  t^is,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonour'd  falls,  unnoticed  all  hia  worth. 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth : 
While  man,  vain  insect!  hopes  to  be  foi^ivcn. 
And  daims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 


inSCBLLANBOUS  POEM& 


585 


ii  nuui !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 

Abased  by  slavery,  or  oorrapt  by  power, 

7bo  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 

degraded  mass  of  animated  dnst! 

liy  love  is  last,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 

'by  snules  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 

ly  natore  yile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 

Sach  kindred  brute  mig;bt  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 

fe!  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 

>ass  on  —  it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn : 

To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise, 

[  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies. 

NewtCead  khbty,  Oet  M,  1608. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell!  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  others'  weal  avail'd  on  high. 
Mine  will  not  ail  be  lost  in  air. 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh: 

Oh  I  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilf  s  expiring  eye. 

Are  in  that  word  —  Farewell !  —  Farewell  I 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  my  breast,  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain. 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 

I  only  feel  —  Farewell!  —  Farewell! 


Bkigrt  be  the  place  of  thy  soul! 

No  lovelio-  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 
On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine. 

As  thy  sout  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine. 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Ugfat  be  (he'turf  of  thy  tomb ! 

May  its  ^eMure  like  emeralds  be : 
Thera  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom, 
^^Ai^  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 
Young  Howere  and  an  evergreen  tree 

May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest: 
But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see; 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest? 


When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years. 
Pale  grew  thy  check  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 


k^ 


The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow  — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken. 

And  light  is  thy  fkme ; 
I  hitar  thy  name  spoken. 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me. 

A  knell  to  mine  ear; 
\shudder  comes  o'er  me  — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee 

Who  knew  thee  too  well:  ^ 
Long,  long,  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met  — 

In  silence  I  grieve. 
That  thy  heart  could  foiget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years. 
How  shonld  I  greet  thee?  •«• 

With  silence  and  tears. 


/Jdi 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 
With  a  magic  like  thee; 

And  like  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charm'd  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  Inll'd  winds  seem  dreaming, 
And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 

Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep ; 
Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 

As  an  infonf  8  asleep: 
So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 
To  listen  and  adore  thee; 
With  a  full  but  soft  emotion. 
Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean* 


STANZA8  FOR  MUSIC. 

O  Lachrymanim  font,  tenero  neroi 
Dacfstliiiii  oitu  ex  •nlmo:  qaakr 
Feiul  So  iBO  qai  aeMmtem 
Pwtore  tCy  pU  Nympha,  aentit 
Gkay. 

There's  not  a  joy  die  world  can  give  like  tliat  it  takes 

away. 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull 

decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which 

fades  so  fast. 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself        4    \ 

be  past 

37* 


586 


lOSCSLLANEOUS.  FOBM8. 


Then  the  few  whose  8{>irits  float  above  the  wreck  of  hap- 
piness, 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ooean  of  excess : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never  stretch 
again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  deatli  itself 

comes  down ; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its  own ; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  tlie  fountain  of  our  tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the  ice 

appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  distract 

the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former 

hope  of  rest; 
'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray 

beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  —  or  be  what  I  have  been. 
Or  weep,  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  vanishM 

scene: 
As  springs,  in  deserts  found,  seem  sweet  —  all  brackish 

-  ^louj^h  they  be,  — 
So,  midst  the  wither 'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 


FARE  THEB  WELL. 

AUmI  tbey  had  bc«n  (Heads  in  yonth ; 
Bat  whUpering  tongues  can  poison  trvtli; 
And  eonstancgr  lives  in  realaitf  ^bort: 
And  life  is  thorny ;  and  yoath  is  vain : 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 
Doth  work  iilce  madness  in  the  brain : 


Bat  never  either  foand  another 

To  fl-ee  Ibc  hollow  heart  flrom  paining  — > 

They  stood  aloof,  (be  scars  remaining, 

Ltlie  cliffs,  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  lyetween, 

Bnt  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder 

Hhali  wholly  do  awiiy,  I  ween. 

The  marl(s  of  that  which  odm  bath  been. 

COLBBIOOB. 

Fare  thee  well  I  and  if  for  ever,  \ 

Still  for  ever,  fi&re  thee  well: 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 
Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 

Where  tliy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 
While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 

Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again: 
Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 

Every  inmost  tliought  could  show  1 
Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 

'Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 
Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee  — 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow. 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  woe  ~ 


/ 


Though  my -many  fiivHa  defiuodine, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found. 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  mc. 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound? 
Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay. 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 
Still  thine  o^n  its  life  retaineth  — 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat; 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 

Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet 
These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
^    Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 
Botlrshail  live,  but  every  morrow 
*    Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 
And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
\    When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 
Q£ilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  ""Father!" 

Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 
When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 

When  her  lip  to  thine  is  prest. 
Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  liiee^ 

Think  of  hUn  thy  love  had  btess'd! 
Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  mayst  see, 
'Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 
All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest. 

All  my  madness  none  can  know; 
All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest. 

Wither  —  yet  with  thee  they  go. 
Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee  -^  by  thee  forsaken. 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 
But  'tis  done  —  all  words  are  idle  ^ 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 
But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 

Force  their  way  without  the  wilt  — 
Fare  thee  weU!  >-  thus  disunited. 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted  — 

More  tiian  this  I  scarce  can  die. 


When  all  around  grew  drearan< 

^  And  reason  half  witl^l^d  her  imy  — 

And  h9pe  but  sii^  a  d^ing  «pir)E    t 

Which  m<ire  misled  my  lonc^  way ; 

•     ^      I 
In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind. 

And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 

When  dreading  to  be  deem'd  too  kind, 

The  weak  despair  —  the  cold  depart; 

When  fortune  changed  —  and  love  fled  far. 
And  hatred's  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast. 

Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 
Which  rose  and  set  not  to  the  last 


MISCBLLANBOUS  POEMa 


587 


Oh  I  blest  be  thine  anhroken  light  I 
Thmt  watch'd  mc  as  a  seraph's  eye,     » 

Aud  stood  between  me  and  the  night. 
For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigli. 

And  when  die  cloud  upon  ns  came, 
Which  strove  to  blaclcen  o'er  tliy  ray  — 

Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame. 
And  dash'd  the  darkness  ail  away. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwdl  on  miae^ 
And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook  - 

There's  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine. 
Than  in  the  world's  defied  rebuke. 

Thou  stoodst,  a  stands  a  lovely,  tree, 
That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  Udelity 
Its  boughs  above  a  monument 

The  winds  might  rend  -*-  the  skies  might  pour, 
But  there  thou  wert  —  and  still  wouldst  be 

Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 
To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  mc. 

Bat  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight, 

Whatever  late  on  me  may  fall ; 
For  heaven  in  sunshine  wiU  requite 

The  kind  ^  and  thee  the  most  of  all. 

Then  let  the  ties  of  bafiied  love 

Be  broken  —  thine  will  never  break; 

Thy  heart  can  feel  >--  but  will  not  move ; 
Thy  soul,  thouj^  soft,  will  never  shake. 

And  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside, 
Were  found,  and  still  are  fixed,  in  thee  — > 

And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 
Barth  is  no  desert  —  even  to  me. 


ODE. 

CFBOM  THE  FRENCH.] 

vcpC,  b«t  pardcnUirly  Savary,  and  a  PolUh  ofBcer  who  had  been 

■Ucd  rron  the  ranks  by  Buonaparte.  He  cloiig  tohl*  master's  knees: 

a  letter  to  Lord  Keith,  entreating  permission  to  accompany 

tnm  ia  the  mojt  menial  eapodCy,  which  coold  not  be  admitted." 

Must  thou  go»  my  glorious  Chief, 

Sever'd  from  thy  Ihithful  few? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief, 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adipu? 
Woman's  love,  and  friendship's  zeal  — 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me  — 
What  arc  they  to  all  I  feci, 

With  a  soldier's  fiiith,  for  tliee? 

Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now: 
Many  oould  a  world  control ; 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 


By  thy  side  for  years  I  dared 
Death,  and  envied  those  who  fell, 

When  their  dying  shout  was  heard 
Bicssiiig  him  they  served  so  well. 

Would  tliat  I  were  oold  ivith  those, 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see ; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee. 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free. 

Oh!  although  in  dungeons  pent. 
All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gasing  on  thy  soul  unbent 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Now  so -deaf  to  duty's  prayer. 
Were  his  borrow'd  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  Ids  own, 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign. 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine? 

My  chief,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I  droop  before ; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue. 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore. 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave. 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


CFBOM  TH£  FRENCH.] 

Wb  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo  I 
Though  Freedom's  blood  tliy  plain  bedew ; 
There  'twas  shed,  but  is  not  sunk  — 
Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 
Like  the  water^spout  from  ocean. 
With  a  strong  and  growing  motion  — 
It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air. 
With  that  of  lost  Ladedoyere  — 
Witli  that  of  him  whose  honour'd  grave 
Contains  the  <<bravest  of  the  brave." 
A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 
But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose; 
When  'tis  ftall  'twill  burst  asunder  — 
Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder 
As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder  - 
Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning. 
As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ningi 
Like  the  Wormwood->Star  foretold 
By  the  smnted  Seer  of  old. 
Showering  down  a  fiery  flood. 
Turning  rivers  into  blood. 

The  Chief  has  Ihllen,  but  not  by  yon. 
Vanquishers  of  Waterlool 
When  tlie  soldier-citisea 
Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-mcn  — 


588 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom's  son  — 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 

Witli  that  youthful  diief  competed? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 

Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded  ? 

Till,  goaded  by  Ambition's  sting, 

The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King? 

Then  he  fell;  —  So  peris{i  all. 

Who  would  men  by  man  enthral ! 

And  thou  too  of  tlie  snow-white  plume! 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomb; 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears. 
Who  tliy  blood*bought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks. 
Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shiver'd  fiut  around  thee  — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee; 
Was  that  haughty  plume  biid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow? 
Once  —  as  the  Moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  rolled  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  tiie  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 
The  soldia-  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendancy,  — 
And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose, 
So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 
There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  tluckest, 
Strew 'd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 
Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest  — 
(There,  witli  thunder-clouds  to  fon  her. 
Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest  ~ 
Victory  beaming  from  her  breast?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 
Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging ! 
There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  agam! 

O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march. 
Weeps  Triumph  o'er  each  levell'd  ardi  — 
But  let  Freedom  rejoice. 
With  her  heart  In  her  voice ; 
But,  her  hand  on  her  sword. 
Doubly  shall  she  be  adored; 
France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 
The  <'moral  lesson"  dearly  bought  — 
Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne. 
With  Capet  or  Napoleon  I 
But  in  equal  rights  and  laws. 
Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause  — 
Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 
Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 


With  their  breath,  and  from  tiictr  birth. 
Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth; 
With  a  fierce  and  laviah  band 
Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand : 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water. 
In  imperial  seas  of  alaoghterl 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion  — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union  ? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued  — 
Man  may  die  —  the  soul's  renewed : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  hdr; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for  ever  bounding  spirit  — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble. 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble  — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat  ? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet 


ON  THE  STAR  OF  THE  LEGION  OF  HONOUR 

[FROM  THB  FRENCHJ 

Star  of  the  brave  I  —  whose  beam  hath  shed 
Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead  — 
Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit! 
Which  millions  msh'd  in  arms  to  greet,  -* 
Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth ! 
Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  fbrm'd  thy  rays ; 
Eternity  flash'd  throqgh  thy  blase; 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes 
Like  a  Volcano  of  the  skies* 

Like  lava  roll'd  thy  stream  of  Mood, 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  tiiee  to  her  base. 
As  thou  didst  Ugbten  throuj^  all  space; 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  £m  in  air. 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 

Of  three  bright  colours,  each  divine. 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraphs'  eyes ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit* s  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light: 
The  tiurce  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 


1 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


589 


Star  of  tlie  brave !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
Ajid  darkness  must  again  prevail! 
But,  oil  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array; 
And  soon^  oh  Goddess !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  witli  theih  or  thee ! 


NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELL. 

[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 

fhUVBLL  to  the  Land  where  the  gloom  of  my  glory 

Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name  — 

She  abandons  me  now,—  but  the  page  of  her  story, 

The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  fill'd  with  my  fame. 

1  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquished  me  only 

When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far; 

I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus  lonely, 

The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  1  —  when  thy  diadem  crown'd 
I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth,  •—         [me, 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  1  found  thee, 
Becay'd  in  thy  glory  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh!  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won  — 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gase  in  thatmoment  was  bksted, 
Had  still  soared  with  eyes  fix'd  on  Victory's  sun ! 

Farewell  to  &ee,  France!  —  but  when  Liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then  — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys ; 
Though  withered,  thy  tears  will  unfold  it  again  — 
Yet,  jfit  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice  — 
There  are  links  wliich  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has 

bound  us. 
Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice ! 


And  blend,  while  Ages  roll  away, 
Her  name  immortally  with  thine! 

AprU,  10, 1812. 


SONNET. 


Rousseau  —  Yoltsdre  —  our  Gibbon  —  and  de  Stael  - 

Leman !  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore. 

Thy  shore  of  names  like  these;  wert  thou  no  more, 

Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 

To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all; 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 

Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 

Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 

Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous ;  but  by  thee 

How  much  more.  Lake  of  Beauty !  do  we  feel. 

In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea. 

The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

Is. proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real! 


STANZAS  TO 


fsoyety    y 


WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF 
-THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY," 

Absent  or  present,  still  to  thee. 

My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong! 
As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me, 
r  In  turn,  thy  converse  and  thy  song. 
But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come, 

By  Friendship  ever  deem'd  too  nigh. 
And  "Memory"  o'er  her  Druid's  tomb 

Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die. 
How  fondly  will  She  tlicn  repay 

Thy  homage  offered  at  her  shrine, 


Thouoh  tlie  day  of  my  destiny's  < 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  deelined,* 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 
It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
|And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  punted 
^1  It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling. 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean. 

As  the  breasts  1  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  sliiver'd, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain  —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  ts  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn  — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  mc  — 

*Tis  ofthee  that  I  think  —  not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  mc. 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me. 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 


590 


MISCELUkNHOUS  POBM& 


Tet  I  blame  not  the  worid^  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prise  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  eost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hatli  perish^ 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taugfit  me  that  what  I  most  chcrish'd . 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree. 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing. 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 


A\> 


A  VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD  ON  THE  SIEGE 
AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA. 

The  effect  of  the  original  ballad  (which  eai»trd  both  iu  SfMiiUh  aad 
Arabic)  was  socb  that  it  was  forbiddeD  to  be  sang  by  the  Moori,  on 
pain  of  death,  within  Oranada. 

[  ^o^fish  King  rides  up  and  down 
anada's  royal  town; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell ; 

the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw,  b 

And  the  messenger  he  slew.  w 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama !        ^ 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse. 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordain'd 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar. 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Alight  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Then  the  Moors  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recall'd  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before: 


^'Wherefore  call  on  ns,  oh  king? 
What  may  mean  this  gatliering?'' 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

''Friends!  ye  have,  alas!  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow. 
That  the  ChristiaBS,  stem  and  bold. 
Have  obtain'd  Aihama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
*'GoodKing!  thou  a|[t  justly  served. 
Good  King!  this  thou  hast  dc^rved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour. 
The  Abenoerrage,  Granada's  ilower; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  tliee 
Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  for  this,  oh  King!  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement. 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm. 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Albaina! 

He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law; 
And  Granada  must  be  won. 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Woe  Is  me,  Alhama! 

Fire  flash'd  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes, 
The  Monareh's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer'd,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  Is  rae,  Alhaoui! 

"There  is  no  law  to  say  snch  thiogx 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings: "  — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doom'd  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

MoorAlfoqui!  Moor  Alfaqui! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be. 
The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seised, 
For  Aihama's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  to  fix  thy  bead  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  s%w. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  I 

^'Cavalier!  and  man  of  worth! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 
Let  tlie  Moorish  Monardi  know. 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe: 

Woe  is  mc^  Alhamal 


ICBSCBLLANBOVS  FOE3IS. 


591 


But  on  my  soul  Albama  weighs. 
And  oa  my  inmost  spirit  preys; 
And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost. 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour. 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay. 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day/' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhamal 

And  as  these  thmgs  the  old  Moor  said. 
They  sever'd  from  the  trunk  his  head; 
And  to  the  Albambra's  wall  with  speed 
'Twas  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  men  and  infants  therdn  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep ; 
Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls  I 
The  King  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me^  Alhama  I 


TILiNSLATION  FROM  VITTORELLL 

ON  A  NUN, 
fa— el  compoflcd  in  ttw  aame  of  a  Iktber  wbote  daagbter  had  receatiy 
died  fhortly  after  her  marriage;  and  addretaed  (o  Uie  fttber  of  her 
who  had  lately  taken  the  veU. 

Or  two  fiiir  virgins,  modest,  though  admired, 

Heaven  made  us  happy ;  and  now,  wretched  sires, 

Seaven  for  a  nobler  doom  their  worth  desires, 

knd  gazing  upon  either,  both  required. 

Uoe,  while  the  torch  of  Hymen  newly  fired 

Becomes  exttngulsh'd,  soon  —  too  soon  expires : 

Bat  thine  within  the  closing  grate  retired, 

Bternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 

Bat  ikou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door. 

Which  shuts  between  your  never -meeting  eyes, 

llayst  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once  more: 

r  to  the  marble,  whWe  mjf  daughter  lies, 

Rash,  —  the  swoln  flood  of  bitterness  I  pour, 

ind  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock  ^  but  none  replies. 


STANZAS. 
River,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls, 
^liere  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she ' 


Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me : 

What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 
The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed? 

What  do  I  say— a  mirror  of  my  heart? 
Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark  and  strong? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art; 
And  such  as  thou  art,  were  my  passions  long. 

Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them,  not  for  ever : 
Thou  overflowst  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye; 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river ! 
Thy  floods  subside ;  and  mine  have  sunk  away — 

But  left  long  wrecks  behind  them,  and  again 
Borne  on  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move; 
Thou  tendest  wildly  onward  to  the  main, 
And  lyto  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 
Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet; 
Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight-air,  unharm'd  by  summer's  heat 

She  will  look  on  thee:  I  have  look'd  on  thee. 
Full  of  that  thought,  and  from  that  moment  ne'er 
Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name  or  see. 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her. 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream ; 
Yes,^iey  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now  i 
Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream. 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow. 

The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more: 
Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep? 
Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore; 
I  near  thy  source,  she  by  the  daric-blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  ii  not 
Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 
But  tlie  distraction  of  a  various  lot. 
As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

A  stranger  loves  a  lady  of  the  land, 

Bom  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fonn'd 

By  the  bleak  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime; — I  shall  not  be 
In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  foigot, 
A  slave  again  of  love,  at  least  of  thee. 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle— let  me  perish  young- 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved : 
To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung. 
And  then  at  least  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved. 


/"i 


592 


MISC£LLANBOUS  POBIfS. 


DRINKING-SONG. 

Fill  the  goblet  again,  for  I  never  before 
Felt  the  glow  that  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core : 
Let  us  drink — who  would  not?  since,  thro'  life's  varied 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found.  [round, 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply ; 
Thave  bask'd  in  the  beams  of  a  dark  rolling  eye; 
I  have  lov'd — who  has  not?  but  what  tongue  will  declare 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there? 

In  the  days  of  our  youth,  when  the  heart's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends, — who  has  not?  but  what  tongue  will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine!  are  so  faithful  as  thou? 

The  breast  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange;  [change. 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sun-beam, — thou  never  canst 
Thou  gro  wst  old— w  ho  does  not  ?  but  on  earth  w  hat  appears 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  but  increase  with  our  years? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below. 
We  are  jealous— who 's  not?  thou  hast  no  such  alloy. 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  they  enjoy. 

When,  the  season  of  youth  and  its  jollities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last. 
Then  we  find— who  does  not  ?  in  the  flow  of  the  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confin'd  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  opened  on  earth, 
And  Memory's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left— was  she  not?  but  the  goblet  w€  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape !  and  when  summer  is  flown. 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  my  own. 
We  must  die— who  does  not?  may  our  sins  be  forgiven! 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


ON  SIR  JOHN  MOORE'S  BURIAL. 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note. 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning,— 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light. 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

N  o  useless  coffin  confined  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him. 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
Witli  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  ttie  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


We  thought,  as  we  heap'd  bis  narrow  bed, 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  wonld  tread  o'er  las  head 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  nothing  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  hhn. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done. 
When  the  clock  told  the  hour  for  retiring ; 
And  we  heard  by  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  suddenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 
From  the  field  of  his  fhme  firesh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  notastone^ 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


WINDSOR  POETICS. 

Lines  compoaad  on  cbe  oocaiioB  of  H.  R  H.  tti«  Prinee  Rc|at  ba^ 
Men  standing  bcCvixt  tbe  eofflaa  ofUouy  YUU  md  Ctartnl.k«e 
royal  t^oIc  at  Windsor. 

Famkd  for  oontemptnotts  breach  of  sacred  ties, 
By  headless  Charles,  see  heartless  Henry  lies ; 
Between  them  stands  another  aoeptred  thing, 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king: 
Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 
—In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  lifb: 
Justice  and  death  have  mix'd  their  dost  in  vain. 
Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again : 
Ah!  what  can  tombs  avail— since  these  disgorge 

The  blood  and  dust  of  both to  mould  a  Geoi^ 

1818. 


LINES  TO  Mil  MOORE. 

The  foUowing  linei  were  addressed  extempore  by  Lord.  Byroa  t»  hit 
Mend  Mr.  Moore,  on  tbe  latter**  last  visit  to  Italy. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore. 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here's  a  s|gh  to  those  who  love  me. 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 
And,  whatever  sky's  above  me. 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  ftite. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me. 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Wer't  the  last  drop  in  tbe  well. 

And  I  gasping  on  the  brink. 
Ere  my  £idnting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  tiiat  I  wonld  drink. 


SIISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


593 


With  that  water,  as  this  wSoe, 
The  libation  I  would  pour 

Should  be — Peace  to  thine  and  mine. 
And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  MoorsI 


THE  IRISH  AVATAR. 

Bbe  the  Daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  gjaye, 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the  tide, 

Lo !  George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave,  [bride. 
To  the  long-cherishM  Isle  which  he  loved  like  his— 

True,  the  gr^t  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 
The  rainbow-like  epoch  where  Freedom  could  pause 

For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won,        [cause. 
Which  betrayM  not,  or  crushed  not,  or  wept  not  her 

True^  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his  rags, 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate's  no  more, 

And  the  ikmine,  whidi  dwelt  on  her  freedomloss  crags, 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

To  her  desolate  shore—  where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his  hearth ; 

Tears  foil  on  his  chhin,  though  it  drops  from  his  hands, 
For  the  dungeon  he  qnitsis  the  place  of  his  birth. 

But  he  comes !  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes ! 

Like  a  goodly  Leviathan  roU'd  from  the  waves ! 
Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes, 

With  a  legion  of  cooks,  and  an  army  of  slaves ! 

He  comes  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  threescore, 

To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's  part- 
But  long  live  the  Shamrock  which  shadows  him  o'er! 
Could  the  Green  in  his  hat  be  transferr'd  to  his  heart! 

Could  that  long-wither'd  spot  but  be  verdant  again. 
And  a  new  spring  of  noble  affections  arise— 

Then  might  Freedom  forgive  thee  his  dance  in  thy  chain, 
And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the  skies. 

Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now  ? 

Were  he  Grod— as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay. 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow — 

Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train!  let  thine  orators  lash 

Their  fiindftil  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride- 
Not  thus  did  thy  Grattan  indignantly  flash 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied. 

Ever  gloriolb  Grattan  1  the  best  of  the  good ! 

So  simple  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 
With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted,  endued, 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Bre  TULLY  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  uneqnall'd,  preceded,  the  task  was  begun— 
Bat  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the  tomb 

Of  ages,  the  iurst^  last,  the  saviour^  tlie  One/ 


With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  tlie  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute,         [mind. 

And  Corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  ghmce  of  his 

But  back  to  our  theme !  Back  to  despots  and  slaves ! 

Feasts  furnish'd  by  Famine !  rejoicings  by  Pain ! 
True  Freedom  but  welco/nes,  while  slaverj  still  ravet. 

When  a  week's  Saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  rain  would  hide) 

Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo !  Erin,  thy  lord ! 
Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessings  denied ! 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 
If  the  Idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay, 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd  [prey  ? 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves  yield  their 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king's  is  to  rei^n, — 
To  m^/  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  comprised 

The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain, 
From  Casar  the  dreaded,  to  George  the  despised ! 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping !  O'Connell,  proclaim 
His  accomplishments !  His!!!  and  thy  country  convince 

Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  Fame, 
And  that  <*Hal  is  the  rascaliest  sweetest  young  Prince !" 

Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs  ? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fostest  of  all 
The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hynms? 

Ay !  ''Build  him  a  dwelling !"  let  each  give  his  mite 
Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath  arisen ! 

Let  thy  beggars  and  helots  their  pittance  unite— 
And  a  palace  bestow  for  a  poor-house  and  prison  I 

Spread— spread,  for  Yitellius,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff'd  to  the  gorge ! 

And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  at  last 
The  Fourth  of  the  fools  and  oppressors  call'd  '^George! " 

Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan! 

Till  they  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages  of  woe! 
Let  thewineflow  aroundtheold  Bacchanal's  throne,  [flow. 

Liketheur  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  which  yet  has  to 

But  let  not  hit  name  be  thine  idol  alone*- 
On  his  right  hand  behold  a  Sejanus  appears ! 

Thine  own  Castlereagh!  let  liim  still  be  tiiine  own! 
A  wretch,  never  named  but  with  curses  and  jeers ! 

Till  now,  when  the  Isle  which  should  blush  for  his  birth, 
Deep,  deep,  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on  her  soil, 

Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  wliich  crawl'd  from  her  earth. 
And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a  smile ! 

Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  foncy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  her  race;— 

The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  In  doubt, 
JSshe  ever  gave  birth  to  a  being  so  base, 
88 


594 

If  she  did—let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hnsh'd, 

Which  proclaims  that  from  Brin  no  reptile  can  spring- 
See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  floshM, 
Still  warming:  its  folds  in  the  breast  of  a  king  t 

Shout,  drlnlt,  feast,  and  flatter!  Oh!  Ertn,  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyranny,  till 

Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  tliee  below, 
The  depth  of  ttiy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulph  still. 

My  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thy  right, 
My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free, 

This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm,  in  thy  figlit, 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  athrob  stillfor  thee  ! 

Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my  land, 
I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  thy  sons, 

And  I  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 
Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar,— 
Thy  Grattan,  thy  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 

Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war, 
And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  fall. 

Yes,  happy  are  tiiey  in  their  cold  English  graves  1 
Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-day,— 

Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissing  slaves. 
Be  stamp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore. 
Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  liberties  fled, 

There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy—- thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 
My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servite,  though  sore, 

Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  uponPowcr, 
'Tis  tlie  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of  Moore  ! 

Sept  16th.  IStl. 


MISCEIJ4ANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  ADIEU. 


.WRITTBN    tlNDKR  THB  IMWIXSSION   THAT   THB  AUTHOR 
WOULD  SOON  D». 

Adieu,  thou  Hill  1  where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow ; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 

With  knowledge  to  endow. 
Adieu  my  youthful  friends  or  foes, 
Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes ; 

No  more  through  Ida'«  paths  we  stray ; 
Soon  must  I  share  the  gloomy  cell. 
Whose  ever-slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  regal  fknes. 

Ye  spires  of  Granta's  vale, 
Where  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns. 

And  Melancholy  pale. 
Ye  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour. 
Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower. 


On  Cama's  verdant  margin  placed. 
Adieu!  while  memory  still  is  mine, 
For,  offerings  on  Oblivion's  shrine. 

These  scenes  must  be  el&used. 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 

Where  grew  my  youfliful  years ; 
Where  Loch  na  Garr  in  snows  sublime 

His  giant  summit  rears. 
Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  Nortii, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam  1 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highland  cave, 
Marr's  dusky  heath,  and  Dee's  clear  wave, 

To  seek  a  Sotheron  home? 

Hall  of  my  Sires!  a  long  forewdl— 

Yet  why  io  thee  adieu? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell, 

Thy  towers  my  tomb  will  view : 
The  faltering  tongue  which  aoog  thy  fUl, 
And  former  glories  of  thy  Hall, 

Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note-- 
But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings. 
And  sometimes,  on  jGofian  wings, 

In  dying  strains  may  float 

Fields,  which  surround  yon  vasffa^  oot, 

While  yet  I  linger  here. 
Adieu!  you  are  not  now  forgot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 
Streamlet!  along  whose  rippling  surge 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  to  urge. 

At  noontide  heat,  their  pliant  course. 
Plunging  with  ardour  from  tlie  shore; 
Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  more, 

Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I  here  forget  the  scene, 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast  ? 
Rocks  rise,  and  rivers  roll,  between 

The  spot  which  passion  blest; 
Yet,  Mary,  all  thy  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  in  Love's  bewitching  dream, 

To  me  in  smiles  display 'd: 
Till  slow  disease  resigns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay, 

Thine  image  cannot  fiftde. 

And  thou,  my  Friend!  whose  gentle  love 

Yet  tiuiUs  my  bosom's  chords, 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  ahone 

Description's  power  of  words! 
Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  I  wear, 
Which  sparkled  once  with  Feding's  tear. 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  sacred  gem ; 
Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  le< 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  forgot; 

Let  Pride  alone  condemn! 

All,  all,  is  dark  and  cheerless  now ! 
No  smile  of  Love's  deceit 


MISCBLLANB0U8  POEMS. 


595 


Can  warm  my  TeinB  witb  wonted  glow. 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat: 
Not  e'en  the  bope  of  future  fame. 
Can  wake  my  faint,  exbanated  frame^ 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head. 
Mine  is  a  short  inglorious  race,  — 
To  bumble  in  the  dust  my  face, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh  Fame!  thou  goddess  of  my  heart  I 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise, 
Pcnntless  must  fall  the  Spectre's  dart, 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze; 
Bat  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth, 
My  name  obscure,  unmark'd  my  birth, 

My  life  a  short  and  vulgar  dream : 
Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  crowd. 
My  hopes  recline  within  a  shroud, 

Jdj  fate  is  Lethe's  stream. 

When  I  repose  beneath  the  sod, 

Unheeded  in  the  clay. 
Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod. 

Where ^ow  my  head  must  lay ; 
The  meed  of  Pily  will  be  shed 
In  dew-drops  o'er  my  narrow  bed, 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone; 
No  mortal  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
With  tears  the  dark  sepulchral  deep 

Which  hides  a  name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  Heaven : 
There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight, 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown. 
Bow  down  beneath  the  Almighty's  Throne; 

To  him  address  thy  trembling  prayer : 
He^  who  is  merciful  and  just, 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  dust, 

Alflioogh  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light!  to  Thee  I  call. 

My  soul  is  dark  within : 
Thou,  who  eanst.mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  tiie  death  of  sin : 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war. 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 
My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive; 
And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live. 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 


isar. 


TO  A  VAIN  LADY. 

Ah,  heedless  girl !  why  thus  disclose 
What  ne'er  was  meant  for  other  ears? 

Why  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose, 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears? 


Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  impnident  maid, 
While  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile, 

For  all  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl!  thy  lingering  woes  are  nigh, 
If  thou  believest  what  striplings  say: 

Oh,  from  the  deep  temptation  fly. 
Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast, 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost. 
If  thou  canst  venture  to  believe. 

While  now,  amongst  thy  female  peers, 
Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  tale, 

Caust  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush. 
Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze: 

What  modest  maid,  without  a  blush, 
Recounts  a  flattering  coxcomb's  praise? 

Will  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit  — 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes. 
Yet  cannot  see  the  slight  deceit  ? 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 

These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write. 
While  vanity  prevents  oonoealing. 

Cease,  if  yon  prize  your  beauty's  reign ! 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove : 
One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I  pity,  but  I  oaanot  love. 

15,  ISOf. 


TO  ANNB. 
Oh,  Anne !  your  offences  to  me  have  been  grievous ; 

I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  oould  save  you ; 
But  woman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive  us  — 

I  look'd  in  your  face,  and  I  almost  forgave  you. 

I  vow'd  I  could  ne'er  for  a  moment  respect  you. 
Yet  thought  that  a  day's  separation  was  long: 

When  we  met,  I  determined  again  to  suspect  you  — 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong. 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation, 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you : 

I  saw  yon  —  my  anger  became  admiration; 
And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope,  's  to  regain  you. 

With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention ! 

Thus  lowly  I  sue  for  forgiveness  before  you ;  — 
At  onee  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension. 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  cease  to  adore  you ! 

JuMvy  10,  18S7. 


596 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Oh  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  tliat  the  Fates  haTe  decreed 
The  heart  which  adores  yon  should  wish  to  dissever; 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed,  — 
To  bear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain ; 

By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  overthrown. 
Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined, 
The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather, 

My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design'd 
To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne^  that  the  Fates  have  decreed 
Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu: 

Till  Fate  can  ordain  that  Ids  bosom  shall  bleed. 
His  soul,  bis  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 

1807. 


FAKEWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Thou  Power !  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infoncy's  days, 
Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  'tis  time  we  should  part; 

Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  tlie  last  of  my  lays, 
The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  fr^m  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 

Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing ; 

The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  lyre. 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire, 
My  visions  are  flowui  to  return,  —  alas,  never  I 

When  drained  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl, 
How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong! 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul. 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song  ? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  love  in  tlie  desert  alone, 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign  ? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are  flown  ? 
Ah,  no !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  lived  but  to  love  ? 

Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain ! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 

When  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  again? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  ikthers  have  done. 
And  laise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my  sires  ? 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone! 
For  heroes'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires! 

Untouched,  then,  my  lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast  — 
'Tis  hush'd,  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o'er; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past. 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrateno  more. 


And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot. 
Since  early  affection  and  love  is  o'ercast : 

Oh !  blest  had  my  ftite  been,  and  happy  my  lot. 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the  last 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse !  since  we  now  can  ne'er  meet; 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  arc  few: 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweet  — 

The  present  ^  which  seals  our  eternal  adieu. 

1807. 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

Yoinso  Oak !  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine ; 

That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when,  in  infancy's  years, 
On  the  land  of  my  fktiiers  I  reared  thee  with  pride: 

They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears,  — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide. 

I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and,  since  that  fktaLhoor, 
A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire; 

Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power, 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh!  hardy  thou  wert  —  even  now  little  care  [hetl: 

Might  revive  thy  young  head,  and  thy  wounds  gently 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share  — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  stranger  would  fed! 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak !  lift  thy  head  for  a  while; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  ran, 
The  hand  of  thy  master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 

When  infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak!  tower  aloft  from  the  weeds 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  as^t  thy  decay, 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds. 
And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display. 

Oh !  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine. 
Though  /shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death. 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breafli. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lightly  wave 
O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord,  in  thy  canopy  laid; 

While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grave, 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot. 
He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread. 

Oh !  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot : 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  eternity's  day. 

1807. 


MISCELLANBOUS  POEMS. 


597 


EPITAPH  ON  JOHN  ADAUS,  OP  SOUTHWELL, 

A  CARRIER*  WHO  DIED  OP  DRUNKBNNK88. 

John  Adams  lies  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  Carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  moath  well; 
He  carried  so  much,  aad  he  carried  so  fest, 
He  coald  carry  no  more  ^  so  was  carried  at  last ; 
For»  the  liqoor  he  drank,  beings  too  mnoh  for  one, 
He  coald  not  carry  off,  —  so  he's  now  carrinni, 

SvjMOBbcr,  1807. 


TO  MY  SON. 
Those  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blae, 
Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue ; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away. 
Recall  a  scene  of  fonner  joy. 
And  touch  thy  father's  hear^  my  Boy  I 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name  — 
Ah,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same,  — 
No  self-reproach  —  but,  let  me  cease  — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy  I 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest, 
And  thou  hast  known  a  stranger's  breast; 
Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth. 
And  yields  thee  scarce  a  name  on  earth ; 
Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy,  — 
A  Father's  heart  is  thine^  my  Boy ! 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown? 
,  Ah,  no  —  though  moralists  reprove, 
I  bail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy  — 
A  Father  guards  thy  burth,  my  Boy ! 

Oh,  't  will  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace. 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  fiioe. 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run. 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  aon ; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy ! 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire. 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental  fire; 
And,  wert  thou  still  less  dear  to  me, 
While  Helen's  form  revives  in  thee. 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy, 
Will  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy ! 


I8S7. 


rO  A  LADY,  ON  BEING  ASKED  MY  REASON  FOR 
QUITTING  ENGLAND  IN  THE  SPRING. 

When  Man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers, 

A  moment  linger'd  near  the  gate, 
Badi  scene  reoall'd  tlie  vanish'd  hours. 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  firte. 


Bat,  wandermg  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief ; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times. 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  refief. 

Thus,  lady!  will  it  be  with  me. 
And  X  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise. 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare; 

I  cannot  view  my  paiadise 
Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there. 


REMIND  ME  NOT,  REMIND  ME  NOT. 

Rrhind  mc  not^  remind  me  not. 
Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish'd  hours, 
Wlicn  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thoe; 
Hoars  that  may  never  be  foigot, 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget^-canst  thou  forget. 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair. 
How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move? 
Oh !  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet. 

With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  foir, 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 
Those  ryes  tlirew  back  a  glance  so  sweet. 
As  half  rcproach'd  yet  raised  desire. 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest. 
And  still  our  growing  lips  would  meet, 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  dose, 
And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek, 
Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below ; 
While  their  long  lashes'  darken'd  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek. 
Like  raven's  plumage  smoothed  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return'd, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  phantasy 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  burn'd. 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  coald  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not. 
Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone. 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore. 
Till  thou  and  I  shaU  be  forgot, 
And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 


598 


inSCBLLANBOUS  POB3I8. 


THERS  WAS  A  TIMB,  I  NEED  NOT  NAMB. 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name; 

Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be. 
When  all  oar  feelings  were  the  same 

As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hoar  when  first  thy  tongoe 
Confessed  a  love  which  eqaall'd  mine. 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrong, 
Unknown  and  thus  onfelt  by  thine. 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this — 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown; 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss. 
Bat  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  late  I  heard  thy  lips  declare, 

In  accents  once  imagined  true, 
Remembranoe  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  I  my  adored,  yet  most  vnkind ! 

Though  thoa  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembranoe  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes  I  'tis  a  glorious  thoaght  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine : 

Whatever  thou  art  or  e'er  shalt  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine. 


AND  WILT  THOU  WBBP  WHEN  I  AM  LOW? 
And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  f 

Sweet  lady!  speak  those  words  again: 
Yet,  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  piun. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone. 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  aigfa  above  my  plaee  of  rest 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 
Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  sbioe  j 

And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease, 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady!  blessed  be  that  tear- 
It  foils  for  one  who  cannot  weep : 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep. 

Sweetladyl  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thoK; 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet,  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  lady !  speak  those  words  again ; 
Yet,  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY,  ON  LBA VIN6  BNGUSI 
'Tib  done  —  and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  anf urls  her  snowy  sul ; 
And,  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Beoanse  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been. 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen  — 
Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest  — 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery ; 
And  I  have  striven,  bat  in  vain. 
Never  to  think  of  it  again : 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  stiU  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  fhee; 
And  even  in  crowds  am  still  alone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home : 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fkir  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place : 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shod. 
But  ever  love^  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Sdli  finds  some  hospitable  hearth. 
Where  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe; 
But  friend  or  ieman  I  have  mme. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go  —  but  whereso'er  I  flee,  \ 

There's  not  an  eye  will  we^  for  me; 

There's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart, 

Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part ;  . 

Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  ondone,  : 

Wilt  sigh,  althoagh  I  love  b«t  < 


To  think  of  every  early  soene^ 

Of  what  we  are,  and  wiiat  we've  been. 

Would  whehn  some  softer  hearts  with  woe  - 

But  mine,  alas  1  has  stood  the  blow; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun. 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

And  who  fliat  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  crost. 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


599 


I  've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  foin  have  loyed  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'T  would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view. 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep : 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Yet  still  be  loves,  and  loves  bat  one. 

1800. 


LINES  TO  Mr.  HODGSON, 

WRITTSN  ON  BOAAO  TH£  LISBON  PACKBT. 

Huzza  1  Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Oiur  embargo's  off  at  last; 
Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvass  o'er  tlie  mast 
From  aloft  the  signal's  streaming, 
Harkl  the ferewell  gun  is  fired; 
Women  screeching,  tars  blasplieming, 
Tell  us  that  our  Erne's  expired. 
Here's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  custom-house ; 
Trunks  unpacking, 
Cases  cracking, 
Not  a  comer  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket. 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  tlic  Packet 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 

And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We  're  impatient  —  push  from  shore. 
''Have  a  care !  that  case  holds  liquor  — 

Stop  the  boat  —  1  'm  sick  —  oh  Lord! " 
"Sick,  ma'am,  damme,  you  '1!  be  sicker 
Ere  you  've  been  an  hour  on  board." 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 
Gemmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks ; 
Here  entangling. 
All  are  wrangling. 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax.  •— 
Such  die  general  noise  and  racket 
Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet 

Now  we  've  reach'd  her;  lot  the  captain, 
Gallant  Kidd,  commands  the  crew; 

Passengers  their  berths  are  olapt  in, 
Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 

*niey  day !  call  you  that  a  cabin? 
Why  'tis  hardly  three  feet  square; 

Hot  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in  — 


Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there?" 
"Who,  sir?  plenty  — 
Nobles  twenty 
Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill."  — 
"Did  they?  Jesus, 
How  you  squeeze  UB I 
Would  to  God  tliey  did  so  still : 
Then  I'd  scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet" 

Fletcher!  Murray!  Bob  I  where  are  you? 

Strctch'd  along  the  deck  like  logs  — 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you ! 

Here's  a  rope's  end  for  the  dogs. 
Hobhouse  muttering  fearftd  curses. 

As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls, 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses. 
Vomits  forth  —  and  damns  our  souls. 
"Here's  a  stanza 
OnBraganza  — 
Help !"  —  "A  couplet?"  -  '*No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water  — " 
"What's  the  matter?" 
"Zounds!  my  liver's  coming  up; 
I  shaH  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lbbon  Packet" 

Now  at  length  we're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  back! 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 

May  unship  us  in  a  crack. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is, 

As  philosophers  allow, 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is , 
Then  laugh  on  —  as  I  do  now. 
Laugh  at  all  things, 
Great  and  small  things,  , 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore; 
While  we're  quaffing, 
Lef  s  have  laughing  — 
Who  tlie  devil  cares  for  more?  — 
Some  good  wine !  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Even  on  board  the  Lisboo  Packet?" 

Falmouth  RMdf,  Jane  9%  1809. 


EPITAPH  FOR  JOSEPH  BLACKETT,  LATE  POET 
AND  SHOEMAKER. 

Stranger!  behold,  interred  tog«tlier> 
The  iouls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 
Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  his  •U: 
You'll  find  his  relics  in  a  staU, 
His  works  were  nea^  and  oAen  found 
Well  stitch'd,  and  with  morocco  bound. 
Tread  K ghtly  ^  where  the  bard  is  laid 
He  cannot  mend  Ibe  shoe  he  OMide; 
Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole. 
With  verse  inunortal  as  his  sole. 
But  still  to  business  ho  held  fiist, 
And  stuck  to  Plioebus  to  Hie  last. 


600 


HISCBLLANBOUS  POBMS. 


Then  ivho  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 
Was  only  **Icather  and  prunella  f' 
For  character  —  he  did  not  lack  it; 
And  if  he  did,  'twere  shame  to  ''Black-it" 

MaltifMay  10, 1811. 

I 

FARBWELL  TO  MALTA. 
Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Valette ! 
Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat ! 
Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  enter'dl 
Adieu,  ye  mansions  where  —  I've  yentored ! 
Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  1 
How  surely  he  who  mounts  you  swears  I) 
Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing ! 
Adieu,  thou  mob  for  ever  railing! 
Adieu,  ye  packets  —  without  letters  I 
Adieu,  ye  fools  —  who  ape  your  betters ! 
Adieu,  thou  damned'st  quarantine, 
That  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen ! 
Adieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn.  Sirs, 
Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers ! 
Adieu  to  Peter  —  whom  no  fault's  in, 
But  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing; 
Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces ! 
Adieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces  I 
Adieu  the  supercilious  air 
Of  aU  that  strut  ''en  militaire !" 
I  go  —  but  God  knows  when,  or  why. 
To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky. 
To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 
As  bad  —  but  in  a  different  way.  — 

Farewell  to  these ;  but  not  adieu. 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue! 
While  either  Adriatic  shore. 
And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more. 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners. 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 
Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is. 
And  take  my  rhyme— because  'tis  gratis." 

And  now  I've  got  to  Mrs.  Eraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her  ~ 
And  were  I  vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  wortli  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line  —  or  two  —  were  no  hard  matter. 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  flatter : 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine ; 
With  lively  air,  and  open  heart, 
And  fiishion's  ease,  without  its  art, 
Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. 

And  now,  O  Malta !  since  thou'st  got  us. 
Thou  little  military  hothouse ! 
I'll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil. 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement. 
And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant  ? 


Then,  in  my  solitary  nook. 
Return  to  scribbling,  or  a  book. 
Or  take  my  physic  while  I'm  able 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label). 
Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver. 
And  bless  the  gods  —  I've  got  a  fever  I 
May  tech,  1811. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 

IN  AM8WSR  TO  SOME  LINES  EXHORTING  THE   AUTHOR  T9 
BE  CHEERFUL,  AND  TO  "BAmSH  CARB.*> 

'<Oh  !  banish  oare"  —  such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry  1 
Perchance  of  tntiw,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  delights, 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  '^banish  care." 
But  not  in  mom's  reflecting  hour. 
When  present,  past,  and  future  lour. 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone. 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one^ 
Whose  every  thought  —  but  let  them  pass  — 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  ooMJ, 
By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 
By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear, 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above. 
Speak  —  speak  of  any  thing  but  love. 


'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear. 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suffer'd  more  than  well 
'T  would  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 
I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,  — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side,  — 
Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore. 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore. 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled, 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child ;  — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain. 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain ; 
And  /have  acted  well  my  part. 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Retum'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Tet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave ;  — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd,  alas !  in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass  —  I'll  whine  no  more. 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain,  — 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year. 
When  Britain's  ''May  is  in  tlie  sere," 


MISCELLANBOUS  POEMS. 


6Q1 


Then  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deepening  crimes 
Salt  with  the  sablest  of  the  times. 
Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 
Nor  hope  of  fome,  nor  good  men's  praise, 
One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pride, 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside, 
One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
W  ith  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age,  — 
Him  wilt  thou  know  —  and  knowing  pause, 
Nor  with  the  eff^eet  forget  the  cause. 
New«tead  Abbey,  OtL  11, 1811. 


PARENTHETICAL  ADDRESS. 

BY  DR.  PLAGIARY. 

Da!f  itolen,  with  Adcnowledgmenti,  lo  be  «poken  in  an  inarticulate  Toioe 
by  Maater  P.  at  the  opening  of  the  next  new  theatre.  Stolen  parts 
marked  irlth  the  inverted  commas  of  qnotatlon  —  Urns" **. 

•When  energising  objects  men  pursue," 

Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord  knows  who, 

"A  modest  monologue  you  here  survey," 

ffiss'd  from  the  theatre  the  "other  day," 

As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  "the  slumberous"  verse, 

And  gave  his  son  'Hhe  rubbish"  to  rehearse. 

"Yet  at  the  thing  you  'd  never  be  amazed," 

Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised; 

''Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represt," 

Knew  you  these  lines — the  badness  of  the  best      [tins,) 

''Flame!  fire!  and  flame! !"  (words  borrowMfromLucre- 

'fDread  metaphors  which  open  wounds"  like  issues! 

"And  sleeping  pangs  awake— and — but  away" — 

[Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  to  say). 

''Lo!  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings," 

And  Master  6 — recites  what  Doctor  Busby  sings ! — 

If  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 

(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair !) 

Dramatic  ^spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 

iknd  burn'd  poor  Moscow  like  a  tub  of  "tar." 

niiis  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain," 

Fo  famish  melodrames  for  Drury-Lane. 

"Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim's  story," 

ind  George  and  I  will  dramatise  it  for  ye. 

*bi  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  hath  shone;" 

pThis  deep  discovery  is  mine  alone). 

■Oh  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire" 

Ify  verse— or  I  'm  a  fool— and  Fame 's  a  liar, 

*Thec  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore"  [more. 

^ith  "wniles,"  and  "lyres,"  and  "pencils,"  and  much 

rhese,  if  we  win  the  Graces  too,  we  gain 

OisffTMeSf  too!  "inseparable  train!" 

Three  who  have  stolen  their  witching  airs  from  Cupid," 

[You  all  know  what  I  mean,  unless  you  're  stupid): 

harmonious  throng"  that  I  have  kept  in  petto, 

Wow  to  produce  in  a  "divine  testetto'* !! 

*Whilc  Poesy,"  with  these  delightful  doxies, 

"Sustains  her  part"  in  all  the  "upper"  boxes! 

Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you  'H  soar  along," 

Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby's  song ; 


"Shine  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play" 

(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday). 

"Old  Drury  never,  never  soar'd  so  high," 

So  says  the  manager,  and  so  says  I. 

"But  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast;" 

Is  this  the  poem  which  the  public  lost? 

"True— true— that  lowers  at  once  our  mounting  pride;" 

But  lo !— the  papers  print  what  you  deride. 

"  'Tis  ours  to  look  on  you — ^you  hold  the  prize," 

'Tis  twenty  gvineatj  as  they  advertize  1 

"A  double  blessuig  your  rewards  impart" — 

I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart 

"Our  twofold  feeling  oums  its  twofold  cause," 

Why  son  and  I  both  beg  for  your  applause. 

"When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us  live," 

My  next  subscription-list  shall  say  how  much  you  give ! 

October,  181S. 


ON  LORD  THURLO  W'S  POEMS. 

Whbn  Thurlow  this  damn'd  nonsense  sent, 

(I  hope  I  am  not  violent) 

Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  he  meant 

And  since  not  even  our  Rogers'  praise 
To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise- 
Why  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays  ? 


To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant — O ! 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto, — 
I  'm  fitting  up  a  new  portmanteau ; 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining, 

My  own  and  others'  bays  1  'm  twining — 

So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 

I 


TO  LORD  THURLOW.  • 

"l  lay  my  branch  of  lanrel  dotrli; 
Then  thus  to  fomt  Apollo's  crown. 
Let  erery  other  bring  h\i  own.** 

Lord  ThnrloWi  lined  t»  Mr.  Kogtr* 

"/  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down*' 
Tkou  "lay  thy  branch  of  laurel  down ! " 

Why,  what  thou  'st  stole  is  not  enow ; 
And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own, 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither'd  bough, 

Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne : 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  trow, 

He  'd  have  but  little,  and  thou— none. 

"7%e»  ihu9  to  form  Apollo**  crown," 
A  crown !  why,  twist  it  how  you  will. 

Thy  chaplet  must  be  foolscap  still. 
When  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town, 

Enquire  amongst  your  fellow -lodgers, 
They  '11  tell  you  Phoebus  gave  his  crown, 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 

88* 


y^ 


m 


mSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


**LBt  every  other  bring  his  own,'* 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried, 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens,  as  wonders, 
From  his  spouse  when  tlie  Regent 's  unmarried, 

Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders ; 
When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel. 

When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir. 
Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel. 

And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO  THOMjVS  MOORE, 

WRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT  TO  MR.  LEIGH 
HUNT  IN  COLDBATH-FIELDS  PRISON,  MAY  19, 18U. 

Oh  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom  Little,  Tom  Moore,  or  Tom  Brown,-— 
For  hang  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most  brag, 
Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny  Post  Bag; 

But  now  to  my  letter  -  to  youn  'tis  an  answer  — 
To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir. 
All  ready  and  dress'd  for  proceeding  to  spunge  on 
(According  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dungeon  — 
Pray  Phoebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  not  get  us  lodgings  within  the  same  palace  I 
I  suppose  that  to-night  you  're  engaged  with  some  codgers, 
And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sam  Rogers ; 
And  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  my  death  got. 
Must  put  on  my  breeches,  and  watt  on  the  Heathoote; 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the  Scurra, 
And  you  '11  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra. 


EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTaC*^ 
MrsiAer!  my  sweet  sister !  if  a  name       l' 
Dearer  fln4  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  jmd  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  buttendemess  to  answer  mine: 
Go  where  I  wi^,  to  me  thou  art  the  same  — 
A  loved  regret,which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  ivn  things  in  my  destiny, 
A  world  to  roam  tfait>ugh^  and  a  home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing  —  had  I  still  the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore, 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  tlie  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 
The  fault  was  mine;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  carclUl  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 


Mine  were  my  feults,  and  mine  be  tbdr  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'd 
The  gift,  —  a  fete,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard. 
And  thought  of  shaking  off"  my  bonds  of  clay : 
But  now  I  fein  would  for  a  time  survive. 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away : 
Sometliing  —  1  know  not  what  —  does  still  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience;  —  not  in  vain. 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me,  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  despair. 
Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur,  — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer. 
And  with  light  armour  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  cahner  lot 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  childhood;  trees,  and  fiowen,  and  brookj 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 
Some  living  tiling  to  love  •*  but  none  like  thee. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  CTcate 
A  fundfor. contemplation;  —  to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire : 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate. 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire. 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  tlian  our  own  of  old. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me !  —  but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show;  — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  miae  no  more. 
Leman's  is  feir;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  slkore: 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  wiA  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Rcsign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  for. 


MISCBLLANEOUS  POEMS. 


603 


Tbe  world  is  all  before  me;  I  bnt  ask 
.  Of  Nature  tbat  with  wbich  she  will  comply  — 

It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask. 

To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky. 

To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 

And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 

She  was  my  early  friend^  and  now  shall  be 
If  y  sister  —  till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one; 
And  that  I  would  not;  ->  for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun  — 
The  earliest  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me. 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept; 
/bad  not  suffer'd,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do  7 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make  —  a  name. 
Tet  this  was  not  tbe  end  I  did  pursue; 
Sorely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  —  I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day, 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were; 
My  years  liave  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fiU'd  a  century, 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless,  —  for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal. 
And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.  —  Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around 
knd  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 
We  were  and  are  —  I  am,  even  as  thou  art  — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign ; 
It  is  die  same,  together  or  apart , 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 
We  are  entwined  —  let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 
rhe  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  THAT  LADY  BYRON  WAS  ILL. 

isD  thou  wert  sad  —  yet  I  was  not  with  thee ; 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near : 
Ifethought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was^not  —  and  pain  and  sorrow  here ! 


And  is  it  thus?  —'  it  is  as  I  foretold, 

And  shaU  be  more  so;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck'd  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shatter'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 

But  in  the  afler-silenoe  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged !  —  but  'twas  my  right; 

Whate'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite  — 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful !  —  if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  'twill  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  the  reahns  of  sleep !  — 

Yes!  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal, 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep ; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real ! 
I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee ; 

For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  nought  to  dread  —  in  thy  own  weakness  shielded^ 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded, 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  not  spare  — 
And  thus  upon  the  world  —  trust  in  thy  truth  — 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  uhgovern'd  youth  — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  tliat  are  — 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt !  * 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord,  * 

And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope  —  and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart. 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife. 

And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice. 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold, 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold  — 
And  buying  other's  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  ways, 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise. 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee  —  but  at  times. 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes. 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible. 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

Li  Janus-spirits  —  the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence  —  the  pretext 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annex'd  — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend. 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end  — 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won  — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  a«  thou  hast  donel 
September,  1810. 


604 


MISCBLLANSOUS  POBMS. 


THE  DBVIL'S  DRIVE. 


AN   UNFINISHED   RHAPSODY. 

The  Devil  return'd  to  hell  by  two, 

And  he  stay'd  at  home  till  five; 
When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ra^o^. 
And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew, 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew  — 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

"And,"  quoth  he,  "I'll  take  a  drive. 
I  walk'd  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night; 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 

And  rii  see  how  my  favourites  thrive. 

"And  what  shall  I  ride  in?"  quoth  Lucifer  then  — 

"KI  foUow'd  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  waggon  of  wounded  men. 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  furnished  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed; 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may. 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poach'd  away. 

"I  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour  Place; 
But  they  're  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me  amends 

By  driving  my  favourite  pace : 
And  they  handle  their  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  their  race. 

"So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance.'' 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he; 
A«d  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 

H^stepp'd  across  the  sea, 
And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road. 
No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 

But  first  as  he  flew,  I  forgot  to  say. 
That  he  hover'd  a  moment  upon  his  way 

To  look  upon  Lcipsic  plain; 
And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare^ 
And  so  soft  to  bis  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair. 

That  he  perch 'd  on  a  mountain  of  slain; 
And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  glowing  height, 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  sight, 

Nor  his  work  done  half  as  well: 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead. 

That  it  blush'd  like  the  waves  of  hell  I 
Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laugh'd  he : 

"Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me  /" 

Bat  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sighing ; 
And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear. 
Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying  — 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  foir  hair ; 
And  she  look'd  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air, 
Which  seem'd  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there ! 
And,  stretnh'd  by  the  wall  of  a  ruin'd  hut, 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut. 


A  child  of  famine  dying : 
And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is  done^ 
And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying! 

Bat  the  Devil  has  reach'd  our  clifis  so  white. 

And  what  did  he  there,  I  pray? 
If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  nigiit 

What  we  see  every  day : 
But  he  made  a  tour,  and  kept  a  journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  noctamal. 
And  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  Men  of  the  Row, 
Who  bid  pretty  well  —  but  they  ckeaUd  him,  thoiigli! 

The  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  tfaoogfat,  the  AEnl, 

Its  coachman  and  his  coat; 
So  instead  of  a  pistol  he  cock'd  his  tail. 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat: 
"Aha I"  quoth  he,  "what  have  we  here? 
'Tis  a  new  barouche,  and  an  andent  peer  I" 
So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again, 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear. 
But  be  true  to  his  club,  and  stanch  to  his  ran. 

His  brothel,  and  his  beer; 
'^ext  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  oooncil  board, 

I  would  rather  see  him  here." 

•        «•••• 
The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  ium'd  to  "the  room"  of  the  Commons ; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  purposed  to  enter  in  there. 

That  "the  Lords"  had  received  a  sammons ; 
And  he  thought,  as  a  ^'quondam  aristocrat," 
He  might  poep  at  the  peers,  though  to  il«artiiem  were  flat; 
And  he  walk'd  up  the  house  so  like  one  of  our  own. 
That  they  ^ay  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the  throne. 

He  saw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise. 
The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly. 
And  Johnny  of  Norfolk  —  a  man  of  some  size  — 

And  Chatham,  so  like  his  friend  Billy ; 
And  he  saw  the  tears  in  Lord  Eldon's  eyes, 
Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise. 
In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies; 
And  he  heard  —  which  set  Satan  himself  a  starii^  — 
A  certain  Chief  Justice  say  something  like  iweitratg. 
And  the  Devil  was  shock'd  —  and  quoth  he,  "I  miutgo. 
For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  below: 
If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 
I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to  order." 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  A  SONNET  BEGINNING 

"'SAD  IS  MY  VERSE/  YOU  SAY,  'AND  YET  NO  TEAif 

Thy  verse  is  "sad"  enough,  no  doubt : 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty! 

Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  find  oat, 
Unless  for  thee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Tet  there  is  one  I  pity  more; 

And  much,  alas  I  I  think  he  needs  it: 
For  he,  I'm  sure,  will  sufier  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it 


lOSCBLLANBOUS  VOBM8. 


605 


Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  mi^ 
May  mtee  be  read  —  but  neyer  after : 

Tct  their  effect 's  by  no  means  tragic, 
Althoagrh  by  fiir  too  dull  for  laughter. 

Bnt  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain  — 

If  yon  wonld  make  us  weep  indeed, 
Ten  us,  you  '11  read  them  o'er  again. 

March  8»  1S07. 


ON  FINDING  A  FAN. 
In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fann'd  the  flame; 
Bat  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt. 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light. 

And  bade  them  burn  with  fidk'cer  glow. 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night,  — 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires  —  ' 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers  — 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

The^rt^  though  not  a  spark  survive, 
Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  burn; 

The  2a#f,  alas!  can  ne'er  survive; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again. 

Not  always  doom'd  its  heat  to  smother, 
It  sheds  (so  wayward  fotes  ordain) 

Its  former  warmth  around  another, 
lior. 


ON  RBVISITING  HARROW. 
Here  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view 

Young  Friendship's  record,  simply  traced; 
Pew  were  her  words,  —  but  yet,  though  few, 

Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

Deeply  she  cut  —  but  not  erased; 

The  characters  were  stUl  so  plain, 
That  Friendship  once  retum'd,  and  gazed,  — 

Till  Memory  haii'd  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before; 

Forgiveness  join'd  her  gentle  name ; 
So  ikir  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more. 

That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  record  now  have  been ; 

But,  ah!  in  spite  of  Hope's  endeavour. 
Or  Friendship's  tears.  Pride  rush'd  between, 

And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever ! 

September,  \WT, 


STANZAS  FOR  MU^C. 
I  SPEAK  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name. 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in  the  fhme: 
But  the  tear  which  now  bums  on  my  cheek  may  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart 

Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace  [cease  ? 
Were  those  hours  —  can  their  joy  or  their  bitterness 
We  repent — we  abjure— we  will  brcakfrom  our  chain, — 
We  will  part,  —  we  will  fly  to  —  unite  it  again! 

Oh !  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt  I 
Forgive  me,  adored  one !  forsake,  if  thou  wilt;  — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased. 
And  nutn  shall  not  break  it  —  whatever  thou  mayst 

And  stem  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 

This  soul,  in  its  bitterest  blackness,  shall  be: 

And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more  sweet. 

With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix  me,  shall  reward  or  reprove; 
And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign  — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  muu. 

May,  1814. 


ADDRESS  INTENDED  TO  BE  RECITED  AT  THE 
CALEDONUN  MEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glow'd  above  the  page  where  fame 
Hath  fix'd  high  Caledon's  unconquer'd  name; 
The  mountain-land  which  spurn'd  the  Roman  chain. 
And  bafOed  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane; 
Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 
No  foe  could  tame  —  no  tyrant  could  command? 
That  race  is  gone  —  but  still  their  cliildren  breathe, 
^  And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath : 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine. 
And,  England!  add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thine. 
The  blood  which  flow'd  with  Wallace  flows  as  free, 
But  now't  is  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee! 
Oh!  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim. 
But  give  support  —  the  world  bath  given  him  fame ! 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led  — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod, 
To  us  bequeath  —  'tis  all  theur  fate  allows  — - 
The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse : 
She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze, 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  aujpines  disclose 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes, 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm ; 
While  sad,  she  chants  the  solitary  song. 
The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long  ^ 
For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave! 


606 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


'Tis  Heaven  —  not  man  -»  miut  charm  away  the  woe 
Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow; 
Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 
Of  half  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear; 
A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spi^d 
A  thornless  pillow  for  the  widow 'd  head; 
May  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care. 
And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 
M«y,  1814. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE  TO  THOMAS 
MOORE. 

"What  say  If*  —  not  a  syllable  further  in  prose; 
I'm  your  man  "of  all  measures,"  dear  Tom,  —  so  here 
Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  of  old  Time,   [goes ! 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of  rhyme. 
If  our  weight  breaks  them  down,  and  we  sink  in  the  flood, 
We  are  smother'd,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud, 
Where  the  Divers  of  Bathos  lie  drown'd  in  a  heap, 
And  Soiithcy's  last  Paean  has  pillow'd  his  sleep ;  — 
That  "Felo  de  se"  who,  half  drunk  with  his  malmsey, 
Walk'd  out  of  ^is  depth  and  was  lost  in  a  calm  sea, 
Singing  "Glory  to  God"  in  a  spick  and  span  stanza,  [saw. 
The  like  (since  Tom  Stemhold  was  choked)  never  man 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusses, 
The  fgtes,  and  the  gapings  to  get  at  these  Russes,  — 
Of  his  Majesty's  suite,  up  from  coachman  to  Hetman,  — 
And  what  dignity  decks  the  flat  face  of  the  great  man. 
I  saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  party,  — 
For  a  prince,  his  demeanour  was  rather  too  hearty. 
You  know,  we  are  used  to  quite  difierent  graces, 

The  Gear's  look,  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and  brisker, 

But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker; 

And  wore  but  a  starless  blue  coat,  and  in  kersey- 

-mere  breeches  whisk'd  round,  in  a  waltz  with  the  Jersey, 

Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem'd  just  as  delighted 

With  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited. 


Jane,  1814. 


CONDOLATORY  ADDRESS  TO  SARAH,  COUNT- 
ESS OF  JERSEY,  ON  THE  PRINCE  REGENT'S 
RETURNING  HER  PICTURE  TO  MRS.  MEE. 

'  When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd, 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust, 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave,  or  jusif 
What  most  admired  each  iM^rutinising  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  passing  pageantry  ? 
What  spread  from  fisM^e  to  fiEu»  that  wondering  air  ? 
The  thought  of  Brutus  —  for  his  was  not  there  1 
That  absence  proved  his  worth,  —  that  absence  fix'd 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure. 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 


If  thus,  fidr  Jersey,  oar  desiring  gase 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaae. 
Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness. 
Bright  though  they  be,  thine  own  bad  render'd  less ; 
If  he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  fother's  crown,  and  of  his  wits. 
If  his  corrupted  eye,  and  wither'd  heart, 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart; 
That  tasteless  shame  be  Atr,  and  ours  the  grief. 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief: 
Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts. 
We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose? 
A  garden  with  all  flowers  —  except  the  rose ;  — 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream ; 
A  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be. 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee; 
And  more  on  that  recali'd  resemblance  pause. 
Than  all  he  iktUl  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine. 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine: 
The  symmetry  of  youth  —  the  grace  of  mien  — 
The  eye  that  gladdens  -^  and  the  brow  serene ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair. 
Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead,  more  than  fiur ! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose, 
But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lessen'd,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albdt  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight; 
And  those  must  wait  till  every  charm  is  gone. 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none ;  — 
That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass'd  thy  portrait  by  ; 
Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  lovelinesss,  and  tkme. 

A«i«il,  ISI4. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR 
Belshazzar!  from  the  banquet  turn. 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall; 
Behold!  while  yet  before  thee  bum 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall. 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all  — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die? 

Go !  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow  — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them ; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now. 

More  than  thy  very  diadem, 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  every  gem:  — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by. 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  even  slaves  contemn; 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


607 


Oh!  early  in  the  balance  weighed, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decayed. 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  the  scorner's  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth  — 

Unfit  to  govern^  live,  or  die. 


ON  NAPOLEON'S  BSCAPE  FROM  ELBA. 

Once  fotrly  set  out  on  his  party  of  pleasure, 
Taking  towns  at  his  liking,  and  crowns  at  his  leisure, 
From  Elba  to  Lyons  and  Paris  he  goes, 
Making  baUs/or  the  ladies,  and  bowt  to  his  foes. 

March  tr,  1815. 


ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF  SEPA- 
RATION, IN  THE  APRIL  OF  1816. 

A  TEAR  ago  you  swore,  fond  she! 

**To  love,  to  honour,"  and  so  forth: 
Such  was  the  vow  you  pledged  to  me. 

And  here 's  exactly  what 't  is  worth. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Could  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears, 
I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 
Between  theur  outworn  banks  of  withered  flowers. 
But  bid  it  flow  as  now  —  until  it  glides 
Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides. 

*  ♦  ♦  »  » 

What  is  this  Death  ?  —  a  quiet  of  the  heart? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  part? 
For  life  is  but  a  vision  —  what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me. 
And  being  so  —  the  absent  are  the  dead, 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranqnillity,  and  spread 
k  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest 

The  absent  are  the  dead  —  for  they  are  cold, 
yid  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold ; 
Iknd  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless,  —  or  if  yet 
The  unfoigotten  do  not  all  forget, 
Siooe  thus  divided  —  equal  must  it  be 
[f  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea; 
ft  may  be  both  —  but  one  day  end  it  must 
in  the  oark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  onder-earth  inhabitants  —  are  tliey 
lot  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay? 
rhe  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
^erevcr  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread? 
>r  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Sacfa  in  his  incommunicative  cell  ? 


Or  have  they  their  own  language?  and  a  sense 

Of  breathless  being?  —  darken'd  and  intense 

As  midnight  in  her  solitude  ?  O  Earth ! 

Where  are  the  past?  —  and  wherefore  had  they  birth? 

The  dead  are  thy  inheritors  —  and  we 

But  bubbles  on  thy  surface;  and  the  key 

Of  thy  profundity  b  in  the  grave. 

The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 

Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 

Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold. 

And  fothom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 

The  essenoe  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more. 

♦         »♦*♦» 

Diodati,  JoJy,  1810. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 
They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness ; 

But  genuine  Lo?e  must  prize  the  past. 
And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless: 

They  rose  the  first  -  they  set  the  last : 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 
Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be. 

And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 
Hath  melted  into  Memory. 

Alas!  it  is  delusion  all : 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afiir, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall. 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


SONG  FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 
As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  sea 
Bought  their  freedom,  and  cheaply,  with  blood. 
So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  live  free. 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd ! 

When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete, 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword. 

We  will  fling  the  winding  sheet 

O'er  the  despot  at  our  feet. 
And  die  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  pour'd. 

Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue. 
Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud. 

Yet  this  is  the  dew 

Which  the  tree  shall  renew 
Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd ! 


SO,   WE   'LL   GO   NO   MORE   A   ROVING. 

So  well  'II  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night. 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 


608 


MISCBLLANEOUS  PO£>[S. 


For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe. 
And  love  itself  have  rest 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon. 

Yet  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


ON  THE  BUST  OF  HELEN  BY  CANOVA. 

In  this  beloved  marble  view. 

Above  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 
Wliat  Nature  couid,  but  would  not,  do, 

And  Beauty  and  Canova  can/ 
Beyond  imagination's  power. 

Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 
"With  immortality  her  dower. 

Behold  the  Helen  of  the  heart! 


YERSICLES. 

iREADthe^Christabelj" 

Very  well : 
I  read  the ''Missionary ;'' 

Pretty  —  very: 
Itriedat«Ilderim;" 

Ahem! 
I  read  a  sheet  of  "Marg'rct  of  Anjou;'* 

Can  you? 
I  turn'd  a  page  of  Scotf  s  "Waterloo:" 

Pooh!  pooh! 
I  lookM  at  Wordsworth's  milk-white  'Olylstone  Doe;" 

Hillol 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 


TO  Mr.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 
Have  pubtish'd  "Anjou's  Alargaret," 

Which  won't  be  sold  off  in  a  hurry 
(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet) ; 

And  then,  still  further  to  bewilder  'em, 

Without  remorse  you  set  up  "Uderim;" 
So  mind  you  don't  get  into  debt, 

Because  as  how,  if  yon  should  fail. 
These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bail. 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 

These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 
Which  would  be  very  treacherous  —  very^ 

And  get  me  into  such  a  scrape! 
For,  firstly,  I  should  have  to  sally. 
All  in  my  little  boat  against  a  Galley; 
And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian  wight, 
Have  next  to  combat  with  the  female  knight 

March  25,  1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM  Mr.  MURRAY  TO  Dr.  POUDORL 
Dear  Doctor,  I  have  read  your  play, 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way,  — 
Pniges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels. 
And  drenches  handkerchief  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief, 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shattered  nerves  and  quicken'd  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery ; 
Your  plot  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery ; 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart ; 
The  play's  concoction  full  of  art; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 
AH  stab,  and  every  body  dies. 
In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see: 
And  for  a  piece  of  publication. 
If  I  decline  on  this  occasion. 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 
To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 
But/—  and  I  grieve  to  speak  it  —  plays 
Are  drugs  —  mere  drugs,  sir  —  now-a-days. 
I  bad  a  heavy  loss  by  "Manuel,'*  — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual,  — 
And  Sotheby,  with  his  *'Orestes," 
(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 
Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand 
That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 
I've  advertised;  but  see  my  books, 
Or  only  watch  my  shopman's  looks;  — 
Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber. 
My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encomber. 

There's  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better, 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 
A  sort  of  —  it's  no  more  a  drama 
Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama; 
So  alter'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he's  lost  his  wits  at  Venice. 
In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'other, 
I  dare  not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste;  excuse  each  blunder; 
The  coaches  through  the  street  so  thunder! 
My  room's  so  full  —  we've  Gifford  here 
Reading  MS.,  with  Hookham  Frere, 
Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  particles 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly  —  Ah,  sv,  if  you 
Had  but  the  genius  to  review !  — 
'A  smart  critique  upon  St  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 
Short  compass  what  —  but,  to  resume : 
As  I  was  saying,  sir,  the  room  — 
The  room's  so  full  of  wits  and  bards; 
Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres,  and  Wards, 
And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits:  — 
My  humble  tenement  admits 
All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent. 
From  ACr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent 


MISCBU.ANEOUS  POEMS. 


609 


A  party  dines  with  me  to-day ; 
An  clever  meo^  who  make  their  way; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  aad  Chantrey, 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  Stael's  late  dissolution. 
Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance  — - 
Pray  Heaven^  she  tell  the  truth  of  France! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongfues  away,  — 
But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play: 
Sorry,  sir,  but  I  can  not  deal, 
Unleas't  were  acted  by  O'Neill. 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy ; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry. 
Bear  Doctor^  I  am  yours, 

John  Murray. 


EPISTLE  TO  Mr.  MURRAY. 
My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You're  in  a  damn'd  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  Canto ; 
But  (if  they  don't  rob  us) 
You'll  see  Mr.  Hobhouse 

Will  bring  it  safe  in  his  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of. 
As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  doubt  you  do  right  to  commend  it ; 
But  as  yet  I  have  writ  off 
The  devil  a  bit  of 

Oar  '^Beppo :"  —  when  copied,  I'll  send  it 

Then  you've  ••^s  Tour,  — 
No  great  things,  to  be  sure,  — 

Ton  could  hardly  begin  with  a  less  work ; 
For  the  pompous  rascallion, 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  guess-work. 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  "Spence"  and  his  gossip, 

A  work  which  must  surely  succeed; 
Then  Queen  Mary's  Epistle-craft, 
With  the  new  **Fytte"  of  "Whistlecraft," 

Most  make  people  purchase  and  read« 

Then  you've  General  Gordon, 
Who  girded  his  sword  on 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master. 
And  help  him  to  polish 
A  nation  ao  owlish, 

Thej  thought  shaving  their  beards  a  disaster. 

For  the  man,  ''poor  and  shrewd," 
With  whom  you'd  conclude 

A  compact  without  more  delay, 
perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Btill  extant  in  Venice; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay. 
Venice,  Janury  S,  181S. 


TO  Mr.  MURRAY. 
Stbahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 
For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs, 
My  Murray, 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come ; 
Thou  printest  all  —  and  sellest  some  — 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen,  — 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray? 

Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine  — 
The  "Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine. 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist. 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist; 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 
My  Murray  I 

Venice,  March  iS,  1818. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ? 
What  are  you  doipg  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore? 
Sighing  or  suing  now, 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now. 
Billing  or  coojng  now, 

Which,  Thomas  Moore? 

But  the  Carnivars  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore! 
The  Carnival's  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  I 
Masking  and  humming, 
Fifing  and  drumming, 
Goitarringandstrumming, 

Ob  Thomas  Moore  I 


EPITAPH  FOR  WILLIAM  PITT. 

With  death  doom'd  to  grapple, 

Beneath  this  cold  slab,  he 
Who  lied  in  the  Chapel 

Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 


39 


610 


MISCBU«ANS0U6  POXlCa 


SONNET  TO  6BOROJB  THB  FOURTH, 

ON  TH£  REP&AL  OF  LORD  EDWA&D  FITZOBRALD'8 
FORFEITURE. 

To  be  the  falher  of  the  fatherless. 

To  stretch  the  hand  from  tlie  tlirone's  heiglit,  and  raise 

His  offspring,  who  expired  in  other  days 
To  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kingdom  less,  — 
This  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and  repress 

Envy  into  nnutterable  praise. 

Dismiss  thy  gnard,  and  trust  thee  to  sach  traits, 
For  who  wonld  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless? 

Were  it  not  easy,  sir,  and  is't  not  sweet 

To  make  thyself  beloved?  and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means  ?  for  thos 

Thy  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  complete, 
A  despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free. 

And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 

Bolofnii,  Aiqpist  It,  1810. 


EPIGRAM. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH    OF  RULiIl£R£S». 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimples 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimploi. 
Then  your  face  we  might  behold, 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly ; 

Yet  even  then 't  would  be  d d  ugly. 


EPIGRAM. 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull; 

Each  tugs  it  a  different  way. 
And  the  greatest  of  all  Is  John  Bull. 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN  WILLUM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace. 
In  him,  1  hope,  will  always  tit  so; 

With  —  still  to  keep  him  in  good  case,  ^ 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizso. 


ON  MY  WEDDING-DAY. 

Herb's  a  happy  new  year!  but  with  reason 
I  beg  you  '11  permit  nie  to  say  - 

Wish  me  manjf  returns  of  the  season. 
But  Mfew  as  you  please  of  the  day. 


EPIGRAM. 


In  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine^ 
Will.  Ck>bbett  has  done  well  : 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again, 
He 'U  visit  you  in  heU. 


STANZAS. 

When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at  home, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbours; 

Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock'd  on  the  head  for  his  labours. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you  can. 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hai^d,  youllget  knighted. 


STANZAS. 

Could  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a  river. 
And  Time's  endeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain  — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying. 
And,  form'd  for  flying. 

Love  plumes  his  wing; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let's  love  a  season ; 
But  let  that  iica.«on  be  only  Spring. 

When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted. 
And,  all  hopes  thwarted. 

Expect  to  die: 
A  fcw  years  older, 
Ah!  how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sight 
When  link'd  together, 
In  every  weather. 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

From  out  his  wing  — 
He  'il  stay  for  ever. 
But  sadly  shiver 
Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring. 

Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action  -^ 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign. 
Obscures  his  glory, 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing. 
His  power  enhancing. 


MI8CBI.LANBOUS  POEMS. 


611 


He  moBt  moTe  on  -* 
Repose  bat  cloys  bim, 
Retreat  destroys  him, 
LoTe  brooks  not  a  degraded  throne. 

Wait  noty  fond  lover ! 
Till  years  are  over. 
And  then  recover, 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each  bewailing 
The  other's  failing. 
With  wrath  aqd  railing. 

All  hideous  seem  — 
While  first  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  censing, 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

Ail  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminished. 
Love's  reign  is  finished  — 
Then  part  in  friendship,  —  and  bid  good  -  night 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connection 

Bring  back  with  joy : 
Too  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 
Your  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces  — 
The  same  fond  feces 

As  through  the  past; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors. 
Reflect  but  rapture  —  not  least  though  last 

True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience; 

What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen! 
But  yet  remaining, 
What  is 't  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning. 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison  ? 
Time  can  but  cloy  love, 
And  use  destroy  love: 
The  winged  boy.  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys  — 
You'll  find  it  torture. 
Though  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out  your  joys. 


THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

What  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and  fether. 
If  hli  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  smafl, 

lo  tlie  Pharisee's  glories  around  her  she  gather, 
And  the  saint  patronizes  her  '"charity  ballt" 


What  matters — a  heart  which,  thougli  feulty,  was  feeling. 
Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  appal  — 

That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing. 
As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  <<the  ball ! " 


EPIGRAM  ON  MY  WEDDING-DAY. 

TO  PENELOPE. 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 

The  worst  for  me  and  you:  — 
'T  is  just  six  years  since  we  were  one, 
I  And /(m  since  we  were  tio0, 

Jaoiuity  %  inu 


ON  MY  THIRTY-THIRD  BIRTH -DAY. 

Janury  tt,  18S1. 

Through  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragg'd  to  three  and  thirty. 
What  have  tliese  years  left  to  me? 
Nothing  —  except  thirty  -  three. 


EPIGRAM, 

ON  THE  fiRASlERS'  COMPANY  HAVING  RESOLVED  TO 
PRESENT  AN  ADDRESS  TO  QUEEN  CAROLINE. 

The  brasiers,  it  seems,  are  preparing  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in  brass;  — 
A  superfluous  pageant — for,  by  tbe^Lord  Harry !    [carry 
They'll  find  where  they're  going  much  more  than  they 


TO  Mr.  MURRAY. 
For  Orford  and  for  Waldegravc 
You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave; 
Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave. 
My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  't  is  said, 
Be  worth  a  lion  fhirly  sped, 
A  live  Urd  must  be  worth  two  dead. 
My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose  — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd. 
So,  if  you  uriii,  T  shan't  be  shamm'd, 
And  if  you  won'tf  you  may  be  damn'd. 
My  Murray. 


EPIGRAMS. 

Oh,  Castlereagh  I  thou  art  a  patriot  now ; 
Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou: 
He  perish'd  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved. 
Thou  eutt'st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  saved ! 


612 


mSCELLANEOUS  POSMa 


So  CasUenag^h  has  cut  his  throat!  —  The  worst 
Of  this  is,  —  that  liis  own  was  not  the  first 


So  He  has  cut  his  throat  at  last !  —  He  1  Who  ? 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long:  ago. 


EPITAPH. 

Posterity  will  ne'er  survey 
A  nobler  grave  than  this : 

Here  lie  the  bones  of  Castlereagh: 
Stop,  traveller 


STANZAS: 

TO  A   HINDOO  AIR. 

Oh  !  —  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow ! 
Where  is  my  lover?  where  is  my  lover  ? 
Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 
Far  —  for  away!  and  alone  along  the  billow  ? 

Oh !  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow  I 
Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 
And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow.  — 

Oh !  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  IHllow  t 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking, 
In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking; 
Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow.  — 

Then  if  thou  wilt  —  no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 
In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy  —  but  to  behold  him! 
Oh!  my  lone  bosom!  —  oh!  my  lonely  Pillow ! 


THE  CONQUEST. 

Marcli  8—9,  18SS. 

The  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I  sing; 

Him  who  bade  England  bow  to  Normandy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 

To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fann'd  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing, 

He  rear'd  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on  high: 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  Uons>  his  prey  fast. 
And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last 


ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH  YEAR, 

MiMOlonghi,  Jan.  VI,  1834. 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved. 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move; 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love! 


My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  lore  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  Uie  grie^ 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle ; 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 

A  funeral  pile! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jefltous  oare. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  ihu  —  and  'tis  not  here  — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  mj  aool,  nor  i 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field. 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !  (not  Greece  —  she  t>  awake!) 

Awake,  my  spirit!  Think  through  yokom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down. 
Unworthy  manhood!  —  unto  thee 
Indifiarent  should  the  smile  or  firown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  r^^rett'st  thy  youth,  whtf  &•*  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here:  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath  1 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  dioose  thy  groond, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


TO  JESSY. 

The  foUowing  SUdbu  w«re  addressed  by  Lord  Byron  to  his  Lm1)i  a  ft« 
months  before  their  separation. 

There  is  a  mystic  thread  of  life 
So  dearly  wreathed  with  mine  alone. 

That  destiny 's  relentless  knife 
At  once  must  sever  hoik  or  none. 

There  is  ^form,  on  which  these  eyes 

Have  often  gased  with  fond  delight- 
By  day  that  form  their  joy  supplies. 
And  dreams  restore  it  through  the  night 

There  is  a  voice,  whose  tones  inspire 
Such  thrills  of  rapture  tiirough  mjr  breast- 

I  would  not  hear  a  seraph-choir. 
Unless  that  voice  oould  join  the  rest 


UISCBLLANBOU&  P0BM8. 


613 


There  b  a/ocff,  wbo^bhi^bes  tell 
Affection's  tale  upon  the  cheek--- 

But  pallid  at  oae  fond  farewell, 

Proclaiaui  more  love  than  words  can  speak. 

There  is  a  Up,  which  ndne  hath  prest, 

And  none  had  ever  prest  before, 
It  Tow'd  to  make  me  sweetly  blest, 

And  mine  -  mine  only,  prest  it  more. 

There  is  a  *o*o»— all  my  own- 
Hath  pillow'd  oft  this  aching  head; 

A  mouth  which  smiles  on  me  alone. 
An  eye,  whose  tears  with  mine  are  shed. 

There  are  two  hearts,  whose  movements  thrill 

In  nnison  so  closely  sweet, 
That,  pulse  to  pulse  responsive  still, 

They  both  must  heave— or  cease  to  beat 

There  are  two  souls,  whose  equal  flow 
In  gentle  streams  so  calmly  run, 

That  when  they  part— they  part  !--tth,  no ! 
They  cannot  part — those  souls  are  one. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  BLESSIMGTOK. 
You  have  asked  for  a  verse— the  request 

In  a  rhymer 't  were  strange  to  deny; 
Bat  my  HIppocrene  was  but  my  breast, 

And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 

Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 
What  Lawrence  had  pencill'd  so  well ; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell. 

I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire, 
And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead ; 

What  I  loved  I  now  merely  admire. 
And  my  heart  is  as  grey  as  my  head. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years ; 

There  are  moments  wliich  act  as  a  plough; 
And  there  is  not  a  furrow  appears 

But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 

Let  the  young  and  the  brilliant  aspire 
To  sing  while  I  gaze  on  in  vain; 

For  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 
The  string  which  was  worthy  tlie  strain. 


LINES, 
POUMD  IN  THE  TRAVELLEBS'  BOOK  AT  CHAKOUNt 

How  many  numbered  are,  bow  few  agreed, 

In  age»  or  clime,  or  character,  or  creed ! 

Here  wandering  genius  leaves  a  deathless  name, 

And  Folly  writes— for  others  do  the  same. 

ftalfan  treachery,  and  English  pride. 

Batch  orait,  and  German  dnhiess,  side  by  side ! 


The  hardy  Russian  hails  congenial  snow ; 
The  Spaniard  shivers  as  these  breezes  blow. 
Knew  men  the  objects  of  this  varied  crew, 
To  stare  how  many,  and  to  feel  how  few ! 
Here  Nature's  child,  ecstatic  from  her  school; 
And  travelling  problems,  that  admire  by  rule. 
The  timorous  poet  woos  his  modest  muse, 
And  thanks  his  stars  he  'a  safe  from  all  reviews. 
The  pedant  drags  from  out  his  motiey  store 
A  line  some  hundred  hills  have  heard  before. 
Here  critics  too  (for  where  'a  the  happy  spot 
So  blest  by  nature  as  to  have  them  not?) 
Spit  their  vile  slander  o'er  some  simple  phrase 
Of  foolish  wonder  or  of  honest  praise; 
Some  pompous  hint,  some  comment  on  nUne  host, 
Some  direful  failure,  or  some  empty  boast. 
Not  blacker  spleen  could  fill  these  furious  men. 
If  Jeffrey's  soul  had  perch'd  on  Gifford's  pen. 
Here  envy,  hatred,  and  the  fool  of  fkme, 
Join'd  in  one  act  of  wonder  when  they  came : 
Here  beauty's  worshipper  in  flesh  or  rock. 
The  incarnate  fancy,  or  the  breathing  block. 
Sees  the  white  giant  in  his  robe  of  light. 
Stretch  his  huge  fo^m  to  look  o'er  Jura's  height ; 
And  stops,  while  hastening  to  the  blest  remains 
And  calmer  beauties  of  tiie  classic  plains. 
And  here,  whom  hope  beguiling  bids  to  seek 
Ease  for  his  breast,  and  colour  for  his  cheek. 
Still  steals  a  moment  from  Ausonia's  sky. 
And  views  and  wonders  on  his  way  to  die. 

But  he,  the  author  of  these  idle  lines, 
What  passion  leads  him,  and  what  tie  confines? 
For  him  whiat  friend  is  true,  what  mistress  blooms 
What  joy  elates  him,  and  what  grief  consumes? 
Impassion'd,  senseless,  vigorous,  or  old. 
What  matters?— bootless  were  his  story  told 
Some  praise  at  least  one  act  of  sense  may  claim; 
He  wrote  these  verses,  but  he  hid  his  name. 


ENIGMA 

ON  THE  LETTER  H. 

'T  WAS  whisper'd  in  heaven,  't  was  mutter'd  in  hell, 
And  echo  caught  fointiy  the  sound  as  it  fell : 
On  the  confines  of  earth  't  was  permitted  to  rest. 
And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  oonfest 
'T  will  be  found  in  the  sphere  when 't  is  riven  asunder. 
Be  seen  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 
'T  was  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath. 
Attends  at  his  birth,  and  awaits  him  in  death ; 
It  presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honour,  and  health, 
Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth: 
Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman  may  roam. 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home. 
In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 
Nor  e'en  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drown'd  : 
'T  will  not  soften  the  heart,  and,  though  deaf  to  the  ear, 
'T  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantiy  hear.    ^ 
But  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower  — 
Oh !  breathe  on  it  sottly--it  dies  in  an  hour. 


614 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ENIGMA 

ON  THE  LETTER  I,  WRITTEN  IN  A  LiDT*8  SCRAP-BOOK. 
I  AH  not  in  youth,  nor  in  manhood,  nor  age. 

But  in  infancy  ever  am  known ; 
I'm  a  stranger  alike  to  the  fool  and  the  sage. 
And  Iho'  I'm  distinguished  in  history's  page, 

I  always  am  greatest  alone. 

I  am  not  in  earth,  nor  the  sun,  nor  the  moon. 

You  may  search  all  the  sky — I  'm  not  there; 
In  the  morning  and  evening— tho'  not  in  the  noon. 
You  may  plainly  perceive  me— for  like  a  balloon 
I  am  midway  suspended  in  air. 

I  am  always  in  riches,  and  yet  I  am  told 

Wealth  ne'er  did  my  presence  desire; 
I  dwell  with  the  miser,  but  not  with  his  gold, 
And  sometimes  I  stand  in  his  chimney  so  cold, 

Tho'  I  serve  as  a  part  of  the  fire. 

I  often  am  met  in  political  life— - 

In  my  absence  no  kingdom  can  be; 
And  they  say  there  can  neither  be  friendship  nor  strife, 
No  one  can  live  single,  no  one  take  a  wife, 

Without  interfering  with  me. 

My  brethren  are  many,  and  of  my  whole  race 

Not  one  is  more  slender  and  tall ; 
And  tho'  not  the  eldest  I  hold  the  first  place, 
And  even  in  dishonour,  despair,  and  disgrace, 

J  boldly  appear  'mong  them  all. 

Tho'  disease  may  posses^  me,  and  sickness  and  pain, 

I  am  never  in  sorrow  or  gloom; 
Tho'  in  wit  and  in  wisdom  I  equally  reign, 
I  'm  the  heart  of  all  sin,  and  have  long  lived  in  vain, 

Yet  I  ne'er  shall  be  found  in  the  tomb. 


LINES, 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  QUAKERESS. 

Sweet  Girl!  though  only  once  we  met, 

That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  foi^t; 

And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again, 

Remembrance  will  tliy  form  retain ; 

I  would  not  say  "I  love,"  but  still 

My  senses  struggle  with  my  will; 

In  vidn  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast, 

My  tiioughts  are  more  and  more  repressed; 

In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs. 

Another  to  the  last  replies : 

Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 

Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  in  sweeter  language  spoke. 

The  tongue  in  flattering  language  deals, 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels ; 

I>eceit  the  guilty  lips  impart, 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart; 

But  souls'  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 


As  tbofl  our  glaaoefl  oft  oottTersed, 

And  aU  our  bosoms  fek  rehearsed. 

No  spirit  from  within  reproved  us. 

Say  rather 't  was  the  spirit  moved  i 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress. 

Yet  I  conceive  thou  It  partly  guess ; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

Thus  for  myself  at  least  I'll  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  thtoogfa  day ; 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems,— 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreasu,— 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away. 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight, 

Which  makes  me  wish  for  endless  idght, 

Since,  oh  1  whate'er  my  future  fiite. 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await. 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset. 

Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget 

Alas!  again  no  more  we  meet. 

No  more  our  former  looks  repeat ; 

Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer, 

The  dictates  of  my  bosom's  care : 

*^May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  Quaker 

That  anguish  never  may  o'ertake  her. 

But  blessed  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker. 

Oh  may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 

To  be  by  nearest  ties  related. 

For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 

And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover. 

May  that  fhir  bosom  never  know 

What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe 

Which  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret 

Of  him, — who  never  can  forget" 


LINES, 
INTENDED  AS  AN  OPENING  TO  THE  '^lEGB  OP  OORlNTfL' 

In  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men. 

Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten. 

We  were  a  gallant  company. 

Riding  o'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea. 

Oh!  but  we  went  merrily  I 

We  forded  the  river,  and  clomb  the  high  hill, 

Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still; 

Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed, 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed; 

Whether  we  oouch'd  in  our  rough  capote, 

On  the  rouglier  plank  of  our  gliding  boat, 

Or  stretch'd  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  qiresd 

As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head. 

Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow : 

All  our  tiioughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  healtii,  and  we  had  hope, 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 
We  WCTC  of  all  tongues  and  creeds ;  — 
Some  were  those  who  counte^1>eads, 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither; 


UISCBLLANBOUS  POEMS. 


615 


Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  aearch 
Nor  find  a  motlier  crew  nor  blither. 

Bat  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone. 
And  some  are  scattered  and  alone. 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills 

That  look  along  Ephrus'  valleys. 

Where  Freedom  still  at  moments  rallies. 
And  pays,  in  Mood  Oppression's  ills; 

And  some  are  in  a  far  oountree^ 
And  some  all  restlessly  at  home; 

But  nerer  more,  oh !  never,  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

Bot  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily. 

And  when  they  now  foil  drearily. 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main. 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A  wild  bird,  and  a  wanderer. 

'Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain. 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay. 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger  —  wilt  thou  follow  now. 

And  sit  with  me  on  Acro-Coriath's  brow ! 


SONNET  TO  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  Esq. 
RooERs!  much  honoured,  howsoe'er  assailed 

By  wanton  ignorance  or  ribald  mirth, 
rby  dwelling  as  a  temple  has  been  baifd 

Sacred  to  art,  to  genius,  and  to  worth, 
rhyself  the  high  priest  Star  and  coronet 

Are  mated  there  with  blushing  merit;  there 
rhe  frost>nipp'd  bud  of  talents  oft  hath  met 

The  warmth  that  nursed  it  till  its  fruit  it  bare, 
ffone  more  than  thou  have  true  desert  extoU'd. 

None  more  tlian  thou  have  scorned  the  heartless  proud, 
low  many  sufferers  hast  thou  consoled 

All  silently !  Nor  need  they  speak  alond, 
a  hopes  to  shame  the  wretch  oondcmn'd  to  carve 
Pood  for  foul  stomaohs,  or  himself  to  starve. 


ON  SAM  ROGERS. 

QUESTION   UMl  AN8WBR. 

Qoettton. 

Nose  and  chin  would  shame  a  knocker, 
Wrinkles  that  would  puzale  Cocker ; 
Mouth  which  marks  the  envious  seomer, 
With  a  scorpion  in  each  comer. 
Turning  its  quick  tail  to  sting  you 
In  the  place  that  most  may  wring  you; 
Byes  of  lead-like  hue,  and  gummy ; 
Carcass  pick'd  out  from  some  mummy ; 
Bowels  (but  they  were  forgotten 
Save  the  liver,  and  that's  rotten) ; 
Skin  all  sallow,  flesh  all  sodden,  «— 


Form  the  devil  would  frighten  God  in. 
Is't  a  corpse  stuck  up  for  show, 
Galvanised  at  times  to  go? 
With  the  scripture  in  connection, 
New  proof  of  the  resurrection  ? 
Vampire^  ghost,  orgoul,  what  is  it? 
I  would  walk  ten  miles  to  miss  it. 

Answer. 

Many  passengers  arrest  one, 
To  demand  the  same  free  question 
Shorter's  my  reply y.  and  franker,  — 
Thaf  s  the  Bard,  the  Beau,  the  Banker. 
Yet  if  you  could  bring  about 
Jfust  to  turn  him  inside  out, 
Satan's  self  would  seem  less  sooty, 
And  his  present  aspect  —  Beauty. 
Mark  that  (as  he  masks  the  bilious 
Air,  so  softly  supercilious) 
Chasten'd  bow,  and  mock  humility, 
Almost  sicken  to  servility; 
Hear  his  tone  (which  is  to  talking 
That  which  creeping  is  to  walking. 
Now  on  all-fours,  now  on  tip-toe) ; 
Hear  the  tales  he  lends  his  lip  to; 
Little  hints  of  heavy  scandals; 
Every  friend  in  turn  he  handles ; 
All  which  women  or  which  men  do. 
Glides  forth  in  an  inuendo. 
Clothed  in  odds  and  ends  of  humour  -^ 
Herald  of  each  paltry  rumour, 
From  divorces  down  to  dresses. 
Women's  frailties,  men's  excesses, 
All  which  life  presents  of  evil 
Make  for  him  a  constant  revel. 
You're  his  foe,  for  that  he  fears  yon, 
And  in  absence  blasts  and  sears  you: 
You're  his  friend  —  for  that  he  hates  you  - 
First  caresses,  and  then  baits  yon  — 
Darting  on  the  opportunity 
When  to  do  it  with  impunity: 
You  are  neither  —  then  he'll  flatter, 
Till  he  finds  some  trait  for  satire; 
Hunts  your  weak  point  out,  then  shows  it 
Where  it  injures  to  disclose  it. 
In  the  mode  that's  most  invidious. 
Adding  every  trait  that's  hideous  — 
From  the  bile,  whose  bhickening  river 
Rushes  through  his  Stygian  liver. 
Then  he  thinks  himself  a  lover  — 
Why?  I  reaHy  can't  discover. 
In  his  mind,  age,  face,  or  figure ; 
Viper-broth  might  give  him  vigour,  — 
Let  him  keq[>  the  cauldron  steady. 
He  the  venom  has  already. 
For  bis  faults  —  he  has  but  one,  — 
'Tis  but  envy,  when  all's  done. 
He  but  pays  the  pain  he  suffers. 
Clipping,  like  a  pair  of  snuffers, 
Lights  which  ought  to  horn  the  brvhter 
For  this  temporary  bQghten 


616 


MISCBLLANEOUS  POEMS. 


He'flthe  cancer  of  his  spedes. 
And  wUl  eat  himself  to  pieces,  — 
Plague  personified,  and  famine,  — 
Devil,  whose  sole  delight  is  damning. 

For  his  merits,  would  you  know'em? 
Once  he  wrote  a  pretty  Poem. 


SONG. 

Do  you  know  Doctor  Nott, 

With  a  crook  in  his  lot, 
Who  several  years  since  tried  to  dish  up 

A  neat  Codicil 

To  the  princess's  Will, 
That  made  Doctor  Nott  not  a  Bishop ! 

So  the  Doctor,  being  found 

A  little  unsound 
In  his  doctrine,  at  least  as  a  teacher, 

And  kicked  from  one  stool 

As  a  knave  and  a  fool. 
Has  mounted  another  as  preacher! 

In  thatgown,  like  a  skin 

With  no  lion  within, 
He  still  for  the  bench  would  be  driving, 

And  roaretli  away, 

A  true  Vicar  of  Bray, 
Except  tliat  his  bray  lost  his  living. 

^'Gainst  free-thinkers"  he  roars, 

You  should  all  shut  your  doors, 
Or  be  bound  in  the  Devil's  indentures.'' 

And  here  I  agree. 

For  who  ever  would  be 
A  guest  wher^  old  Simony  enters  I 

Let  the  Priest  who  beguiled 

His  Sovereign's  child 
To  his  own  dirty  views  of  promotion, 

Wear  the  sheep's  clothing  still 

Among  flocks  to  his  will 
And  dishonour  the  cause  of  devotion. 

The  Altar  and  Throne 

Are  in  peril  alone   ' 
From  such  as  yourself,  who  would  render 

The  Altar  itself 

A  shop  let  for  pelf 
And  pray  God  to  pay  his  defender. 

But,  Doctor,  one  word, 

Which  perhaps  you  have  heard  — 
"They  should  never  throw  who  have  windows 

Of  glass"  to  be  broken: 

And  by  that  same  token. 
As  a  sinner,  you  can't  care  what  sin  does. 

But  perhaps  you  do  well : 
Your  own  windows,  they  tell. 


Have  long  ago  saffier'd  erea^ire ; 

Not  a  fragment  remains 

Of  yoor  character's  panes, 
Since  the  Regent  refused  you  a  giasier. 

Though  your  visions  of  lawn 

Have  all  been  withdrawn. 
And  you  miss'd  your  bold  stroke  for  a  mitre, 

In  a  very  snug  way 

You  may  still  preach  and  pray, 
And  from  bishop  sink  into  backbiter ! 


LINES  TO  LADir  HOLLAND.*) 
Lady,  accept  the  gift  a  hero  wore, 

In  spite  of  all  this  el^^  stuff; 
Let  not  seven  stanzas,  written  by  a  bore, 

Prevent  your  Ladyship  from  taking 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE. 

[WRITTEN  December  SS,  1800.} 

Father  of  Light !  great  God  of  Heaven ! 

Hear*st  thou  the  accents  of  despair? 
Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  forgiven? 

Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer? 

Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call! 

Thou  secst  my  soul  b  dark  within; 
Thou  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 

No  shrine  I  seek,  to  sects  unknown; 

Oh  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth ! 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  foults  of  youflL 

Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fhae. 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile; 
Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign, 

With  tales  of  mystic  rights  beguile. 

Shall  man  confine  his  Maker's  sway 
To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone? 

Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day; 

Earth,  ocean,  heaven  tliy  boundless  throne. 

Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  bell, 
Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  f6nn? 

Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell, 
Hust  perish  in  the  mingling  storm  ? 

Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 
Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 

Whose  soul  a  different  liope  supplies, 
Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire? 


^  Tli«M  llaet  vert  composed  on  reftdiof  in  tbt   oemp^P*"  * 
addrcM  to  hady  Holland,  by  (tae  Barl  of  CarUste,   pemadiat  her  * 
r^ect  the  mag-  box  beqneatbed  to  her  by  Napolcoa,  b«gia&iD(;  ~ 
**ttdy,  rt^tet  Uie  cU^*  etc  — 


WALTZ. 


617 


Shall  ikese,  by  creedi  tbey  can't  expoond, 

Prcfwre  a  fimcied  bl&w  or  woe  ? 
Shall  reptiles,  groveling  on  the  ground.  - 

Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know? 

Shall  those,  who  live  for  self  alone, 
Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime  — 

Shall  tliey  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone. 
And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time? 

Father!  no  prophet's  laws  I  seek,  — 
Thif  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear;  — 

I  own  myself  corrupt  and  weak, 
Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear ! 

Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 
Through  trackless  realms  of  aether's  space  ; 

Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 
Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace :  — 

Thou,  who  In  wisdom  placed  me  here, 
Who,  when  thou  wilt,  canst  take  me  henee, 


Ah!  whibt  I  tread  this  earthly  sphere^ 
Bxtend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 

To  Thee,  my  God,  to  thee  I  call! 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall, 

In  thy  protection  I  confide. 

If,  when  this  dust  to  dust 's  restored, 
My  soul  shall  float  on  airy  wing, 

How  shall  thy  glorious  name,  adored, 
Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing! 

But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 
With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bed, 

While  life  yet  throbs  I  raise  my  prayer, 
Though  doom'd  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 

To  Thee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain. 
Grateful  for  all  thy  mercy  past, 

And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 
This  ening  life  may  fly  at  last 


WALTZ, 

AN     APOSTROPHIC    HYMN. 


QaalU  in  Bnrota  ripii,  tat  per  J«ga  Cynthi 
Exercet  Duma  cfaorot.  Yiboiu 

Sach  on  Earotu*  bftoki,  4>r  pxnthia's  height, 
DUna  seems;  and  so  she  efaanns  the  sighl^ 
M^ben  In  the  dance  the  Kracefbl  g^oddess  leads 
The  quire  of  Nymphs,  and  overtops  their  heada. 

Dbtuw*!  Tjboil. 


TO  THB  PUBLISHER. 
Sir, 
I  AM  a  country-gentleman  of  amidland-^soanty.  Imight 
haTe  been  a  Parliament-man  for  a  certain  borougli,  hav- 
iq^  bad  the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as  General  T.  at  the 
general  election  (in  1812).  But  I  was  all  for  domestic 
happiness;  119  fifteen  years  ago,  on  a  visit  to  London,  I 
married  a  middle-aged  Maid  of  Honour.  We  lived 
happily  at  Homem  Hall  till  last  season,  when  my  wife 
and  I  were  invited  by  the  Ck>untes8  of  Waltzaway  (a 
distant  relation  of  my  spouse)  to  pass  the  winter  in  town. 
Thinking  no  barm,  and  our  girls  being  come  to  a  mar- 
riageable (or  as  they  call  it,  uutrkeUible)  age,  and  having 
beaidea  a  Chancery-suit  iaveterately  enticed  upon  tlie 
Auttlijr-eatatc,  we  came  up  in  our  old  chariot,  of  which, 


by  the  bye,  my  wife  grew  so  much  ashamed  in  less  than 
a  week,  that  1  was  obliged  to  buy  a  second-hand  barouche, 
of  which  I  might  mount  tlie  box,  Mrs.  H.  says,  if  I  could 
drive,  but  never  seethe  inside — that  place  being  reserved 
for  tlie  Honourable  Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  partner  general 
and  opera -knight.  Hearing  great  praises  of  Mrs.  H.'s 
dai^dng  (she  was  femous  for  birth-night -minuets  in  the 
latter  end  of  the  last  century),  I  unbooted,  and  went  to  a 
ball  at  the  Countess^s^expecting  to  see  a  country-dance,  or, 
at  most,  cotillions,  reels,  and  all  the  old  paces  to  the  newest 
tunes.  But,  judge  of  my  surprise,  on  arriving,  to  sec  poor 
dear  Mrs.  Homem  with  her  arms  half  round  the  loins  of 
a  huge  hussar-looking  gentleman  I  never  set  eyes  on  be- 
fore; and  his,  to  say  truth,  rather  more  than  half  round 
her  waist,  turning  round,  and  round,  and  round,  to  a 
9Q* 


618 


WAivrz. 


d— ^  see -saw  ap  and  down  sort  of  tune,  tiiat  reminded 
mc  of  tbe  <<Black  Joke,"  only  more  <'«^0ttiMuo/'  till  it 
made  me  quite  giddy  with  wondering  they  were  not  so. 
By  and  bye  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they  would 
sit  or  fall  down:  —  but,  no;  with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  bis 
shoulder,  '*qiiam/amiliariter"  (as  Terence  said  when  I 
was  at  school),  they  walked  about  a  minute,  and  then  at 
it  again,  like  two  cockchafers  spitted  on  the  same  bodkin. 
I  asked  what  all  tliis  meant,  when,  with  a  loud  laugh,  a 
child  not  older  than  our  Wilhclmina  (a  name  I  never 
heard  but  in  the  Yicar  of  Wakefield,  though  her  mother 
would  call  her  after  the  Princess  of  Swappenbach),  said 
''Lord,  Mr.  Homem,  can't  you  see  they  are  valtsing,"  or 
waltzing  (I  foiget  which) ;  and  then  up  she  got,  and  her 
mother  and  sister, and  away  tliey  went,  and  round-about- 
ed it  till  supper-time.   Now  that  I  know  what  it  is,  I  like 


It  of  all  Aings,  wmd  so  does  Mf«.  H.;  thoogii  I  have  bro- 
ken my  shins,  and  four  times  overturned  Mrs.  Homen's 
maid  in  practising  the  preliminary  steps  in  a  moraiiig. 
Indeed,  so  much  do  I  like  it,  that  having  a  turn  for  rhyar, 
tastily  displayed  in  some  election-ballads,  and  songs  is 
honour  of  all  the  victories  (but  till  lately  I  have  had  litfle 
practice  in  that  way),  I  sat  down,  and  with  the  aid  of  IV 
F.,  Bsq.,  and  a  few  bints  from  Dr.  B.  (whose  rccitatioDs 
I  attend,  and  am  monstrous  fond  of  Master  B/s  manaer 
of  delivering  his  father's  late  successful  D.  L.  Address), 
I  composed  the  following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make 
my  sentiments  known  to  the  Public,  whom,  neverthelesi^ 
i  heartily  despise  as  well  as  the  Critics. 
I  am.  Sir,  yours, 

HORACE  HORNBM. 


Musk  of  the  many-twinkling  feet !  whose  charms 

Are  now  extended  ap  from  legs  to  arms; 

TftRPsrcHORE!  —  too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid  — 

Reproachful  term  —  bestow'd  but  to  upbraid  — 

Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shine. 

The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 

Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude; 

Mock'd,  yet  triumphant ;  sneer'd  at,  unsubdued ; 

Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly. 

If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high ; 

Thy  breast  —  if  bare  enough  —  requires  no  shield ; 

Dance  forth  —  son*  artaaur  thou  shalt  take  the  field, 

And  own  —  impregnable  to  most  assaults. 

Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  *' Waltz." 

Hail,  nimble  Nymph  1  to  whom  the  young  hussar, 
The  whiskcr'd  votary  of  Waltz  and  War  — 
His  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots, 
A  sight  unmatoh'd  since  Orpheus  and  his  brutes: 
Half,  spurit-stirring  Waltz!  —  beneath  whose  banners 
A  modern  hero  fought  for  modish  manners; 
On  Hounslow's  heath  to  rival  Wellesley's  fhme,      [aim. 
Cock'd  —  fired  —  and  miss'd  bis  man  —  but  gain'd  his 
Hail  moving  Muse!  to  whom  the  fair  one's  breast 
Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest 
Oh !  for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 
The  latter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits. 
To  ''energize  the  object  1  pursue," 
And  give  both  Belial  and  his  dance  thdr  due !  — 

Imperial  Waltz !  imported  from  the  Rhine 
(Famed  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine). 
Long  be  tliine  import  from  all  duty  free. 
And  Hock  itself  be  less  esteem'd  than  thee; 
In  some  few  qualities  alike  —  for  Hock 
Improves  our  cellar  —  thou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  Hock  belongs  —  thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart : 
Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims. 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

Oh,  Germany!  how  much  to  thee  we  owe. 
As  heaven-bom  Pitt  can  testify  below ; 


Bre  cursed  Confederation  made  thee  France's, 

And  only  left  us  thy  d  —  d  debts  and  dances ; 

Of  subsidies  and  Hannover  bereft 

We  bless  thee  still  —  for  George  the  Third  is  left! 

Of  kings  the  best  -—  and  last,  not  least  in  worth. 

For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 

To  Germany,  and  Highnesses  Serene, 

Who  owe  us  millions  —  don't  we  owe  the  Queen? 

To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides? 

So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides ; 

Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  their  royal  blood. 

Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud; 

Who  sent  us  —  so  be  pardon'd  all  her  foults  — 

A  dozen  Dukes  —  some  Kings  —  a  Queen — and  Waltz. 

But  peace  to  her  —  her  Emperor  and  Diet, 
Though  now  transferr'd  to  Bonaparte's  ^fiat;" 
Back  to'my  theme  —  Oh !  Muse  of  motion  say. 
How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way  ? 

Borne  on  tbe  breatli  of  hyperborean  gales. 
From  Hamburg's  port  (while  Hamburg  yet  had  maiZrX 
Ere  yet  unlucky  Fame  —  oompell'd  to  creep 
To  snowy  Gottenburg  —  was  chili'd  to  sle^; 
Or,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign'd  arise, 
Heligoland !  to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies ; 
While  unburnt  Moscow  yet  had  news  to  send. 
Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend ; 
She  came  —  Waltz  came  —  and  with  her  certain  aels 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes; 
Then  flamed  of  Austeriitz  the  blest  despatch. 
Which  Moniteur  nor  Morning-Post  can  match ; 
And  —  almost  crush'd  beneath  tlie  glorious  news  — 
Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotaebue's; 
One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs. 
And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  fW>m  Leipzig  fairs ; 
Meiner's  four  volumes  upon  womankind, 
Like  Lapland  witches  to  ensure  a  wind ; 
Brunch's  heaviest  tome  for  ballast,  and  to  bade  it. 
Of  Heyne,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet 
Fraught  with  this  cargo  —  and  her  fiiirest  freiglit. 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a  mate, 


WALTX 


619 


lie  weloome  Yesael  reached  the  goiial  stnuid^ 
ad  roond  her  flock'd  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
iot  decent  Dayid,  when,  before  the  ark, 
Qs  grand  pas-seul  excited  some  remark ; 
k>t  love-lorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
lie  knight's  fiindango  friskier  than  it  ought; 
[ot  soft  Herodias,  when  with  winning  tread 
ler  nimble  feet  danocd  off  another's  head; 
Tot  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Ksplay'd  so  much  of /^y,  or  more  otneekj 
I'han  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the  mpon 
lebeld  thee  twirling  to  a  Saxon  tune! 

To  you  —  ye  husbands  of  t^i  years  I  whose  brows 
Lefae  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a  spouse ; 
To  you,  of  nine  years  less  —  who  only  bear 
rhe  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  yoo  skall  wear, 
KTith  added  ornamenti  around  them  roU'd,   . 
)f  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold; 
To  you,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  wateh 
To  mar  a  son's,  or  make  a  daughter's  match ; 
To  you,  ye  children  of  --  whom  chance  aoeords 
Vways  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords; 
To  yon  —  ye  single  gentlemen  I  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week; 
Is  love  of  Hymen  your  endeavours  guide. 
To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride ; 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came, 
knd  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

Bndearing  Waltz  —  to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon ; 
Scotch  reels  avaunt!  and  country-dance  forego 
four  fiiture  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe; 
VFaltz  —  Waltz  —  alone  both  legs  and  arms  demands, 
liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  Jier  hands; 
iands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 
MTbere  ne'er  before  —  but  —  pray  "put  out  the  light." 
Ilethinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 
Shines  much  too  far  —  or  I  am  much  too  near; 
kttd  true,  though  strange  —  Waltz  whispers  this  remark, 
*My  sDppery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark !" 
Sat  here  the  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
kad  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz* 

Observant  travellers!  of  every  time; 
fe  quartos  I  publish'd  upon  every  clime; 
)  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound; 
Sui  Egypt's  Almas  —  tantalizing  group  — 
Alumina's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop  — 
ISaaaught  from  cold  Kamtschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
^ith  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne? 
Ui,  no !  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Galf  s, 
Ml  tourbt  pens  a  paragraph  for  '<Waltz," 

Shades  of  those  belles,  whose  reign  began  of  yore, 
KFith  George  the  Third's  —  and  ended  long  before  — 
"bough  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive^ 
hirst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive  I 
lack  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host; 
Vtol's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost 


No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  qvake; 
No  stiff  starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache 
(Transferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,  women  in  their  shape) ; 
No  damsel  ffunts  when  rather  dosely  pressed, 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 
Both  banish'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  *' Walts." 
Seductive  Waltz  1  ~  though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  whore; 
Werter  —  to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined ; 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton;  dazzled,  but  not  blind  -» 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Stael, 
Would  evei^  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  hall; 
Thee  (ashion  hails  —  from  Countesses  to  queans, 
And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes; 
Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads. 
And  turns  —  if  nothing  else  —  at  least  our  keatk; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce. 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 
Gods !  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts. 
And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  *' Waltz." 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  lUbut; 
The  Court,  the  Regent,  like  herself  were  new ; 
New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards. 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar'd  for  bread; 
New  coins  (most  new)  to  follow  those  that  fled; 
New  victories  —  nor  can  we  prize  them  less. 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success : 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
Tliat  moat  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistresses  —  no  —  old  —  yet  'tis  true, 
Though  they  be  old,  the  thinp  is  something  new ; 
Each  new,  quite  new  —  (except  some  ancient  tricks) ; 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new 
With  vests  or  ribands  ~  deck'd  alike  in  hue,       [sticks  I 
New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue; 

So  saith  the  Muse  ~ my ,  whatsayyou? 

Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 
Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign; 
Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such, 
Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  muck; 
Morals  and  minuets.  Virtue  and  her  stays, 
And  tell-tale  Powder  ^  all  have  had  their  days. 

The  ball  begins  -  the  honours  of  the  house 
First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse. 
Some  potentate  —  or  royal  or  serene  — 
With  K — t's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  G — ^st— r's  mien, 
Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 
Might  once  have  be>en  mistaken  for  a  Mush. 
From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free. 
That  spot  where  hearts  were  once  supposed  to  be; 
Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 
The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced; 
The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  moeh 
As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 
Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip. 
One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip ; 


620 


FRANCBSCA  OF  RIMINL 


The  other  to  the  shoalder  no  less  royal 

Asoendin;  with  affection  truly  loyal ; 

Thns  front  to  front  the  partners  more  or  stand. 

The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand; 

And  all  in  torn  may  follow  in  their  rank, 

The  Earl  of —  Asterisk  —  and  Lady  —  Blank ; 

Sir  —  sach  a  one  —  with  those  of  Fashion's  host, 

For  whose  blest  surnames  —  vide  "Morning-Post;" 

(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late, 

Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  date)  - 

Thus  all  and  each,  in  morement  srwift  or  slow. 

The  g^enial  contact  gently  undergo ; 

Tilt  some  might  marvel,  with  tlie  modest  Turk, 

If  "notliing  follows  all  this  palming  work?" 

True  honest  Mirza  —  you  may  trust  my  rhyme  — 

Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time; 

The  breast  thus  publicly  resign'd  to  man, 

in  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

O  ye!  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,  and  many  more! 
And  thou,  my  Prince!  whose  sovereign  taste  and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still; 

Thou,  ghost  of  Q !  whose  judging  sprite 

Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night. 
Pronounce  —  if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss  — 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this; 
To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise. 
Flush  in  the  cheek  and  languish  in  the  eyes; 
Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  the  frame. 
With  half-told  wish^  and  ill-dissembled  flame; 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast  — 
Who,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest? 

I      But  yc  —  who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be  or  ought; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap, 
giiy  —  would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap  ? 
Hot  from  the  hand  promiscuously  applied. 
Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing  side ; 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form, 
From  this  lewd  grasp  and  lawless  contact  warm? 
At  once  Love's  most  endearing  thought  resign, 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but  thine; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint. 
Come  near  enough  —  if  not  to  touch  —  to  taint; 
If  sncli  thou  lovest  —  love  her  then  no  more, 
Or  give  —  like  her  —  caresses  to  a  score ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Walts!  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme? 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore  foigive!  —  at  every  ball 
My  wife  now  waltzes  —  and  my  daughters  shall; 
My  son  (or  stop  —  'tis  needless  to  inquire  — 
These  little  acddents  should  ne'er  transpire; 


Some  ages  hence  our  genealog^c  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me). 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amendsy 
Grandsons  for  me  --  in  heirs  to  all  his  friendjR. 


PRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI. 

FROM  THE  INFERNO   OF    DANTE. 

CANTO  V, 

«The  land  where  I  was  bom  sits  by  the  seas. 

Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 

With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 
Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends. 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'  en 

From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  oimids. 
Love,  who  to  none  bdoved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  pleaze,  so  strong, 

That,  as  thou  see'st,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 
Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  Cainii  waits  for  him  our  life  who  emiecL" 

These  were  the  accents  ntter'd  by  her  tongae. — 
Since  I  first  listened  to  these  souls  offcndod, 

I  bow'd  my  visage,  and  so  k^t  it  till  — 

<'What  think'st  thou ?"  said  the  bard;  when  I 
And  recommenced:  *^Ala8 !  unto  such  ill  [unbendedL 

How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  stroQg  ecstasies 

Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil!" 
And  then  I  tum'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes. 

And  said,  ''Franoesca,  thy  sad  destinies 

Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 
But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  pa^on  rose^ 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognise?" 
Then  she  to  me :  ''The  greatest  of  all  woes 

Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 

In  misery,  and  that  thy  teadier  knows. 
But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 

Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 

I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says.  — 
We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh. 

Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 

We  were  alone,  quite  unsnspidously : 
But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 

All  o'er  discoloured  by  that  reading  were; 

But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew ; 
When  we  read  the  long-sigh'd-for  smile  of  her, 

To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover, 

He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 
Kiss'd  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 

Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote ! 

That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover.^ 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 

The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 

I  swoon'd  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote. 
And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls. 


621 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE; 

IBING  AN  ALLUSION  IN  ENGLISH  VERSE  TO  THE  EPISTLE  «AD  PISONES,  DE  ARTE  POETICA," 
AND  INTENDED  AS  A  SEQUEL  TO  ''ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS." 


—  ->  "Rrpt  AiDgsr  vice  cotb,  Motiun 
Reddere  que  ftrruD  f«lcl,  exaor*  ipsa  accandiJ' 

Uoft.  De  Arte  Poet 


"BbyvM  are  dlfllcvtt 


things  —  they  are  fttabbora  things,  sir." 

FuLDiao'i  AmeUa. 


Athena.  Oapoehin  Contend  March  19,  ISll. 
Who  wonid  not  laugh,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
9Li  costly  canTass  with  each  flattered  fhce, 
ibnsed  his  art,  till  Natare,  with  a  blash, 
Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush? 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
K  maid  of  honour  to  a  mermaid's  tail  ? 
Or  low  Dubost  —  as  once  the  world  has  seen  — 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen  ? 
!(ot  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
?ools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends, 
ilelieve  me,  Moschus,  like  that  picture  seems 
rbe  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
EKsplays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artists  know, 
If  ay  shoot  a  little  wifli  a  lengthen'd  bow ; 
We  elalm  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task, 
lad  grant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask ; 
Bat  oiake  not  monsters  spring  from  gentle  dams  — 
Birds  breed  not  vipen,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A  labour'd,  long  exordium,  sometimes  tends 
[Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends; 
Ijid  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down, 
is  pertiless  passes  with  a  legal  gown : 
Thus  many  a  bard  describes  in  pompous  strain 
Hie  clear  brook  babbling  tlirough  the  goodly  plain: 
Phe  groves  of  Granta,  and  her  gotliic  halts,  [walls: 

Ung^s  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stain'd  windows,  and  old 
)r,  in  advenf  rons  numbers,  neatly  aims 
Po  paint  a  rainbow,  or  —  the  river  Thames. 

You  sketch  a  tree,  and  so  perhaps  may  shine  — 
lot  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign ; 
Too  plan  a  vase  —  it  dwindles  to  a  pot; 
then  g'lidc  down  Grub-street  —  fasting  and  forgot; 
Laugh'd  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  Review, 
nrhose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till  —  true. 


In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire. 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe  . 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a  scribe,) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labour  to  be  brief  —  become  obscure; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast ; 
Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  ily, 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety ; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  the  waves! 

Unless  your  care 's  exact,  your  judgment  nice," 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice; 
None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  some  part. 
Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art 
For  galligaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man; 
But  coats  must  claim  another  artisan. 
Now  this  to  me,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 
As  Vulcan's  feet  to  bear  Apollo's  frame ; 
Or,  with  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 
Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but  —  a  bottle  nose ! 

Dear  authors!  suit  your  topics  to  your  strengtii. 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length; 
Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you  're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 
But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice; 
With  nadve  eloquence  he  soars  along, 
Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  bis  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  foture  parts  the  now  omitted  line: 
This  shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject. 
Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select; 
Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens  afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 


622 


HINTS  FROM  HORAC& 


Then  fear  not  if  H  U  needful  to  produce 

Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use. 

As  Pitt  has  furnished  us  a  word  or  two. 

Which  lexicographers  declined  to  do, 

So  you  indeed,  with  care  —  (but  be  content 

To  take  this  license  rarely)  —  may  invent 

New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days. 

If  neatly  grafted  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 

What  Chancer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  reftise 

To  Bryden's  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse. 

If  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not, 

As  weU  as  WUUam  Pitt,  and  Walter  Scott? 

Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 

Enrich'd  our  island's  iU-united  tongues; 

'T  is  then  —  and  shall  be  —  lawful  to  present 

Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees, 
So  fode  expressions  which  in  season  please; 
And  we  and  ours,  alas  I  are  due  to  fete. 
And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 
Though  as  a  monarch  nods,and  commerce  calls, 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals; 
Though  swamps  subdued,  and  marshes  drained,  sustain 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  grain. 
And  rising  ports  along  tiie  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  Ocean's  roar. 
All,  all  must  perish;  but,  surviving  last, 
The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past 
True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive; 
Though  those  shall  sink  which  now  appear  to  tiirive. 
As  custom  arbitrates,  whose  shitting  sway 
Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels  wage. 
Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page? 
His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  belong 
To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stansa  will  correctly  painf 
The  lover's  anguish,  or  the  friend's  oompUunt 
But  which  deserves  the  laurel  —  rhyme  or  blank  ? 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank? 
Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispvte 
This  point,  as  puszling  as  a  Chancery  suit 

Satiric  rhyme  first  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 
Tou  doubt  —  see  Dryden,  Pope,  St  Patrick's  dean. 

Blank  verse  Lb  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Almanzor  rhymed  in  Dry  den's  days. 
No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modem  plays; 
While  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes. 
For  jest  and  pun  in  very  middling  prose. 
Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts  show  the  worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 
But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 
Poor  Virgin !  damn'd  some  twenty  times  a  year ! 


Whatc'er  the  scene,  let  this  advice  hai«  wci^;M: — 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state. 
At  times  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan. 
And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone; 
Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
Where  angry  Townly  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 
Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings. 
When  common  prose  will  serve  for  oonmiQa  tln^gs; 
And  lively  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire, 
To  ''following  Hotspur"  and  the  sceptred  rire. 

'T  is  not  enough,  ye  bards,  widi  all  your  art. 
To  polish  poems;  —  they  most  touch  the  heart: 
W  here'er  the  scene  be  laid,  whatc'er  the  soiig, 
StUI  let  it  bear  the  hearer's  soul  afong; 
Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er  may  please  yon  —  any  thing  bat  sleep. 
The  poet  claims  our  tears;  but,  by  his  leave^ 
Before  I  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  banish'd  Romeo  feign'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lull'd  by  his  languor,  I  should  sleep  or  sneer. 
Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a  serious  feoe. 
And  men  look  angry  in  the  proper  place. 
At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  aly. 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye ;  ' 

For  nature  form'd  at  first  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature  ^  when  they  can. 
She  bids  the  bating  heart  with  rapture  bound. 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levell'd  with  the  ground; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  't  is  said,  or  sung. 
She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter  —  the  tongue. 
Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fiun  dispense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  senae; 
O'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gaUery,  pi^ 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  any  thing  —  but  wit 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  Import, 
Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  comOMm  Mbar  coort; 
Whether  they  seek  applause  by  snnle  or  tear. 
To  draw  a  ""Lying  Valet,"  or  a  "Lear," 
A  sage,  or  rakish  youngster  wild  from  sehod, 
A  wandering  "Perc^ne,"  or  plain  ««jrolBi  BnH;" 
All  persons  please  when  nature's  voice  prevaiii^ 
Scottish  or  Irish,  bom  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 

Or  follow  common  fame,  or  forge  a  plot, 
Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  not? 
One  precept  serves  to  regulate  the  scene:  — 
Make  it  appear  as  if  it  might  have  heeiu 

If  some  Drawcansir  you  aspire  to  draw. 
Present  him  raving,  and  above  all  law: 
If  female  furies  in  your  scheme  are  plann'd, 
Macbeth's  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand ; 
For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  or  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  I>evi]! 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay, 
And  freely  wander  from  the  beaten  way. 
True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  past, 
Ptreserve  consistency  from  first  to  last 


HINTS  >RO&r  HORACE. 


623 


Tia  hud  to  Tentnre  where  our  betters  hB, 
h  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale ; 
jid  yet,  perchance,  'tis  wiser  to  prefer 
i  hackney'd  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err; 
Tet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record, 
fore  justly,  ihongrht  for  thought  than  word  for  word ; 
for  trace  your  prototjrpe  through  narrow  ways, 
lat  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

For  you,  young  bard !  whom  luckless  fate  may  lead 
*o  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read, 
Crc  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls, 
lewarc  ^  for  God's  sake,  don't  begin  like  Bowles ! 
'Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  — 
knd  pray,  what  follows  from  his  boiling  brain  ?  — 
tc  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a  trice^ 
KTIiosc  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice! 
iot  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 
The  tempered  warbliqgs  of  his  master-lyre; 
Soft  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 
'Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit" 
3e  speaks,  but,  as  his  subject  swells  along, 
iarth.  Heaven,  and  Hades  echo  with  the  song. 
Mill  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on. 
Is  if  we  witnessed  all  already  done ; 
iieaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 
ro  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene; 
ThrcB,  as  each  page  improves  upon  the  sight, 
ifot  smoke  firom  brightness,  but  from  darkness  —  light; 
knd  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds. 
We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds, 
f  yon  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 
KThat  soothes  the  many-headed  monster's  car; 
if  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 
kppland  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  fall,       ' 
)eserve  those  plauditr— -  study  nature's  page, 
^nd  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age; 
Vhile  vary  ing  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
ik^B  fittle  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainly  told. 
>bsenre  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days, 
lis  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays; 
111  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans, 
Lad  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens! 

Behold  him  Freshman  I  forced  no  more  to  groan 
Per  Viigirs  devilish  verses  and  -—  his  own; 
^yers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse, 
le  flies  from  Tavell's  frown  to  "Fordham's  Mews;" 
Unlucky  Tavell!  doom'd  to  daily  cares 
Ij  pugilistic  pupils,  and  by  bears,) 
faies,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions  threat  in  vain, 
idore  hounds,  hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain. 
loogh  with  his  ciders,  with  his  equals  rash. 
ivil  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash, 
ionstant  to  nought  —  save  hazard  and  a  whore, 
et  cursing  both  —  for  both  have  made  him  sore ; 
aread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 
he  p  -  X  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees) ; 
ooFd,  pillaged,  dunn'd,  he  wastes  his  term  away, 
ad,  nnexpeird  perhaps,  retires  M.  A.; 
Easter  of  arts !  as  helis  and  dubs  proclaim, 
Inhere  <caroe  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter  name! 


Launch'd  into  life,  exdnct  his  early  fire, 
He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire; 
Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank. 
Buys  land,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank ; 
Sits  in  the  Senate;  gets  a  son  and  heir; 
Sei\ds  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there. 
Mute  though  he  votes,  unless  when  call'd  to  cheer, 
His  son's  so  sharp  —  he'll  see  the  dog  a  peer! 

Manhood  declines  —  age  palsies  every  limb; 
He  quits  the  scene  —  or  else  the  scene  quits  him ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each  departing  penny  grieves. 
And  avarice  seizes  all  ambition  leaves; 
Counts  cent  per  cent,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  tteia, 
O'er  hoards  diminish'd  by  young  Hopeful's  debts; 
Weighs  well  and  wi<;ely  what  to  sell  or  buy. 
Complete  in  all  life's  lessons  —  but  to  die ; 
Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please. 
Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these; 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot, 
Expires  unwept  —  is  buried  —  let  him  rot! 

But  from  the  Drama  let  me  not  digress, 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  less. 
Though  woman  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirr'd, 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard. 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history's  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage ; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy. 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am  French  --> 
Bloodshed'  tis  surely  better  to  retrench 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  fiow 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show ; 
We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick, 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 
Not  on  the  stage  the  r^cide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a  monarch's  death; 
To  gase  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  aun  or  nmhtre  bear? 
A'haltered  heroine  Johnson  sought  to  slay  -^ 
We  saTed  Irene,  but  half  damn'd  the  play ; 
And  (Heaven  be  praised!)  our  tolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes ; 
And  Lewis'  self,  with  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond's  negro  to  a  snake! 
Because,  in  scenes  excitihg  joy  or  grief, 
We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief: 
And  yet,  God  knows !  what  may  not  authors  do. 
Whose  postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  ''heroines  blue?" 

Above  all  things,  Dan  Poet,  if  you  can, 
Eke  out  your  acts,  I  pray,  with  mortal  man ; 
Nor  call  a  ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escfipe. 
Of  aH  the  monstrous  things  I'd  fain  forbid, 
I  loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did; 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong. 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralise,  in  song. 
Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends 
Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends! 


624 


HINTS  FR03I  HORACE. 


Napoleon's  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
Oq  whores,  spies,  singers,  wisely  sJiipp'd  away. 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread 
Where  rustles  earn'd,  and  now  may  beg,  their  bread. 
In  all  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice, 
It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price. 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  ear 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  liear. 
Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore, 
His  anguish  doubling  by  bis  own  ^'encore;" 
Squeezed  in  "Fop's  Alley,"  jostled  by  the  beaux. 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  liis  toes; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes  of  ease 
Till  the  dropp'd  curtain  gives  a  glad  release: 
Why  this,  and  more,  he  suffers  ~  can  ye  guess?  — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress  I 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  sdiools; 
Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they're  sure  of  fools  I 
Bre  scenes  were  phiy'd  by  many  a  reverend  clerk 
( Wliat  barm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark?) 
In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
Were  pleased  with  morrioe-mumm'ry  and  coarse  jokes. 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known. 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  Madame  Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
'TIS  strange  Benvolio  suffers  such  a  show; 
Suppressing  peer!  to  whom  e^cli  vice  gives  plane. 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging,  —  all,  save  rout  and  raoe. 

Farce  followed  Comedy,  and  reach'd  her  prime. 
In  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time : 
Mad  wagl  who  pardon'd  none,  nor  spared  the  best. 
And  turn'd  some  very  serious  things  to  jest 
Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  bis  public  sneers, 
Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volunteers; 
"Alas,  poor  Yorickl"  now  for  ever  mute  I 
Whoever  loves  a  laugh  iflust  sigh  for  Foote. 

We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes 
Ape  tlie  Ewobi  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens. 
When  "Chrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Mosefans !  with  whom  once  more  I  hope4o  alt 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  ean't  at  wit; 
Tes,  friend !  for  thee  I'll  quit  my  cynic  cell. 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  "Vive  la  bagatelle !" 
Which  charm'd  our  days  in  each  i£gean  clime, 
As  oft  at  home,  with  revelry  and  rhyme. 
Then  may  Euphrosync,  who  sped  the  past. 
Soothe  thy  life's  scenes,  nor  leave  thee  in  the  last. 
But  find  in  thine,  like  pagan  Plato's  bed. 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 

Now  to  the  Drama  let  us  lend  our  eyes, 
Where  fetter'd  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies; 
Corruption  foil'd  her,  for  she  fear'd  her  glance;  • 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance ! 
Yet  Chesterfield,  whose  polish'd  pen  inveighs 
'Gainst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays ; 


Un^heck'd  by  megrims  of  patrician  braiaa, 

And  damning  dulness  of  lord  chamberlains. 

Repeal  that  act !  again  let  Humour  roam 

Wild  o'er  the  stage  —  we've  time  for  tears  at  home; 

Let  <<Archer"  plant  the  boms  on  <'Sui'len'&''  brows, 

And  "Estifania"  gull  her  ""Copper"  spouse; 

The  moral's  scant  —  but  that  may  be  exoased. 

Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 

He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  good  or  ill 

Must  wear  a  head  in  want  of  Willis'  skill ; 

Ay,  but  Macheath's  example  —  psha!  —  no  more! 

It  form'd  no  thieves  —  the  thief  was  form'd  before; 

And,  spite  of  puritans  and  Collier's  cursc^ 

Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 

Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men ! 

Nor  burn  damn'd  Drury  if  it  rise  again. 

But  why  to  brain-scorch 'd  bigots  thus  appeal ! 

Can  heavenly  mercy  dwell  with  earthly  seal ! 

For  times  of  fire  and  feggot  let  them  hope ! 

Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 

As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetos  blase, 

So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victimsgase. 

Even  now  the  songs  of  Solyma  begin ; 

Faith  cants,  perplex'd  apologist  of  sin ! 

While  the  Lord's  servant  chastens  whom  he  lores^ 

And  Simeon  kicks,  where  Baxter  only  '^shoves.'* 

Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every  doaee^ 
Enraptured,  thinks  to  do  the  .same  at  once ; 
But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails. 
And  twenty  scattered  quires,  the  coxcomb  foils. 

Let  Pastoral  be  dumb;  for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  evtogues  of  our  Pope  ? 
Yet  his  and  Phillips'  faults,  of  different  kind, 
For  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined. 
Instruct  how  hard  the  medium  'tis  to  hit 
'Twixt  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a  wit 

A  vulgar  scribbler,  oertes,  stands  disgiaeed 
In  this  nice  age,  when  all  aspire  to  taste ; 
The  dirty  language,  and  the  noisome  jest, 
Whidi  pleased  in  Swift  of  yore,  we  now  detest. 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  polite, 
But  even  too  nasty  for  a  dty  knight! 

Peace  to  Swift's  fimlts!  his  wit  hath  made  them  pass, 
Unnmtch'd  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras! 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  wc  meet. 
Who  from.our  couplet  lopp'd  two  final  feet; 
Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  line. 
This  measure  moves  a  favourite  of  the  Nine. 
Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Form'd,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain. 
Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not  from  a  theme  of  w^ght, 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  fitr 
Heroic  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war. 
Whose  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime, 
Are  curb'd  too  much  by  long-recurring  riiyme. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACB. 


625 


But  many  a  skilful  jadge  abhors  to  see, 
Vliat  few  admire  —  irrcyalarity. 
fliis  some  Youcbsafe  to  pardon;  but  'tis  hard 
When  such  a  word  contents  a  British  bard. 

And  most  the  bard  his  glowing  thoughts  confine, 
jest  censure  hover  o*er  some  faulty  line  ? 
lemove  whatever  a  critic  may  suspect. 
To  gain  the  paltry  snffirage  o£  "correct?" 
>r  prone  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise  ? 

Ye,  who  seek  finished  models,  never  cease, 
ly  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
)ut  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 
rhe  few  who  read  a  pag^  or  used  a  pen, 
n^ere  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben ; 
rhe  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
RTere  quaint  and  careless,  any  thing  but  chaste; 
fet,  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules, 
i  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools ! 
Though  yon  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low, 
/8n  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears, 
detect  with  fingers,  in  default  of  ears. 

In  sootli  I  do  not  know,  or  greatly  care 
"o  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were; 
^  i^  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art, 
hu*  If  use,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart; 
lut  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's.days, 
liere  *b  pomp  enough,  if  little  else,  in  plays ; 
Tor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone. 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
lioiigh  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws:  ■ 
X  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  'tis  confest, 
lortail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest 

Wbaie'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  beside, 
»iir  enterprising  bards  pass  nought  untried; 
'or  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
n  Bng^lish  subject  for  an  Bnglish  muse, 
nd  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  invent 
renc^h  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 
irbere  is  that  living  language  which  could  claim 
oetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame, 
all  oar  bards,  more  patient  of  delay, 
FooJd  stop,  like  Pope,  to  polish  by  the  way  ? 

Lords  of  the  qmll,  whose  critical  assaults 
'erthrow  whole  quartos  witli  their  quires  of  (hnlts, 
rho  soon  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
ad  prove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a  nail ! 
emocritns  himself  was  not  so  bad ; 
t  only  thought,  bat  you  would  make,  us  mad ! 

Bat*  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
l^ainst  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard ; 


In  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth. 
Beards  of  a  week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth; 
Reside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet. 
And  walk  in  alleys,  rather  than  the  street 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reasoUj  if  you  please^ 
The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease. 
So  that  not  tuns  of  helleborio  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use ; 
Write  but  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a  Lake, 
And  keep  your  bushy  locks  a  year  from  Blake; 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town, 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  hardship  up  and  down. 

Am  I  not  wise,  if  such  some  poc<s'  plight. 
To  purge  in  spring  —  like  Bayes  —  before  I  write? 
If  this  precaution  soften'd  not  my  bile, 
I  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style; 
But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice 
I  cannot  purchase  &me  at  such  a  price, 
I'll  labour  gratis  at  a  grinder's  wheel. 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others'  steel, 
Nor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poef  s  part; 
From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song, 
And  from  my  own  example  —  what  is  wrong. 

Though  modem  practice  sometimes  differs  quite, 
'Tis  just  as  wen  to  think  before  you  write; 
Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read. 
So  shall  yon  trace  it  to  the  fountain-head* 

He  who  has  leam'd  the  duty  which  he  owes 
To  friends  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest; 
Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  are. 
Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  church,  and  bar; 
In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise. 
Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart,  philosophise: 
Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse. 
As  joint  exemplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  toM, 
Without  much  grao^  or  weight,  or  art,  will  hold 
A  longer  empire  o'  er  the  public  mind 
Than  sounding  trifles^  empty,  though  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece!  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise, 
Whose  generous  children  narrow'd  not  tlieir  hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  arts. 
Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  Sf;hools  compel 
To  "long  and  short"  before  they're  taught  to  spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote, 
„A  penny  saved,  my  lad,  's  a  penny  got" 
Babe  of  a  city  birth !  from  sixpence  take 
The  third,  how  much  will  the  remainder  make  ?  — 
"A  groat"  —  "Ah,  bravo  I  Dick  hath  done  the  sum  I 
He'll  swell  my  fifty  thousand  to  a  plum." 
40 


626 


HINTS  FROM  HORACS. 


Tliey  whose  young:  floab  receive  thii  nut  betimes, 
'Ti5  clear,  are  fit  for  any  Ihing  but  rhymes; 
And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  other's  riglit 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children's  sight; 
For  poets  (says  this  sag-c,  and  many  more,) 
Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore; 
And  Delplii  now,  however  rich  of  old, 
Discovers  little  silver,  and  less  g:old, 
Because  Parnassus,  though  a  mount  divine, 
Is  poor  as  Irus,  or  an  Irish  mine. 

Two  objects  always  should  the  poet  move, 
Or  one  or  both,  —  to  please  or  to  improve. 
Whatever  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line ; 
Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack, 
For  brains  may  be  o'erloaded,  like  the  back. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth, 
And  &iry  fobles  bubble  none  but  youth : 
Bxpect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  teles, 
Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales! 

Young  men  witli  aught  but  elegance  dispense; 
Maturer  years  require  a  little  sense. 
To  end  at  once :  —  that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instructioa  with  bis  wit; 
For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 
The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row ; 
His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall  pass 
(Who  ne'er  despises  books  that  bring  him  brass), 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London  lead. 
And  cross  St  George's  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 

But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is*t  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone. 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call. 
With  all  his  best  endeavours,  only  squall; 
Dogs  blink  their  covey,  flints  withhold  the  spark, 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them!)  miss  their  mark. 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's  view, 
We  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blotTbr  two ; 
But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men, 
The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  tlie  pen. 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend. 
Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend. 
But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoever  he  sing. 
Let  Havard's  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once. 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dance: 
At  first  none  deem'd  it  his ;  but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact  —  what  then?  —  it  lost  its  fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze. 
In  a  long  work  'tis  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shall  poems  be;  some  stand 
The  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand; 
But  others  at  a  distance  strike  the  sight; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light, 
Kor  dreads  the  connoisseur's  fhstidious  view. 
But,  ten  times  scrutinised^  is  ten  times  new. 


Parnassian  pilgrims!  ye  whom  cltanoe^  or  < 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  Muse'a  voice. 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise; 
Few  reach  the  summit  which  l>efore  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  stete,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed  I 
In  these,  plain  oommon  sense  will  travel  for ; 
All  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  die  bar : 
But  poesy  between  the  best  and  worst 
No  medium  knows ;  you  must  be  last  or  first; 
For  middling  poets'  miserable  volumes 
Are  damn'd  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  oolunons. 

Again,  my  Jefirey !  —  as  that  sound  inspires. 
How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires! 
Fires,  such  aS  gentle  Caledonians  feel 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel. 
Or  mild  Eclectics,  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 
Would  rob  poor  Faith  to  decorate  "good  works.** 
Such  are  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim  — 
My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 
Mightiest  of  all  Dunedin's  beasts  of  chase ! 
For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 
Ariisie,  my  Jeffrey  \  or  my  inkiess  pen 
ShaU  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men; 
Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 
Alas !  I  cannot  ^'strike  at  wretched  kernes." 
Inhuman  Saxon!  wilt  thou  then  resign 
A  muse  and  heart  hy  choice  so  wholly  thine? 
Dear,  d  —  d  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs, 
Hastthouno  vengeance  for  my  manhood's  wrongs^ 
If  unprovoked  thou  once  could  bid  me  bleed, 
Hastthouno  weapon  for  my  daring  deed? 
What!  not  a  word!  —  and  am  I  then  so  low? 
Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a  foe? 
Hast  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  g^ve  it  vent? 
No  wit  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent  ? 
No  jest  on  "minors,"  quibbles  on  a  name^ 
Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame? 
Is  it  for  this  on  Ilion  I  have  stood, 
And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood? 
On  shore  of  Euxine  or  iEgean  sea, 
My  hate,  untravell'd,  fondly  turn'd  to  thee. 
Ah!  let  me  cease;  in  vain  my  bosom  burns. 
From  Corydon  unkind  Alexis  turns: 
Thy  rhymes  are  vain;  thy  Jeffrey  tlien  forego. 
Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 
What  then?  —  Edina  starves  some  lanker  son. 
To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun ; 
Some  less  fhstidious  Scotchman  shall  be  founds 
As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renown'd. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  irogH  for  fisli ; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry. 
And  poppies  please  not  in  a  modem  pie; 
If  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a  orimfee, 
We  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 
Mere  roast  and  boil'd  no  epicure  invites; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  eloe  delights^ 


HIMTB  FROH  HOIUCE 


627 


Wh  o  shoot  Bot  11]^  tanlf  toneh  «  Sim : 
HTill  he  who  swiou  not  to  the  river  mn  ? 
knd  men  nnpraetued  in  exehanging  knocks 
fast  go  to  iackson  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
KThatc'er  the  weapon,  cadgel,  fist,  or  foil, 
lone  reach  expertness  withoot  years  of  toU; 
lot  filly  dances  can,  with  perfect  ease, 
hg  twenty  thousand  couplets,  when  they  please* 
Why  not!  —  shall  J,  thus  qualified  to  ait 
?or  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  my  wit? 
Miall  I,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate, 
Ind  lived  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate; 
B^ho  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  packs. 
To  iM  their  income,  and  to  —  twice  its  tax ; 
B^hose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a  fault, 
Shall  ly  I  say,  Suppress  my  attic  salt? 

Thus  think  **the  mob  of  gentlemen ;"  but  you, 
Besides  all  this,  must  have  some  genius  too. 
Se  this  your  sober  judgment,  and  a  rule, 
Ind  print  not  piping  hot  from  Southey's  school, 
HTho  (ere  another  Thalaba  appears), 
[  trust,  will  spare  us  for  at  least  nine  years, 
ind  hark'ye,  Southey !  pray  —  but  don't  be  vex'd  — 
Bora  all  your  last  three  works  —  and  half  the  next 
But  why  this  vain  advice?  once  publbhed,  books 
3an  never  be  recatrd  —  from  pastry-cooks  I 
rhoogh  ^'Madoc,"  with  ''Pucelle,"  instead  of  punk, 
iCay  travel  back  to  Quito  —  on  a  trunk! 

Orpheus,  we  learh  (h>m  Ovid  and  Lempdcre^ 
kd  all  wild  beasts  but  women  by  the  ear  j 
bid  had  he  fiddled  at  the  present  hour, 
We  'd  seen  the  lions  waltsing  in  the  Tower; 
knd  old  Amphion,  sudi  were  minstrels  then, 
lad  built  St  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
iTerae  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace; 
kbolish'd  cuokoldom  wiUi  mooh  applause, 
Ssll'd  eonnty-meetings,  and  enforced  the  laws, 
>it  down  orown-intnenee  with  reforaiing  scythes, 
knd  served  the  church  •—  without  demanding  tithes ; 
ind  hence^  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  Bast^ 
Bach  poet  was  a  prophet  anda  pries^ 
IHiose  old-establish'd  board  of  jcnnt  eoatrols 
Aciuded  kingdoms  in  flie  cure  of  sonls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  Epic's  prince, 
ind  fighting 's  been  in  foshion  ever  since; 
knd  old  Tyrtaeus,  when  the  Spartans  warr'd, 
[A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard.) 
rhough  wall'd  Ithome  had  resisted  long, 
Irduoed  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  prevail'd,  in  times  of  old, 
n  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told. 
Then  tfyonr  verse  is  what  all  verse  should  be, 
Lad  gods  were  not  ashamed  on 't,  why  should  we? 

The  Muse,  like  mortal  females,  may  be  woo'd; 
a  turns  she  'U  seem  a  Papbian,  or  a  prude; 


Flesae  as  a  hzide  when  irst  4ie  foels  allriglit^ 
Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  seeond  night; 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer, 
Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier  I 
Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  her  aone. 
Ice  in  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  arl^ 
Kind  Nature  always  wiU  perform  her  part; 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit  vre  loathe  an  artificial  strain  — 
Yet  art  and  nature  joia'd  will  win  the  prise, 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride,  or  run  a  race. 
Must  bear  privations  with  unruffled  foce. 
Be  call'd  to  lal^our  when  he  thinks  to  dine. 
And,  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Liadies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight. 
Have  followed  musk  through  her  fiu^est  flight; 
But  rhymers  tell  yon  neither  more  nor  less, 
"I  've  got  a  pretty  poem  for  the  press ;" 
And  thaf  s  enough;  then  write  and  print  so  fhst;  — 
If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  who  'd  be  last? 
They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  and  all. 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stafl. 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command. 
Tea,  baronets  have  ink'd  the  bloody  hand! 
Cash  cannot  quell  them ;  Pollio  play'd  this  pranks 
(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a  bank!) 
Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead. 
Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus'  head; 
Damn'd  all  their  days,  they  posthumously  thrive  — 
Dug  up  from  dust  though  buried  when  alive! 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime, 
Those  Books  of  Martyrs  to  the  rage  for  rhyme. 
Alas!  woe  worth  the  scribbler!  often  seen 
In  Morning  Post,  or  Monthly  Magazine. 
There  lurk  his  earlier  lays ;  but  soon,  hot-press'd. 
Behold  a  quarto!  —  Tarts  must  tell  the  rest 
Then  leave,  ye  wise,  the  lyre's  precarious  chords 
To  muse-mad  baronets,  or  madder  lords, 
Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  states 
Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  aiet 
Hark  to  those  notes,  narootically  soft ! 
The  cobbler-laureats  sing  to  Capd  Lofit  I 
Till,lo!  that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears. 
Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  ears  I 

There  lives  one  dmid,  who  prepares  In  time 
'Gainst  future  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme; 
Racks  his  dull  memory,  and  his  duller  muse. 
To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  excuse. 
If  friendship 's  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 
More  polish'd  usage  of  his  parts  of  speech. 
But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught  to  him  ? 
He  vents  his  spleen,  or  gratifieis  his  whim. 
Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking  hate, 
Some  folly  cross'd;  some  jest,  or  some  debate; 
Up  to  his  den  Sir  Scribbler  liics,  and  soon 
The  gather'd  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 


628 


HINTS  FROM  HORiLC& 


Perhaps  at  some  pert  speech  yoa  've  dared  to  frown. 
Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the  town: 
If  so,  alas !  't  is  nature  in  the  man  — 
May  Heaven  forgive  you,  for  be  never  ean ! 
Then  be  it  so;  and  may  bis  withering  bays 
Bloom  fresh  in  satire,  though  they  lade  in  praise! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more  shall  steep  and  stink. 
The  dullest,  Attest  weeds  on  Letlie's  brink, 
But  springing  upwards  from  the  sluggish  mould. 
Be  (what  they  never  were  before)  be  —  sold! 
Should  some  rich  bard  (but  such  a  monster  now. 
In  modem  physics,  we  can  scarce  idlow), 
Should  some  pretending  scribbler  of  the  court, 
Some  rhyming  peer  —  there 's  plenty  of  the  sort  — 
All  but  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn, 
(Ah !  too  regardless  of  his  chaplain's  yawn!) 
Condemn  the  unlucky  curate  to  recite 
Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light, 
How  would  the  preacher  turn  each  rueful  leaf. 
Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief! 
Yet,  since 't  is  promised  at  the  rector's  death, 
He  '11  risk  no  living  for  a  little  breath. 
Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line, 
(The  Lord  forgive  him!)  '^Bravo !  grand  I  divine !" 
Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  flattery  fed. 
Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread), 
He  strides  and  stamps  along  with  creaking  boot, 
Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot; 
Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  pious  eye. 
As  when  the  dying  vicar  will  not  die ! 
Nor  feels,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart;  -^ 
But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part 

Ye,  who  aspire  to  "build  the  lofty  rhyme," 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  '^sublime;'' 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and  say, 
"Expunge  that  stanea,  lop  that  line  away," 
And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without  amendment,  and  he  answers,  "Burn!" 
That  instant  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire. 
Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire; 
But  if  (true  bard !)  you  scorn  to  condescend. 
And  will  not  alter  what  you  can't  defend. 
If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains,  -- 
We  '11  have  no  words  —  I  've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favourite  thought, 
As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  onght ; 
If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  tlicn, 
And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen ; 


No  matter,  throw  yoor  onuyneats  aside,  «— 
Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride. 
Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shades 
Nor  let  a  doubt  obscure  one  verse  yoo  've  made; 
Your  friend's  '*a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one  word. 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absord; 
Sudi  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills. 
And  furnish  food  for  critics,  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  witli  its  touching  tone. 
Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon. 
All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  ready  tongues. 
As  yawniiig  wuters  fly  Fitzscribbie's  lungs ; 
Yet  on  he  mouths  —  ten  minutes  —  tedious  each 
As  prelate's  homily,  or  placeman's  speech ; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease^ 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  such  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways, 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well. 
And  shouts  for  succour  with  stentorian  yell, 
"A  rope!  help.  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace!" 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace; 
For  there  his  carcass  he  might  freely  fling. 
From  frenzy,  or  the  humour  of  the  thing. 
Though  this  has  happen'd  to  more  bards  than  one; 
I  '11  tell  you  BudgcU's  story,  —  and  have  done. 

Budgell,  a  rogne  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood) 
When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  cltims, 
"To  die  like  Cato,"  leapt  into  the  Thames! 
And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he  leares: 
And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  choose . 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poef  s  coaseience  as  a  curse; 
Dosed  with  vite  drams  on  Sunday  be  was  found. 
Or  get  a  child  on  consecrated  ground ! 
And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  n^  — 
Fear'd  like  a  bear  just  bursting  from  bis  rage. 
If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit. 
Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit 
But  Atm,  unhappy!  whom  he  seizes,  —  Aim 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb; 
Probes  to  the  qui<2k  where'er  he  makes  his  breach, 
And  goiges  like  a  lawyer  ^  or  a  leech. 


629 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


M7\v    uQ  ft§  /cfii*  tdifit,  f€r,r§  xi  vtlxti, 

HOMUU 

He  whijcM  M  ht  WMt  ft>r  want  of  thooglit. 

DBT9K.H. 


TO  THE  RIOHT  HONOURABLE 

FBEDERICK,  EARL  OF  CARLISLE, 

X:NIGHT  of  the  garter,  etc.  etc 

THBW  rOKIff  A«B  iRKMXnO  R   Bit  OBU9KO  WABU  AMU 

ArrMTiONAn  xxhsium, 

the  author. 


ON  LSAYING  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Vfk7  dost  thoo  build  the  hall,    ton  of  the  vfnged  daysT   Thoa  looker 
from  thy  tower  to^Iay;  yet  a  ftw  yean>  and  the  blaaC  of  the  desert 
It  howla  in  thy  empty  coart.  OfsuM. 


Throuoh  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds 
Thou,  thehall  of  my  fothers,  art  gone  to  decay;  [w  histle  ; 

Ea  thy  once  smiling  garden  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Havechoked  up  the  rose,  which  late  bloom'd  in  the  way. 

Of  the  mail-cover 'd  Barons,  who,  proudly,  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

Ifo  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  numbers, 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  breast,  for  the  war-Iaurell'd  wreath; 

Near  Askalon's  towers  John  of  Horistan  slumbers, 
Uonenred  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel,  by  death. 

E^nl  and  Hubert  too  sleep,  in  the  valley  of  Cressy ; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell; 
ICyfiithen!  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye;    [tell. 

How  you  fought!  how  you  died  I  still  her  annals  can 

)n  Marston,  with  Rupert  'gainst  traitors  contending, 
Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  tlie  bleak  field; 

^>r  the  rights  of  a  monarch,  their  country  defending. 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

Shades  of  heroes,  fiirewell!  your  descendant,  departing 
From  tlie  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu ! 

iiiroady  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  he'll  tliink  upon  glory  and  you. 


Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation, 
The  &me  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  foiget 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish. 
He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown; 

Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish; 
When  decay'd,  may  be  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own. 

1803. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND. 

,  Lasbtivs. 

Oh!  Friend!  forever  loved,  for  ever  dear! 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honour'd  bier! 
What  sighs  re-echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath. 
While  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death! 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  darf  s  relentless  force ; 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay. 
Or  beauty  charm  tiie  spectre  from  his  prey; 
Thou  still  hadst  lived,  to  bless  my  aching  sight. 
Thy  comrade's  honour,  and  thy  friend's  delight 
If,  yet,  thy  genUe  spu4t  hover  nigh 
The  spot,  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie. 
Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep; 
AfHiction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb. 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine! 
Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  will  cheer. 
Yet  other  ofispring  soothe  his  anguish  here : 
But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place? 
Thuie  image,  what  new  friendship  can  effiice! 


19 


HOURS  OF  IDI.BNB8& 


Ah,  none!  a  fotfaer's  tears  will  oeaae  to  flow, 
nme  will  assuage  an  infant-brotha''8  woe; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known. 
While  solitary  Friendship  sighs  alone. 


ISM. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


When,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  ^tfliers*  Toiee 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountains'  side ; 
Oh !  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns, 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns : 
No  lengthen'd  scroll,  no  praise-encujaiber'd  stone; 
My  epitaph  shall  be,  my  name  alone : 
Uihat  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 
Oh  I  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay; 
7%aty  only  ihatf  shall  single  out  the  spot. 
By  tliat  remember'd,  or  with  that  forgot 

1803. 


THE  TEAR. 

O  lachrymanun  foos,  feenero  Mcrot 
DoMnttam  ertas  ez  anlmo;  qutef 
Felix  i  In  Imo  qal  Mttentem 
Pectors  te,  ]ri«  Nympln,  tnriL 

6«*T. 

Wittti  Friendship  or  Lote 

Our  sympathies  move; 
When  Truth,  in  a  glanoe,  should  appear, 

The  lips  may  beguile. 

With  a  dimple  or  smile. 
But  the  teat  of  affection 's  a  Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a  smile 

But  the  hypocrite's  wile, 
To  mask  detestation,  or  fear; 

Give  me  the  soft  sigli, 

Whilst  the  soul-lelling  eye 
Is  dimm'd,  for  a  time,  with  a  Tear. 

Mild  Charity's  gtow. 

To  us  mortals  below. 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  dear 

Compassion  will  meM^ 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 

The  man,  doom'd  to  saH 

With  the  blast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer; 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave, 

Which  may  soon  be  his  grave. 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death. 

For  a  fanciful  wreath, 
In  Glory's  romantic  career  1 

But  he  raises  the  foe, 

When  in  battle  laid  low, 
And  batlMa  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 


If,  with  hlgh-booading  pride. 

He  return  to  his  bride. 
Renouncing  the  goreHarimson'd  spear; 

All  his  toils  are  repaid, 

When,  embracing  the  maid, 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth. 

Seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-fleeting  yew; 

Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  moum'd. 

For  a  last  look  I  turn'd, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a  Tear. 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour. 
To  my  Mary  no  more, 
My  Mary,  to  Love  once  so  dear; 
In  the  shade  of  her  bower, 
I  remember  the  hour. 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  possest^ 

May  she  live  ever  bleat, 
Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere; 

With  a  sigh  I  resign. 

What  I  once  thought  was  mine. 
And  forgive  her  deceit  widi  a  Tear. 

Ye  friends  of  my  heart. 

Ere  from  you  I  depart, 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  BKMt  near$ 

If  again  we  shall  meet. 

In  this  rural  retreat. 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight, 

To  the  regions  of  night, 
And  my  cone  shall  reclisie  on  its  bkr; 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb, 

Where  my  ashes  consume. 
Oh  1  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow 

The  splendour  of  woe. 
Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear; 

No  fiction  of  fame 

Shall  blazon  my  name, 
All  I  ask,  all  I  wish,  is  a  Tear. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  Mr.  FOX. 

The  foUowmy  itt^erai  Impromptu  mppenrti  »  « 
Morning  -  Pap9r, 

''Our  Nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  deatii» 
But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign'd  liis  breath ; 
These  feelings  wide,  let  Sense  and  Truth  uncloe, 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it  due." 


HOURS  QV  IDUSNJSSS. 


631 


n»  wkkk  a«  Author  qftkue  Pweu  $mU  tho /oUowiHf 
JUpfy. 

hi  1  Iketkms  tiper !  whose  envenom'd  toofh 
¥oakl  mangle  still  fhe  dead,  perrerting^  tnith ; 
Whmtf  though  our  ^nation's  foes"  lament  the  fate. 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great; 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
K  him,  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame? 
Knien  Pitt  expired,  in  plenitude  of  power, 
rhonsii  in  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 
?%tj  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 
i^or  noble  spirits  ''war  not  with  the  dead." 
lis  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave, 
ka  all  his  errors  slumbered  in  the  grave ; 
le  rank,  an  Atlas,  bending  'neath  the  weight 
>f  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state; 
BHien,  lo !  a  Hercules,  in  Fox,  appeared, 
MHio,  for  a  time,  the  ruin'd  fabric  rear'd ; 
le,  too,  ia  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied; 
i?ith  him,  onr  fast  reviving  hopes  have  died: 
^ot  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn, 
yi  Burope's  fkr  extended  regions  mourn. 
These  feelings  wide,  let  Sense  and  Truth  undue, 
to  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it  due;" 
fet  let  not  canker'd  calumny  assail, 
>r  round  our  staiesmaa  wind  her  gloomy  veil* 
fox !  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  must  weep, 
MThose  dear  remains  in  honoured  marble  sleep, 
?or  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan. 
While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own, 
fox  abali,  in  Britain's  future  annals,  shine, 
ioT  e'en  to  Pitt  the  patriot's  palm  res^,  ' 
HTbich  £nvy,  wearing  Candour's  sacred  mask, 
for  Prrr,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask. 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

f§Uvered  previout  to  the  performance  of  **T%e  fVkeel 
of  Fortune/*  at  a  private  theatre. 

Since  d^e  refinement  c^this  polish'd  age 
las  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage ; 
Since  fastehas  now  expnnged  lioeatious  wit, 
Whkh  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ; 
Snce,  now,  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek, 
«(or  dare  to  can  the  blush  from  Beauty's  eheek; 
)h !  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 
Ind  meet  indulgence  though  she  find  not  fome. 
(till,  not  for  bet  alone  we  wish  respect, 
)thcrs  appear  more  conscious  of  defect ; 
ro-night,  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold, 
in  an  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old; 
io  CooKB,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 
fo  SiDDONs  draw  the  sympathetic  tear; 
To-nigfat,  you  throng  to  wKness  the  debut, 
K embryo-actors,  to  the  drama  new. 
iere,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try; 
Tfip  not  our  pinions,  ere  the  birds  can  fly ; 
Diiruig  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 
looping,  alas!  we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 


Not  one  poor  trembler,  only,  fear  betrays, 
Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise. 
But  all  our  Dramatis  Personas  wait. 
In  fond  suspense,  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 
No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard. 
Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward; 
For  these  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays, 
Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze: 
Surely,  the  last  will  some  protection  find. 
None,  to  the  softer  sex,  can  prove  unkind ; 
Whilst  youth  and  beauty  form  the  female  shield, 
The  sternest  Censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 
Tet  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail. 
Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavours  fail ; 
Still,  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 
And,  if  you  can't  apphmd,  at  least  forgive. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 
With  Uio  Poems  of  CamoSns. 
This  votive  pledge  of  fbnd  esteem, 

Perhaps,  dear  €Krl !  for  me  thou'lt  prise ; 
It  suQigs  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 
A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 

Who  blames  it,  but  the  envious  fool, 
The  old  and  disappointed  maldi 

Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school. 
In  single  sorrow  doom'd  to  fode? 

Then  read,  dear  Girl,  with  feeling  read, 
For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those; 

To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead, 
In  pity  for  the  Poef  s  woes. 

He  was,  in  sooth,  a  genuine  bard; 

His  was  no  faint  fictitious  flame; 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same. 


TO    M  •  •  ♦ 


Oh  !  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire. 
With  bright,  but  mild  affection  shine: 

Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire. 
Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 

For  thou  art  form'd  so  heavenly  fair, 
Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam. 

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair: 
That  fhtal  glance  forbids  esteeaiL 

When  nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth. 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone, 

She  fear'd,  that,  too  divine  for  eartii. 
The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own. 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work. 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize. 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
Witliin  those  onee  celestial  eyes. 


632 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appai, 
When  gleaming'  with  meridian  blaze; 

Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  aU; 
But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  ga«e? 

'Tis  sud,  that  Berenice's  hair 
In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven; 

But  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there. 
Thou  wonldst  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 

For,  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll. 
Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear: 

E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  controul. 
Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere. 


TO  WOMAN. 


Woman  !  experience  might  have  told  me, 
That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee; 
Surely,  experience  might  have  tauglit. 
Thy  firmest  promises  are  nought; 
But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  bdore  me. 
All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 
Oh  Memory  I  thou  choicest  blessing, 
When  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing; 
But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover, 
When  hope  is  fled,  and  passion's  over. 
Woman,  tliat  fair  and  fond  deceiver. 
How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her! 
How  throbs  the  pulse,  when  first  we  view 
The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 
Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 
A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows  I 

^  ^        Hww  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 
'       And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth  I 

^''*^  Fondly  we  hope  'twill  last  for  aye. 
When,  lo !  she  changes  in  a  day. 
This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 
*<Woman  I  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand." 


TO      M.   S.   G. 

Whbn  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely  forgive; 

Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep; 
For  in  visions  alone  your  afiection  can  live; 

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus !  envelope  my  fieusnlties  fiut, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign; 
Should  the  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the  last, 

What  rapture  celestial  is  mine  I 

They  tell  us,  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death. 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given ; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath. 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  I 

Ah!  frown  not,  sweet  Lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this ; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now. 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 


Though  in  visions,  sweet  Lady,  perhaps,  yon  may 

Oh !  think  not  my  penance  deficient; 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbcn  begwiK, 

To  awake  will  be  torture  suffident 


SONG. 
Whsn  I  roved,  a  young  Highlander,  o'er  the  dark  heath, 
And  dimb'd  thy  steep  summit,  oh  I  Morven  of  Snow, 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath^ 
Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  ^ther'd  below, 
Uututor'd  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear. 
And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew. 
No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear ; 
Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  'twas  centred  in  you? 

Yet,  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name ; 

What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 

But,  still,  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-oover'd  wild : 

One  image,  alone,  on  my  bosom  imprest, 

I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new ;   • 

And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  blest, 

And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  with  you. 

I  arose  with  the  dawn;  with  my  dog  as  my  giude. 
From  mountain  to  mountain  I  bounded  along ; 
I  breasted  the  billows  of  i>ee'«  rushing  tide, 
And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  song: 
At  eve,  on  my  beath-oover'd  ooucfa  of  repose. 
No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to  my  view ; 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose. 
For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  yoa. 

I  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gome  ; 
The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone, 
AlidtteUght  but  in  days  I  have  witnessed  bcfiwe. 
Ah!  splendour  has  raised,  but  embitter'd  my  lot; 
More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  Infancy  knew; 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  ftdl'd,  yet  they  are  aotfofgot; 
Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  yim. 

When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky, 
I  think  of  the  rocks  that  o'ershadow  ColUeea; 
When  I  see  the  soft  bhie  of  a  love-speaking  eye, 
I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  nide  scene ; 
When,  haply,  some  light  waving  locks  I  behold. 
That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
I  think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold. 
The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beautj^and  yoo. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive,  when  the  mountains,  once  morf. 

Shall  rise  to  my  sight,  in  their  mantles  of  snow : 

But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before, 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me?  ah,  no! 

Adieu!  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  diildliood  was  bred. 

Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu! 

No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head; 

Ah  !  Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine,  but  with  you? 


HOUBS  OF  lOLBNSSS. 


633 


TO  *  ♦  • 

hi !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  e»ch  other, 
The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are  true; 

rhe  iove  which  you  felt,  was  the  love  of  a  brotlier, 
Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish  *d  for  you. 

Bat  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion ; 

The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires ; 
[ike  Love  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving  pinion, 

Bat  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

Pall  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  together, 
And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  onr  youth,  I  allow ; 

\r  the  spring  of  our  life  how  serene  is  the  weather! 
Bat  winter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

Ho  more  -with  Affection  shall  Memory  blending 
The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  retrace; 

l¥hea  Pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending, 
And  what  would  be  Justice  appears  a  disgrace. 

Sowerer,  dear  S ,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you, 

The  few  whom  I  love  1  can  never  upbraid, 

Fhedianoc,  which  has  lost,  may  in  future  redeem  you. 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 

[  will  not  complain,  and  though  chiird  is  affection, 
With  mc  no  corroding  resentment  shall  Jive; 

tf  y  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection, 
That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should  forgive. 

foa  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence,     . 

If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own; 
foa  knew  me  unalter'd,  by  years  or  by  distance, 

I>evoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  alone. 

IToa  knew, — bat  away  with  the  vain  retrospection. 
The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures; 

Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection. 
And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yoars. 

for  the  present,  we  part,— I  will  hope  not  for  ever; 

For  time  and  regret  will  restore  yon  at  last ; 
Co  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour; 

I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past 


TO  MARY, 

ON  ABOElVIIfO  H£R  PTOTURB. 

This  foint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 
Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give, 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms. 
Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 

Here,  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold. 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave; 

The  cheeks,  which  sprung  from  beauty's  mould, 
The  lips,  which  made  me  beauty's  slave. 

Here,  I  can  trace — —-ah  no!  that  eye, 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire. 
Mast  all  the  painter's  art  defy. 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 


Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue,    . 

But  Where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying? 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue. 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing. 

Sweet  copy!  fer  more  dear  to  mc, 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art. 
Than  ail  the  living  forms  could  be. 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 
She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 

Unconscious,  that  her  image,  there. 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  controul. 

Thro'  hours,  thro'  years,  thro'  time,  'twill  cheer; 

My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise; 
In  life's  last  conflict  'twill  appear. 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


BAMifiTAS. 


In  law  an  infant,  and  in  years  a  boy. 

In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy; 

From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean'd; 

In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend ; 

Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child; 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool; 

Old  in  the  world,  tho'  scarcely  broke  from  school; 

Damastas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin. 

And  found  the  goal,  when  others  just  begin; 

Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  hb  soul, 

And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl 

But,  pall'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former 

And,  what  was  once  his  bliss,  appears  his  bane. 


ul,  .  I 

bowl^^^^^^ 

iane.^^^^^^V 


TO  MARION. 


Marion  !  why  that  pensive  brow  ? 
What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou  ? 
Change  that  discontented  air ; 
Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 
'Tis  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest. 
Love's  a  stranger  to  tliy  breast; 
He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears. 
Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears; 
Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down, 
But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown 
Then  resume  thy  former  fire. 
Some  will  love,  and  all  admire; 
While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us. 
Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 
Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile, 
Smile,  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile; 
Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 
To  Mde  their  orbs,  in  dark  restraint; 
Spite  of  all,  thou  fain  wouldft  say. 
Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 
40* 


634 


HOUB8  OF  1DLBNB8S. 


^  But  WO) 


Thy  lips,  —  bat  here  my  modest  Muse 
Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse. 
She  blushes,  curtsies,  frowns,  —  in  short  she 
Dreads,  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me, 
And  flying^  off,  in  search  of  reason, 
Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 
All  I  shall  therefore  say  (wbato'er 
I  think  is  neither  here  nor  tliere), 
Is.that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing. 
Were  form'd  for  better  thinc^  than  sneering. 
Of  soothing  compliments  divested^ 
Advice  at  least's  disinterested; 
Such  is  my  artless  sdng  to  thee. 
From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free; 
Counsel,  tike  mine,  b  as  a  brother's. 
My  heart  is  given  to  some  others ; 
That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 
It  shares  itself  amongst  a  doien. 
Marion  1  adieu !  oh !  prithee  slight  not 
This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not; 
And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 
To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teazing. 
At  once  I'll  tell  thee  our  opinion, 
Conoerning  woman's  soft  dominion: 
Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration, 
On  eyes  of  blue,  or  lips  carnation ; 
Howe'er  the  flowipg  locks  attract  us, 
Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us; 
Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove. 
These  cannot  ^x  our  souls  to  love; 
It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture, 
To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture. 
But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain, 
bich  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 
you  queens  of  all  creation, 
*w,  in  a  wordy  'tis  Animation. 


OSCAR  OF  ALVA. 

4    TALB. 

How  sweetly  shines,  through  azure  skies, 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore; 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise. 
And  hear  the  din  of  aims  oo  more. 

But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 

On  A I  va's  casques  of  silver  play 'd;       • 
And  view'd,  at  midnight's  sifent  noon, 

Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd. 

And,  on  the  crimson'd  rooks  beneath. 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 

Pale  in  the  scatter 'd  ranks  of  death. 
She  Mw  the  gasping  warrior  low. 

Willie  many  an  eye,  which  ne'er  again 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  uf  day, 

Turn'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain. 
Beheld  in  death  her  foding  ray. 


Once,  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  IjgliU 

Bu^  now,  she  glimmer 'd  from  above, 
A  sad  Ainereal  torch  of  niglit. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race. 
And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afhr; 

No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase. 
Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But,  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan? 

Why  grows  tlie  moss  on  Alva's  stone? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man. 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And,  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yx>nder  haU, 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 
And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  walL 

Tcs,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs. 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave; 

But  there  no  more  his  banners  rise. 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth, 
When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest-bom ; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieHain's  hearth 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  mom. 

They  feast  upon  tiie  mountain-deer. 
The  pibroch  raised  its  piereiiig  nde; 

To  gladden  more  their  Highland  cheer, 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float; 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild, 
Hoped  that,  one  day,  the  pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  fiero's  child. 
While  he  should  lead  the  Tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past, 
And  Angus  hails  another  son; 

His  natal  day  is  like  the  last. 
Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow. 
On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind. 

The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe. 
And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 

But,  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er. 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 

They  lightly  wield  the  bright  claymore, 
And  send  the  whistling  arrow  fhr. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair. 
Wildly  it  streamed  along  the  gale ; 

But  Allan's  locks  were  briglit  and  fair. 
And  pensive  seem'd  his  cheek,  and  pafe. 


HOURS  OF  mLENBSS. 


635 


But  Osoar  ownM  a  hero's  soal. 

Hill  dark  eye  ahoae  throagiii  beams  of  truth; 
Allan  had  early  leam'd  controoly 

And  smooth  hU  words  had  been  from  yonth. 

Both,  both  were  brave :  the  Saxon  spear 
Was  sbiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  scorn'd  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel. 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form^ 
Unwor&y  with  such  charms  to  dwell; 

Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm, 
On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  felL 

From  high  Soafhannon's  distant  tower 
Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame; 

With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 
Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daoghter  came : 

And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bride, 

And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled ; 
It  soothed  the  fkther's  feudal  pride, 

Thus  to  obtain  Glenatvon's  child. 

Hark !  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note  I 
Hark!  to  the  swelJiog  nuptial  song! 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  floa^ 
And  still  the  choral  peal  proloag. 

See,  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes 

Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall; 
Eaeb  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 

Attending  on  their  chieftain's  oaU. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 
The  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace. 

To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  tlie  bands, 
Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  oeaae. 

But  where  is  Oscar  ?  sure  'tis  late: 
Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame  ? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait, 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

At  length  young  A  llan  join'd  the  bride : 
^  Why  comes  not  Oscar  ?"  Angus  said ; 

<<I8  he  not  here  ?"  the  Youth  replied, 
'^  Witli  me  he  roved  not  o'er  the  glade. 

Perchance,  Ibrgetful  of  the  day, 
Tis  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe ; 

Or  Ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay, 
Tet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow.^ 

<H>h!  no!"  the  ai^uisfa'd  Sire  re^in'd, 
''Nor  chase,  nor  wave  my  Boy  delay ; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind? 
Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 

Oh !  search,  ye  CSiieft !  ohl  search  aroood ! 

Allan,  with  these,  through  Alva  fly. 
Till  Otear,  till  my  son  is  found  ^ 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  rqply." 


All  is  eoniuslon,  <^  through  the  vale. 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings. 

It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 
Till  Night  expands  her  dusky  wings. 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain; 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  lights 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 

Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search'd  each  monntainHaive; 

Then  hope  is  lost  in  boundlesj;  grief, 
His  locks  in  gray  torn  ringlets  wave. 

"Oscar!  my  Son!  —  Thou  God  of  Heaven! 

Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age ; 
Or,  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given, 

Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore. 
My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie; 

Then  grant,  thou  God !  I  ask  no  more, 
With  him  his  frantin  Ske  mky  die. 

Yet,  he  may  live,  —  away  d^qiidr! 

Be  calm,  my  soul  I  he  yet  may  live: 
T'  arraign  my  &te,  my  voice  forbear; 

0  God !  my  impkms  prayer  forgive. 

What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more^ 

1  sink  foigotten  in  the  dust. 
The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er; 

Alas!  can  pangs  like  these  be  just  f' 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 
Till  Time,  who  soothes  severest  woe,       "^ 

Had  bade  serenity  return. 
And  made  the  tear-drop  oease  to  flow. 

For,  still,  some  latent  hope  survived. 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear; 

His  hope  now  droop'd,  and  now  revived, 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  roH'd  along,  the  orb  of  liglit 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race; 

No  Oscar  bless'd  his  Father's  sight. 
And  sorrow  left  a  fidnter  traoe. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd. 

And,  now,  his  father's  only  joy : 
And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd. 

For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid. 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  &ir ; 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 
Had  claim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care,' 

And  Angus  si^d,  if  one  year  mora 
In  fruitless  )m^  was  pass'd  away. 

His  fondest  scruples  shouki  be  o'er. 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 


636 


HOURS  OF  IDLBNJBSS. 


Slow  roU'd  the  moons,  bat  blest  at  last, 
Arrived  the  dearJy  destined  mom ; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling:  P*At, 
What  smiles  tlie  Lover's  cheeks  adorn! 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing:  note! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song! 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd. 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  liall ; 

The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  load, 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall, 

But,  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth? 

Before  his  eye's  far  fiercer  glow 
The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  tlie  robe  which  wraps  bis  form, 
And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red; 

His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm. 
But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'Tis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round. 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  qoaft; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught 

Sudden  the  stranger  chief  arose. 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hosh'd ; 
And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 

And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blash'd. 

P31d  man!"  he  cried,  'Hhis  pledge  is  done; 
^liOTsawst  'twas  duly  drank  by  me; 
It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son ; 
Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy. 
To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot, 

Say,  hadst  thou  ne'er  another  boy  ? 
Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot?" 

**Alas!"  the  hapless  Sire  replied, 
The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke ; 

"When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 
This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 

Thrice  has  the  earth  revolved  her  coarse, 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  blest  my  sight; 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 

Since  martial  Oscar's  death,  or  flight.^' 

"'Tis  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stem, 
And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rolling  eye; 

''Thy  Oscar's  fate  I  fain  iould  learn; 
Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

Perchance  if  those  whom  most  be  loved 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return; 

Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved ; 
For  him  thy  Beltane  yet  may  burn. 


Fill  high  tlie  bowl,  the  (able  round. 
We  will  not  claim  die  pledge  by  stealth ; 

With  wine  let  every  cap  be  crown'd; 
Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health/* 

"With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 

And  fiU'd  his  goblet  to  the  brim; 
"Here's  to  my  boy !  alive  or  dead, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  son  like  him." 

"Bravely  old  man,  this  health  has  sped. 

But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand ! 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead. 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  foce 

Was  turn'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue; 
The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase, 

Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  higli. 

And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste; 
For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye. 

On  Ms  with  deadly  fury  placed. 

"And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails 

A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here  ? 
If  thus  afiection's  strength  prevails. 

What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  t" 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  rais'd  the  bowl ; 

„ Would  Oscar  now  ooald  share  our  mirth !" 
Internal  fear  appall'd  his  soul; 

He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cup  to  earth. 

"'Tis  he !  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice!" 
Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  Forzn ; 

"A  murderer's  voice!"  the  roof  replies. 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink. 
The  stranger's  gone,  —  amidst  the  crew 

A  Form  was  seen,  in  tartan  green. 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round, 

His  plume  of  sable  streamed  on  high ; 
But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  tbe  red  wounds  there. 

And  fix'd  was' the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild. 

On  Angus,  bending  low  the  knee; 
And  thrice  he  frown'd  on  a  Chief  on  the  ground. 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

Tlte  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole. 
The  thunders  tlirough  the  welkin  ring; 

And  the  gleaming  Form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm, 
Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased; 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor? 
Oblivion  prest  old  Angus'  breast,  * 

At  length  his  life-palse  throbs  once  more. 


HOURS  OFIDUStfWa. 


637 


'Away,  away!  let  tlie  leech  essay. 
To  poor  the  %ht  on  Allan's  eyes ;" 

lis  sand  is  done,  —  his  race  is  ran ; 
Oh !  never  more  shall  Allan  jrise! 

tot  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  lo<;k5  are  lifted  by  the  gale; 
ind  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay, 

Witli  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 

ind  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 
Or  who,  no  mortal  wigiit  can  tell; 

3ot  DO  one  doubts  the  Form  of  Flame, 
For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  welL 

kmbition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 
Bxulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart; 

VFhilc  £nvy  waved  her  burning  brand, 
And  poor'd  her  venom  round  liis  heart. 

Swill  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow : 
Whose  streaming  life-bloodstains  his  side? 

Ihak  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 
The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

^nd  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move, 
She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel: 

Alas  I  that  eyes,  which  beam'd  with  love. 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  HelL 

Lo!  seest  tliou  not  a  lonely  tomb, 
Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead? 

It  gltnimers  through  the  twilight  gloom; 
Oh !  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

Par,  distant  for,  tlie  noble  grave. 
Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes,  stood; 

And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 
For  they  weire  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 

What  minstrel  gray,  what  hoary  bard. 
Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise? 

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 
But  who  can  strike  a  murderer^s  praise? 

Unstrung,  untouch'd,  the  harp  must  stand. 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake; 

Guilt  would  benumb  bis  palsied  hand. 
His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  break, 

No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallo w'd  verse. 
Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air ; 

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 
A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OP  DORSET. 

U  lookiii|[  over  ray  papers,  to  select  a  few  additional  Poems  for  the 
iceond  edition,  I  ronod  tlie  following  lines,  whicli  I  had  totally  for- 
gotten, eooiposed  in  tfae  Snmmcror  1809,  a  siiort  time  previous  to 
my  departure  from  Harrow.  They  were  addressed  to  a  yoong  school- 
fellow of  high  rank,  who  had  been  my  freqnent  companion  in  some 
rambles  throogh  the  neighbonring  connCrv ;  howerer.  He  never  saw 
the  lines,  and  most  probably  never  will.  As,  on  a  repernsal,  I  found 
thcnt  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the  coHeetion,  I  have  now 
pubiidbed  tbem,  for  the  first  time,  after  a  slight  revisiojv 

Dorset  !  whose  early  steps  witli  mine  have  stray'd, 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade; 


Whom,  still,  affection  taught  me  to  defend. 
And  made  me  less  a  tyrant  than  a  friend; 
Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command ; 
Thee,  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  will  shower 
The  gift  of  riches,  and  the  pride  of  power ; 
Even  now  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 
RenownM  in  rank,  not  fbr  beneath  the  throne. 
Yet,  Dorset,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul. 
To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control; 
Though  passive  tutors^  fearful  to  dispraise 
The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise, 
View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes. 
And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  —  not  to  thee! 
And,  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn, 
Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn : 
When  these  declare,  ''that  pomp  alone  should  wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great; 
That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools. 
That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules ;" 
Believe  them  not,  —  they  point  the  path  to  shame. 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honours  of  thy  name : 
Turn  to  the  few,  ui  Ida's  early  throng. 
Whose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong; 
Or,  if  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth. 
None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 
Ask  tliinc  own  heart!  'twill  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear; 
For  weli  1  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes!  I  haTc  mark'd  thccmany  a  passing  day, 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  for  away ; 
Yes!  I  have  mark'd,  within  that  generous  mind, 
A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind,  > 
Ah !  though  myself  by  nature  haughty,  wild. 
Whom  Indiscretion  hail'd  her  favourite  child ; 
Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own, 
And  dooms  my  fall,  Ifhin  would  fall  alone; 
Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame, 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 
'Tis  not  enough,  with  other  Sons  of  power. 
To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour; 
To  swell  some  peerage-page  in  feeble  pride, 
With  long*drawn  names,  that  g^race  no  page  beside; 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot. 
In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot ; 
White  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead. 
Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head. 
The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  Herald's  roll. 
That  well-emblazon'd,  but  neglected  scroll. 
Where  Lords,  unhonour'd,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind;  — 
There  sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults ; 
A  race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread. 
In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 
Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes, 
Exalted  more  among  tlie  good  and  wise ; 
A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue. 


638 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 


Ab  first  in  rank,  the  fin t  in  talent  too ; 
Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun, 
Not  Fortune's  minion,  bat  her  noblest  son. 

Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  former  day, 
Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  Sires  display; 
One,  though  a  Courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth, 
And  cali'd,  proud  boast!  tlie  British  Drama  forth. 
Another  view !  not  less  renown'd  for  wit ; 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit ; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favoured  by  the  Nine, 
In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine; 
Far,  far  distingruish'd  from  tlie  g^littering  throng:, 
The  pride  of  Princes,  and  the  boast  of  Song. 
Such  were  thy  Fathers;  thus  preserve  their  name; 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  fame. 
The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will  close, 
To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes; 
Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 
Shades,  where  Hope,  Peace  and  Friendship,  all  were 

mine; 
Hope,  tiiat  oonld  vary  Kke  tlie  rainbow's  hue, 
And  gild  their  pinions,  as  the  moments  flew; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown'd  away, 
By  dreams  of  ill,  to  cloud  some  future  day ; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell, 
Alas !  they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  welL 


To  Ihese  adieu!  nor  let  me  linger  oVr 
Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shofc^ 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark  blue  deep. 
Beheld  by  eyes  that  moom,  yet  oaaoot  weep. 

Dorset  !  Aireweil  1 1  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart; 
The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthfkil  mind. 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  matnrer  year. 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  sel&ame  sphcie^ 
Since  the  s«ne  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate. 
May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  states 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  or  foe, 
A  stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  woe; 
With  thee  no  more  again  I  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race : 
No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours,  rejoice. 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  wdl-known  yoiee. 
Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heartuntanght 
To  veil  those  feelings,  which  perchance,  it  oii|^t; 
If  these,  —  but  let  me  cease  the  lengthea'd  strain. 
Oh !  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain. 
The  Guardian  Seraph,  who  directs  thy  fiMe, 
Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 


ADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL,  WHEN 
DYING. 
Animvla  I  vagula»  blandala, 
Hospes,  comesque,  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca? 
Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula, 
'  Nee,  ut  soles,  dabisjooos. 

Ah  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  Sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne. 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more,  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION  PROM  CATULLUS. 

AD  LESB1AM. 

Equal  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be. 
Greater  than  Jove,  he  seems  to  me, 
Who,  free  from  jealousy's  alarms, 
Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 


That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 
That  moutli  from  whence  such  music  flows, 
To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 
Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 
Ah !  Lesbia !  though  'tis  death  to  me^ 
I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee; 
But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly; 
I  needs  must  gaze,  but  gasing  die ; 
Whilst  trembling  with  a  thomand  fcan, 
Parch'd  to  the  throat,  my  tongue  adheres, 
My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short. 
My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support; 
Cold  dews  my  pallid  ihce  o'erspresd. 
With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head. 
My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring. 
And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing; 
My  eyes  refuse  the  chemng  light. 
Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night; 
Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath. 
And  f(^  a  temporary  death. 


TRANgliATlONS  ANJ)  IMITATJONa 


639 


rHANSLATION  OF  THE  EPITAPH  ON  YIRGUi 

AND  TIBULLUS, 

BY  DOMmUS  MAJUJUS. 

He  who,  sublime,  in  Epic  omnbers  roU'd, 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love. 

By  Death's  unequal  hand  alike  oontroH'd, 
Fit  oomrades  in  Elysian  r^ons  move. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

LUCTUS  D£  MORTE  PASSERIS. 

Ye  Capids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  win^s  with  joy  be  spread; 
My  Lesbia's  favourite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved; 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew, 
No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  movecT, 
And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there. 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air ;     . 
But  chirrup'd  oft,  and  free  from  care. 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain* 
Now  having  pass'd  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  he  never  can  return. 
His  death,  and  Lesbia's  grief,  I  mourn. 

Who  sighs,  alas!  but  sighs  in  vain« 
Oh!  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee,  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow. 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow; 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe. 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATBD  FROM  CATULLUS- 

TO  ELLEN. 

Oh  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  milfion  scarce  would  quench  desire; 
Still,  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  Miss, 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss; 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be, 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee: 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever, 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever ; 
E'en  though  the  number  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed. 
To  part  woirid  be  a  vain  endeavour; 
Could  I  desist?  —  ah !  never  —  never. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  ANACREON. 

TO  HIS  LYRE. 

I  WISH  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre, 
To  deeds  of  fimie,  and  notes  of  fire; 
To  echo  from  its  rising  swell, 
How  heroes  fought,  and  nations  fell ; 


When  Atreus'  s<>iis  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Gadmus  roved  afar; 
But,  still,  to  marlial  strains  unknown. 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone. 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fiune, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name; 
The  dying  chords  are  strung  anew. 
To  war,  to  war, my  harp  is  due; 
With  glowing  strings  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again ; 
•Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds. 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds; 
All,  all  in  vain,  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver-notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu !  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  arms ! 
Adieu!  the  clang  of  war's  alarms. 
To  other  deeds  my  soal  is  strung. 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal. 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel; 
Love,  love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim, 
In  songs  of  bliss,  and  sighs  of  flame. 


ODEIIL 
'TwAS  BOW  the  hour,  when  Night  had  driven 
Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven; 
Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 
His  Arctic  charge  around  the  Pole; 
While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 
Foigot  to  smile,  or  ceased  to  weep ; 
At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy. 
Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy. 
Quick  to  my  gate  directs  bis  course. 
And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 
My  visions  fled,  ahirm'd  I  rose; 
"What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose  f' 
"Atos!"  replies  the  wily  child. 
In  faultering  accents,  sweetly  mild; 
**A  hapless  infont  here  I  roam, 
Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 
Oh !  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast, 
The  mighty  storm  is  pouring  ihst ; 
No  prowling  robber  lingers  here; 
A  wandering  baby,  who  can  fear !" 
I  heard  liis  seeming  artless  tale^ 
I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale; 
My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 
But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe, 
I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light, 
Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight; 
His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 
And  tlience  his  fatal  quiver  hung. 
(Ah!  little  did  1  think  the  dart 
Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart;) 
With  care  1  tend  my  weary  guest. 
His  little  fiogers  chill  my  breast; 
His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing, 
Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring; 
His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm, 
And  now,  reviving  from  the  storm. 


640 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITAllONa 


Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow. 
Than  swift  be  seized  his  slender  bow: 
"I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 
He  cried,  "if  this  its  strength  has  lost; 
I  fear^  relaxed  with  midnight-dews, 
The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse/' 
With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies, 
Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies : 
Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh'd: 
''My  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft, 
'Tis  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it;  • 

Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  itf ' 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SCHOOL  EXERCISES. 

FROM    THE    PROMBTUBUS    YINCTVS    OF  iESCHYLUS. 
Grbat  Jove  I  to  whose  almighty  throne 

Both  Gods  and  mortals  homage  pay, 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown. 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  Ml 
In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall; 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 

How  diiferent  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride. 
When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state. 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 
Thou  sat'st,' while  reverend  Ocean  smiled. 
And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled  ^ 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around. 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix'd,  nor  Jove  relentless  frown'd. 

Harrow,  D«c   I,   1894. 


THE  EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURTALUS. 

A  PARAPHRASJi  FROM  THE  XHBID,  LIB. «. 
Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood. 
Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood ; 
Well  skill'd  in  fight,  the  quivering  lance  to  wield. 
Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field; 
From  Ida  torn,  be  left  his  sylvan  cave, 
And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave. 
To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 
With  liim,  Euryalus  sustains  the  post: 
No  lovelier  mien  adorn'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 
And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy; 
Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life, 
As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 
'Twas  his,  with  beauty, valour's  gift  to  share, 
A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair; 
These  burn  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love, 
In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move; 
Friendsliip  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward, 
And  now  combined  they  hold  the  nightly  guard. 

"What  God  1"  exdaim'd  the  first,  ''instils  this  fire? 
Or,  in  itself  a  God,  what  great  desire? 


My  labouring  mqI,  with  aqxioiu  thoogiit  oppresi. 
Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest: 
The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, 
Bc't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
Seest  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling  din^ 
Where  drunken  siwnbers  wrap  each  la^  ItmJb! 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain. 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  re|ga  ? 
Then  hear  my  thought:  —  In  deep  and  sullen  gnti. 
Our  troops  and  leaders  moom  their  absent  diief; 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  price  be  thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fiune  be  mine) ; 
Were  this  decreed ;  —  beneath  yon  risiqg  moimd, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found; 
Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas*  walls, 
And  lead  ifineas  from  Evander's  halls.'' 
With  equal  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy. 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  boy: 
''These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,be  thine  own  ? 
And  I  by  thee  despised,  and  left  afiu-. 
As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toils  of  war? 
Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  tanght; 
Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fooght; 
Hot  thus,  when  Ilion  fell,  by  heavenly  hate^ 
I  track'd  i£neas  through  the  walls  of  fate; 
Thou  knowst  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fear. 
And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear; 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  bums 
And  iifef  ignoble  hfe,  for  ploiy  spurns; 
Fame,  fame  is  cheaply  earn'd  by  fleeting  breath. 
The  price  of  honour  u  the  sleep  of  death." 
Then  Nisus  —  "Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarms; 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 
More  dear  thy  worth  and  valour  than  my  own, 
I  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth. 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  yootii. 
But  should  I  foil,  and  he  who  dares  advanoe 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance; 
If  some  Rutulian  am^  with  adverse  blow. 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low; 
Live  thou,  such  beautiefl  I  would  fain  preaerve. 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthened  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be;. 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force, 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  oorse: 
Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie. 
Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb^ 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalise  my  doom. 
Why  should  thy  doating  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep? 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared. 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shared; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before. 
And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore.'' 
**  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus,  <Ht  aooms  control/ 


TRikNSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS. 


641 


llcncey  let  ii»hii8ter''*«tbeir  birother-giiards  Rrose, 
Gtonsed  by  tbcir  cail^  uor  ooort  again  repose ; 
the  pair,  baosr'd  ap  on  Hope's  ^xntting  wing, 
rbeir  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  tbe  king. 
%o\v,  o'or  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
Ind  InU'd  alike  the  eares  of  brate  and  -man ; 
Save  ivhere  the  Dardan  leaders  aightly  bold 
Utcmate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold ; 
da  one  great  point  tbe  oouncil  are  agreed, 
Kn  iDfltant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ; 
Bach  lean'd  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield, 
Ijid  poisedy  with  easy  arm,  his  ancient  shield ; 
When  NiSQS  and  his  firiend  their  leave  request 
ro  offer  something  to  their  higii  behest 
MTlth  anxious  tremors,  yet  nnawcd  by  fear, 
rbc  faithfttl  paur  before  the  throne  appear; 
[nlua greets  them; at  his  kind  command, 
the  cider  first  addressed  the  hoary  band. 

*< With  patience,"  thvs  Hy rtacides  began, 
'Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth,  our  humble  plan. 
lYherc  yonder  beacons,  half-expiring,  beam, 
3ur  slamberingfoes  of  future  conquest  dream. 
Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced. 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed : 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 
CVboae  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak. 
[f  youy  yc  Chiefs,  and  Fortune  will  allow, 
W^c'fl  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow, 
Whore  Pallas'  walls,  at  distance,  meet  the  sight, 
?ccn  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night; 
rhen  shall  ifioeas  in  his  pride  return, 
V^liilc  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offiiprings'  urn, 
jUid  Latian  spoils,  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead, 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread , 
tech  Is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way, 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray: 
[Ml  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 
rhe  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed, 
M[oved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  cxclaim'd: 
*  Ye  parent  Gods  I  w  ho  rule  tbe  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  tbe  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy ; 
When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  yc  raise. 
If  ours  is  the  god-like  act,  be  yours  the  praise; 
LBgal^nt  youtli  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 
Ind  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive."    ^ 
rhen,  in  his  warm  embrace,  the  boys  he  press'd, 
ind,  quivering,  straiu'd  them  to  his  aged  breast; 
Witlt  tears  the  burning  dieck  of  each  bedew'd, 
ind,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew 'd :  -*- 
'Wbaft  g^ft,  my  countrymen,  wliat  martial  prize 
^a  wc  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise? 
>ir  deities  the  ^rsi,  best  boon  have  given, 
internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  eartb, 
Hoabtless,  await  such  young  exalted  worth; 
fEucas  and  Ascanius  shall  ooinbine 
ro  yield  applausefar,  far  surpassing  mine." 
jilus  then:  **By  all  the  powers  above  1 
ly  Uioac  Penates  who  my  country  love! 


By  hoary  Vesta's  sacred  fene,  I  sWcar, 

My  hopes  are  all  in  yon,  ye  generous  pair! 

Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight. 

And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 

NisusI  two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 

Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrown; 

My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fetal  day, 

Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey. 

Two  massy  tripods  also  shall  be  thine, 

Two  talents  poUsb'd  from  the  glittering  mine; 

An  ancient  cup  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 

While  yet  our  vessels  prcss'd  the  Punic  wave : 

But,  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down. 

When  great  ^neas  wears  Hcsperia's  crown. 

The  casquey  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed. 

Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  thantnorfal  speed. 

Are  thine ;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 

I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  pass'd ; 

Nay  more,  twelve  slaves  and  twice  six  captive  dames. 

To  soothe  thy  softer  houris  with  amorous  flames, 

And  all  tlie  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway. 

The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 

But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 

Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  rev>cresi 

Henceforth ,  affeetions  sweetly  thus  begun. 

Shall  join  our  bosoms  find  our  souls  in  one ; 

Without  thy  aid  no  glory  shall  be  mine. 

Without  thy  dear  advice  no  great  design; 

Alike,  tlirough  life  estccm'd,  thou  god-like  boy. 

In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Buryalus:  *<No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories,  which  fVom  this  I  claim. 
Fortune  may  ftivour  or  the  skies  may  frown, 
But  valour,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart. 
One  boon  I  bog,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 
My  mother  sprung  fVom  Priam's  royal  line. 
Like  tliine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine; 
Nor  Troy,  nor  King  Accstcs'  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  ftom  dangers  of  the  main ; 
Alone  she  came,  all  sclfisli^ears  above, 
A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
Unknown,  the  secret  eiiterprize  1  brave. 
Lest  grief  sliould  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave : 
From  tliis  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek, 
No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  obeek ; 
By  gloomy  Night,  and  thy  right  hand,  I  vow 
Her  partmg-tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now. 
Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain. 
In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again ; 
Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless. 
Assist  her  wants ,  relieve  her  fond  distress : 
So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame. 
To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fell  in  fame." 
Struck  with  a  filial  care,  so  deeply  felt. 
In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt ; 
Faster  tlian  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow ; 
Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 
"All  thou  hast  ask'd,  receive,"  the  Prince  replied, 
"Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 
41 


643 


TRANSUlTIOHS  Am>  n£ETATION& 


To  cheer  tiiy  mother'«  years  shall  be  my  «jbi» 
Crcnsa's  stjle  but  wanting  to  the  dame; 
Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run. 
But  blcss'd  tby  motlier  in  so  dear  a  son. 
Now,  by  my  life,  my  Sire's  most  sacred  oath. 
To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 
All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 
If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 
Thus  spoke  the  weeping  Prince,  then  fortli  to  view 
A  gleaming  felchion  from  thesheatli  he  drew; 
Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  tlie  steel, 
For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel. 
A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil. 
Slain  midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 
Mnestheus,  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 
And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 
Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembled  train. 
To  aid  their  cause,  implore  tlie  gods  in  vain. 
More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 
lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place ; 
His  prayers  he  sends;  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 
Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale? 

The  trench  Is  past,  and,  favoured  by  the  night. 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er  ? 
Alas!  some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more! 
Chariots,  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen. 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  between; 
Bacclius  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine, 
A  mingled  chaos  tliis  of  war  and  wine. 
"Now,"  cries  the  first,  "for  deeds  of  blood  prepare^ 
With  me  tlic  conquest  and  tlie  labour  share; 
Here  lies  our  path;  lest  any  hand  arise, 
Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies; 
I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe. 
And  clear  thy  road,  with  many  a  deadly  blow." 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  represt. 
And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting  breast; 
Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed; 
To  Turnus  de^,  a  prophet  and  a  prince. 
His  omens  more  tlian  augur's  skill  evince; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all, 
Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armour-bearer,  hapless,  fell. 
And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swcU : 
Tbc  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 
Expires,  the  steel  his  sevcr'd  neck  divides ; 
And,  last,  his  Lord  is  number'd  witli  the  dead, 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head; 
From  the  swollen  veins  the  blackening  torrents  pour, 
Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore. 
Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire. 
And  gay  Serranns,  fiU'd  with  youtliful  fire; 
Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  past, 
LuU'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last; 
Ah!  happier  far,  had  he  the  morn  survey 'd. 
And,  till  Aurora's  dawn,  his  skill  display 'd. 

In  slaughter'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  Uon  thus  may  steep ; 


'Mid  the  sad  flook,  at  dead  of  nigH  l»e  proirte. 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  roils ; 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roainfl» 
In  seas  of  gore  tbc  lonlly  tyrant  fiMOM» 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  cane. 
But  &lls  OB  feeble  crowds  n ithout  a  name; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel. 
Yet  wakeful  Rhaesus  sees  the  threatening  steel; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides. 
And,  vainly,  in  the  weak  defence  confides; 
Full  in  his  heart  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins^ 
The  reckii^  weapon  bears  alternate  stains; 
Thro'  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  tbej  flow. 
The  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now,  where  Messapns  dwelt  th^  bend  their  way. 
Whose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembliag  ray ; 
There  unconfined  behold  each  gracing  steei^ 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed; 
BraYc  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  son. 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warn; 
"Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  past. 
Full  foes  enough,  to-night,  have  breathed  tbcir  Jaat; 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn. 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  i 


What  silver  arms,  with  various  arts  emboss'd, 
What  bowls  and  mantles,  in  confusion  toss'd. 
They  leave  regardless!  yet,  one glitteriAg prise 
Attracts  tlic  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes; 
The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt, 
Tlie  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt ; 
This  from  tlie  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn. 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  cliicftalns  worn. 
Th'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head,  in  triumph,  bears; 
Then  from  the  tents  tlielr  cautious  steps  they  bend^ 
To  seek  the  vale,  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Turnus'  camp  pursue  their  destined  course; 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  dday. 
The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way: 
Three  hundred  mall-clad  men,  by  Tolscens  led, 
To  Turnus  with  their  master's  promise  sped: 
Now,  tliey  approach  tlie  trench,  and  view  the  walls^ 
When,  on  tlie  left,  a  light  reflection  fhlls; 
The  plunder'd  helmet  through  the  waning  night 
^lieds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright; 
Volscens,  with  question  loud,  the  pair  alarms  — 
"Stand,  stragglers !  stand !  why  early  thus  in  arms? 
From  whence?  to  whom?"  He  meets  willi  no  reply, 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly; 
The  thicket's  depth,  with  hurried  pace,  they  tread. 
While  round  the  wood  tlie  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  patt  hctweeik, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  seme; 
Euryalns  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  tlie  foresf  s  msfee. 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  grace, 


TRANSLATIONS  AMD  niITATION& 


643 


nien  badcward  o'er  the  plam  his  eye»  extend, 
[>a  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
■O  God!  my  boy/'  be  cries,  ''of  me  bereft. 
En  what  impendini:  perils  art  thoa  left  1" 
Linteninfr  he  runs  —  above  the  waving  trees, 
Tumultuoas  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze; 
rhe  war-ery  rises,  thnndering  hoofs  around 
W9ke  the  darlc  echoes  of  tlie  trembling  groond ; 
Ikgain  he  turns  —  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise. 
The  sound  elates  —  the  s^t  bis  hope  destroys ; 
Fbc  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
W^hile  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  coufbund; 
Him,  with  loud  shouts,  the  furious  kniglits  pursue, 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
iP^hat  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare? 
hh !  most  he  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  sliare? 
n^hat  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey? 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give. 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  be  wish'd  to  live  I 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 
Jn  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  phrenzied  eye: 
■KSoddess  serene,  transcending  every  start 
Qnectf  of  the  sky  I  whose  beams  are  seen  afar; 
By  night.  Heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day,  the  gfove; 
VITfaen,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  dcigiist  to  rove; 
If  e'er  myself  or  sire  have  sought  to  grace 
rhine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chaee; 
Speed,  speed,  my  dart,  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd. 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  for  the  proud." 
rhns  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung} 
rhroagh  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung; 
the  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Tranafix'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay : 
9e  sobs,  he  dies,  —  the  troop,  in  wild  amaze. 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze ; 
While  pale  they  stare,  thro'  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
k  seeond  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven; 
PSense  Volsoens  rolls  around  bis  lowering  eyes, 
Vcdrd  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  liis  soldiers  foil; 
'^hoa  youth  accurst !  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all." 
Qnick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glave  he  drew 
ind,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew, 
Hiaaa  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals, 
Portb,  forth  h^  starts,  and  all  bis  love  reveals; 
Ighast,  eonfhsed,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 
ind  poor  these  accents,  shrieking  as  be  flies : 
*Me,  me,  your  vengeance  burl  on  me  alone, 
flere  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own; 
JTe  starry  Spheres!  thou  conscious  Heaven  attest! 
3e  csotild  qot  —  durst  not  —  lo  1  the  guile  contest  I 
Ul,  all  was  mine  —  his  early  fate  suspend, 
ffc  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend; 
$pare,  spare,  ye  chiefs!  from  him  your  rage  remove^ 
^  faiolt  was  ftiendsblp,  ail  his  crime  was  love." 
9e  pray'd  in  vun,  the  dark.assassin's  sword 
pimed  the  foir  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored; 
[«o«  iy  to  earth  inclines  his  plume^lad  crest, 
Lnd  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast  . 


As  some  young  rose,  whose  biossom  soents  the  Idr, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share ; 
Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  foils  a  foding  flower : 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  ids  lovely  head. 
And  lingering  Beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  Despair  his  guide; 
Yolscens  he  seeks,  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volsoens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe. 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  Fate  gleams  in  every  blow; 
In  vain,  beneatli  uunumber'd  wounds  he  bleeds. 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds ; 
In  viewless  circles  wheel'd  his  folchion  flies. 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp,  till  Yolscens  dies; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  afiection  proved. 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved ; 
Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace  I 

Celestial  pair!  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim. 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fome ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admirer- 
No  future  day  sliall  see  your  names  expire ; 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome! 
And  vanqnish'd  millions  hail  their  Empress,  Rome! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  MBDBA  OF 
EURIPIDES. 

Wren  fierce  conflicting  passions  luge 

The  breast,  where  love  is  wont  to  glow. 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge. 

Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe? 
The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame, 

Can  rouse  the  tortured  breast  no  more; 
The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame, 

Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul,  by  purer  dreams  possest. 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills. 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast; 
If  thus,  thou  com'st  in  gentle  guife, 

Fair  Venus !  from  thy  native  heaven. 
What  heart,  unfeeling,  would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  Gods  have  given  ? 

But  never  frcgn  thy  golden  bow 

May  I  beneath  the  shaft  expire. 
Whose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire : 
Ye  racking  doubts !  ye  jealous  fears ! 

With  others  wage  eternal  war ; 
Repentance !  source  of  future  tears. 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far. 


644 


FUGITIVB  PIBGBS, 


May  no  distcactin;  thoug bU  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  lore  1 
May  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy, 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above ! 
Fair  Yenns!  on  thy  mynle-shrine. 

May  I  with  some  fond  lover  sigh !       " 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pare  with  miue, 

With  me  to  Uve,  with  mc  to  die. 

My  native  soil !  beloved  before. 

Now  dearer,  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A  hapless,  banished  wretch  to  roam; 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breatli, 
Nor  quit  my  silent,  humble  bower; 

A  doom,  to  me,  far  worse  than  death. 


Have  I  not  beard  tiie  exile's  sigh  ? 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear? 
Through  distant  dimes  tsondemn'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive,  weary  wanderer  here; 
Ah !  hapless  dame!  no  sire  bewails. 

No  friend  tliy  wretched  fate  deplores. 
No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails. 

Thy  steps,  wtthm  a  stranger's  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend !  wh6se  iron  heart. 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown. 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks,  witb  silver  key. 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul; 
May  such  a  friend  be  for  from  ne. 

And  Ocean's  storms  between  us  roll  I 


FUGITIVE  PIECES. 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COLLEGE- 
EXAMINATION. 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
Magnus  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears ; 
Placed  on  his  ohair  of  state,  he  seems  a  €k>d. 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod ; 
As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom. 
His  voice,  in  thunder,  shakes  the  sounding  dorne^ 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
Unskili'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth !  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside ;  ^ 

Who,  scarcely  skill'd  an  Eoglisli  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Attic  metres  witli  a  critic's  ken. 
What!  tliough  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled, 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead , 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance. 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France; 
Thoagb,  marv'ling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet,  well  he  recollects  the  laws  of  Sparta; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 
While  Bkickstonc  's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth,  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honours,  medals,  fellowships,  await; 
Or  even,  perhaps,  the  dcclamation-prize. 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But,  lo !  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope: 


Not  that  our  Heads  much  eloquence  reqiure, 

Th'  Athknian's  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire. 

A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 

We  do  not  try,  by  speaking,  to  convince; 

Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud. 

We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd: 

Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 

A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan ; 

No  borrow'd  grace  of  action  must  be  seen. 

The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean; 

Whilst  every  staring  Graduate  would  prate 

Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man,  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised  cap, 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  no'er  look  up; 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word. 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard : 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  tliink  to  rest: 
Who  speaks  the  fastest 's  sure  to  speak  the  best; 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space, 
May  safely  hope  to  win  tlie  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  banks  supine  they  lio, 
Unknown,  nnhonour'd  live,  —  unwept  ft>r  die; 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  wails; 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  predae, 
All  modern  arts  affecting  to  despise; 
Yet  prizing  Bbntlby's,  Brunck's,  or  Porson's  nate. 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote; 


FUOITIVB  I*aCB& 


645 


Vain  as  (licir  hoooorSy  heavy  as  their  ale, 
8ed  as  Uicir  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale, 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel, 
Vf  hen  Self  and  Chnrdi  demand  a  bigot-zeal* 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power, 
Whether  'lis  Pitt  or  Petty  rules  the  hour : 
To  hini,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread; 
But  should  a  storm  overwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  fiU'd  his  place. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard, 
Such  Is  their  practice,  Such  is  their  reward; 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say, 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF***. 

Ta  semper  amorls 
SU  menior,  eC  carl  coinitb  nc  abscedat  imago. 

Valerius  Flaccus* 

Fribnd  of  my  youth !  when  young  we  roved* 
Like  striplings  mutually  beloved. 

With  friendship's  purest  glow ; 
The  bliss  which  wing'd  those  rosy  hours. 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems,  alone. 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I've  known. 

When  distant  far  from  you; 
Though  pain,  'tis  still  a  pleasing  pain. 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  ^in, 

And  sigh  again,  adieu ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more. 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 
Life's  evening-dream  is  dark  and  dull. 

And  we  may  meet  ~-  ah !  never! 

As  when  one  parent-spring  supplies 
.  Two  streams,  which  from  one  fountain  rise, 

Together  join'd  in  vain; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source. 
Bach  murmuring  seeks  another  course. 

Till  mingled  in  the  Main: 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe, 
Tliough  near,  alas!  distinctly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before; 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear. 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulph  appear. 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  Friend!  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside. 

Now  flow  In  difierent  channels ; 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
Tis  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts. 

And  shine  in  Fashion's  annals. 


'Tis  mine  to  waste  on  love  my  time. 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme, 

Without  the  aid  of  Reason ; 
For  Sense  and  Reason  (Critios  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  Poet, 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  Little!  sweet,  melodious  bard! 
Of  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard. 

That  he,  who  sang  before  all,  -* 
He,  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded. 
By  dire  Reviewers  should  be  branded. 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral. 

And  yet,  wlule  beauty's  praise  is  thine. 
Harmonious  favourite  of  the  Nine! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot ; 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read. 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead. 

And  Critics  are  forgot 

Still,  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit. 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit. 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them; 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them; 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  welt, 
To  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner; 
He  who  ofi'ends  at  pert  nineteen. 
Ere  thirty,  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  very  harden'd  sinner. 

Now  —  I  must  return  to  you, 
And  sure  apologies  are  due ; 

Accept  then  my  concession; 
In  truth,  dear  *  *  *,  in  fancy's  flight, 
I  soar  along  from  left  to  right, 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

I  think  I  said  'twould  he  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state; 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you! 
And  should  a  noble  Monarch  rdign, 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain. 

If  wortii  can  recommend  you. 

Yet,  since  in  danger  courts  abound. 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round. 

From  snares  may  Saints  preserve  you! 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you! 

Not  for  a  moment  may  you  stray 
From  Truth's  secure  unerring  way ! 

May  no  delights  decoy  I 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move. 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love. 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy ! 


646 


pfjorrivB  piBCBa 


Oh!  ifyonwBilrthathappiiieM 

Yoor  eomingf  days  and  yeara  may  bleis, 

And  virtues  crown  yoar  brow ; 
Be,  stilly  as  yon  were  woBt  to  be, 
Spotless  as  you've  been  known  to  ne, 

Be,  still,  as  you  are  now. 

^nd,  thoug^li  some  tri&ing  share  of  praise^ 
To  cheer  my  last  declining^  days, 

To  me  were  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I'd  wave  at  once  a  Poet's  fame. 

To  prove  a  Prophet  here. 


GRANTA,  A  MEDLEY. 

AQyvQtutq  XoyxutOi  puxov  mu  TMrva  KQun^ffat^, 

Oh  !  could  Lb  Sage's  demon's  gift 

Be  realized  at  my  desire, 
This  night  my  trembling  form  he'd  lifl^ 

To  place  it  on  St  Mary's  spire. 

Then  would,  unroof  d,  old  Granta's  haUs 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn,  or  stalls. 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight. 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might, 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 

Lo!  candidates  and  voters  lie, 
All  luird  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number ! 

A  race  renown'd  for  piety. 
Whose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber. 

Lord  H  — ,  indeed,  may  not  demur; 

Fellows  arQ  sage,  reflecting  men! 
They  know  preferment  can  occur 

But  very  seldom,  —  now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  livings  in  disposal ; 
Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And,  therefore,  smile  on  his  proposal. 

Now,  from  the  soporific  scene 
I'll  turn  mine  eye  as  mght  grows  later, 

To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen. 
The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college-prices 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight-lamp. 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He,  surely,  well  deserves  to  gun  them, 
With  all  the  honours  of  his  coliqpe, 

Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 
Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge; 


Who  sacrifices  hoars  ef  rest. 

To  scan,  precisely,  nelen  Atfk; 
Or  agitates  hts  anxiovs  breast 

In  sohring  problems  nMtfhematie; 

Who  reads  false  quantities  ia  Scale, 
Or  puzEles  o'er  the  deep  triangle; 

Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal. 
In  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle; 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use; 
Preferring  to  the  lettered  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse. 

Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations. 
That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 

Compared  with  other  recreations. 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent; 

Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight. 
When  vice  and  infamy  combine; 

When  drunkenness  and  dice  unite, 
And  every  sense  is  steep'd  in  wine. 

Not  so  the  methodisticerew. 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay: 
In  humble  attitude  they  sue, 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  prey; 

Forgetting,  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exaltation  in  their  trial. 
Detracts  most  largely  firora  the  merit 

Of  all  their  boasted  self-deniaL 

Tis  morn,  —  from  these  I  turn  my  sight: 
What  scene  is  this  which  meets  the  eye? 

A  numerous  crowd  array'd  in  white, 
Across  tiie  green  in  numbers  fly. 

Loud  rings,  in  air,  the  chapel-Mi, 
'Tis  hush'd :  What  sounds  are  these  I  hear* 

The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 
Rolls  deeply  on  the  listening  ear. 

To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 
The  royal  minstrel's  hallow 'd  strain; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  ipxcused. 
Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners ; 

All  mercy,  now,  must  be  refused, 
To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinnersL 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 
Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  hioi. 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended. 
In  forious  mood  he  woold  have  tore  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken, 
By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order. 

Were  ask'd  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken. 
On  Babylottuin  river's  border: 


FV0ITIVB  PUBCak 


647 


Ob!  liad  they  sung  in  AOteftlike  ihme^ 
Inspired  by  «tnitagem  or  f?ar» 

Tbey  mi^bt  bave  set  tbeir  hearts  at  ease, 
Tbe  devil  a  soul  bad  atay'd  to  hear. 

Bnty  if  I  scribble  loDg^er  now. 

The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read; 

My  peD  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low ; 
'Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires. 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly  ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  Muse  inspires, 

The  reader 's  tired,  and  so  am  I. 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR. 

Lachxx  y  Gair,  or,  is  it  is  jiroooonced  In  the  Erse,  Loch  ha  oabr, 
lowers  proudly  preemiuent  in  tbe  Nortliem  Highlands,  near  Inver^ 
canld.  One  oronr  modern  Tonrists  mentions  it  as  the  highest  moon- 
tain»  perhaps  in  Grvat  Britain  ;  be  this  as  it  ma>i  M  is  certainly  one 
of  tbe  most  tubdme  and  plctoresqne  amongst  onr  "Caledonian  Alps." 
Its  sppcaranre  b  of  a  dusky  hoe,  bat  the  snmotit  is  the  seat  of  eternal 
snows:  Jiear  Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent  some  of  the  early  p^rt  of  my  life, 
the  recollection  of  which  has  given  biith  to  the  foHowiug  Stanxu. 

AwAT,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  yoQ  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove ; 
Restore  me  .the  rocks  where  tbe  snow-flake  reposes. 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love; 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 

Ronnd  their  white  summits  though  elements  war. 
Though  cataracts  foam,  ^stead  of  smooth  flowing  foon- 

I  nigh  for  tbe  valley  of  dark  Loch  ua  Garr.  [tains, 

Ah!  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd, 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ; 
On  chiefltouns  long  perish'd  my  memory  pondcr'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  tiie  pine-cover'd  glade; 
I  Mnight  not  my  home  till  tlie  day's  dying  glory 

Gare  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar-star; 
For  Fancy  vas  cheer'd  by  traditional  story 

Di«;losed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Sliades  of  the  dead !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale? 
Surelj  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  tbe  wind  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale: 
Round  Loch  na  Garr,  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car ; 
Cloads  there  encircle  tlie  forms  of  my  fathers  — 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

IB-«tarr'd,  though  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding 

Tell  yon  that  Fate  bad  forsaken  your  cause? 
hh !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  CuUoden, 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause; 
Btiil  were  you  happy,  in  death's  early  slumber, 

Yon  rest  with  your  clan,  in  the  caves  of  Braemar; 
fhe  pibroch  resounds  to  the  piper's  loud  number     - 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Tears  have  roU'd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you ; 
Yearn  most  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again; 


Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  yon. 
Yet,  still,  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain: 

England  1  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic. 
To  one  who  has  roved  on  the  mountains  a&r; 

Oh !  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  m^estic. 
The  sleep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Lodi  na  Garr ! 


TO  ROMANCE. 
Parent  of  golden  dreams,  Romance! 

Auspicious  Queen  of  childish  joys! 
Who  leadst  aloJig,  in  airy  dance, 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys ; 
At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 

I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth ; 
No  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  round. 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth. 

And,  yet,  'tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 

Which  haunt  tbe  unsuspicious  soul. 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems. 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll; 
While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign. 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue  ^ 
When  virfpns  seem  no  longer  vain. 

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 

And  must  we  own  thee  but  a  name. 

And  from  tby  hall  of  clouds  descend? 
Nor  find  a  Sylph  in  every  dame, 

A  Pylades  in  every  friend? 
But  leave,  at  once,  tby  realms  of  air. 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves: 
Confess  that  woman's  false  as  fiur. 

And  friends  have  feelings  for  —  themselves  ? 

With  shame,  I  own,  I've  felt  thy  sway ; 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er: 
No  more  thy  precept  I  obey. 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar : 
Fond  fool !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear; 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh, 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear. 

Romance!  disgusted  with  deceit. 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly, 
Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat. 

And  sickly  Sensibility; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine; 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe, 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weeds; 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh, 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  quire, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  gone. 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 


648 


FUGITIYB  PIBCBa 


Ye  genial  Nymphs,  whose  ready  tears, 

On  all  occasions,  swiftly  flow ; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fonded  fears, 

With  fancied  flames  and  phrenzy  glow ; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name, 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train  ? 
An  infont  Bard,  at  least,  may  claim 

From  yon  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu !  fond  race,  a  long  adieu! 

'  The  hour  of  fate  is  hovering  nigh ; 
Even  now  the  gulf  appears  in  view. 

Where  unlamented  you  must  lie: 
Oblivion's  blackening  lake  is  seen 

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather, 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Akis !  must  perish  altogether. 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


It  is  the  voice  of  yearn  that  are  fone ! 
their  deeds. 


they  roll  before  me  with  all 
Omiak. 


Newstead  !  fast  falling*  once  resplendent  dome! 

Religion's  shrine!  repentant  Henry's  pride! 
Of  Warriors,  Monks,  and  Dames  the  clotster'd  tomb. 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide : 

Hail!  to  tliy  pile!  more  honoured  in  thy  fall, 
Than  modern  mansions  in  their  pillar'd  state; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  tiiy  vaulted  hall 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  Serfs,  obedient  to  thdr  Lord, 
In  grim  array,  the  crimson  cross  demand; 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board. 
Their  chiefs  retainers,  an  inmortal  band* 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 
Retrace  their  progress,  through  the  lapse  of  time; 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim,  in  Judea's  clime. 

But  not  from  thee,  dark  pile!  departs  the  Chief, 

His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay; 
In  thee  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes,  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profoun<d, 
The  Monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view; 

Or  blood-stain'd  Guilt  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  Innocence  from  stern  Oppression  flew. 

A  Monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise. 

Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  prowl: 
And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 

Sought  shelter  in  the  Priesf  s  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew. 
The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish'd  clay,** 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  Fathers  grew, 
>k>r  raised  their  pious  voices,  but  to  pray. 


Where  now  the  bats  tteir  wavering  wings  extend. 
Soon  as  the  gloaming  spreads  her  waning  shade. 

The  ehoir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend. 
Or  matin-orisons  to  Mary  paid. 

Years  roH  on  years  —  to  ages,  ages  yield  — 

Abbots  to  Abbots  in  a  line  succeed : 
Religion's  charter  their  protecting  shield. 

Till  royal  saerilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henkt  rear'd  the  Gothic  walls, 
And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peaee: 

Another  Henry  the  kind  gift  recalls, 
And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes 


Vain  is  each  threat,  or  supplicating  prayer ; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode. 
To  roam  a  dreary  world,  in  deep  despair. 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God. 

Hark  I  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain. 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din  I 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign. 
High  crested  banners,  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum. 
The  mirth  offcasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms, 

The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum. 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress  now. 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers ; 
War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threateningbtow. 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

Ahl  vain  defence!  the  hostile  traitor's  siege, 
Tho'  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  flie  brave; 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  Uege, 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 

Not  unavenged,  the  raging  Baron  yields, 
The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain; 

Unconquer'd  stiU»his  faulchion  there  he  wields, 
And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still,  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew 
Selfgather'd  laurels  on  a  self-bought  grave; 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew, 
The  monarch's  friend,  the  lAonarch's  hope.  Id  «?e. 

Trembling^she  snatch'd  him  from  the  unequal  strife. 

In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel, 
For  nobler  combats,  here, reserved  his  life. 

To  lead  the  band  where  god-like  Falkland  felL 

From  thee,  poor  pile!  to  lawless  plunder  given. 
While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound. 

Far  different  incense  now  ascends  io  heaven  — 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There,  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse. 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  tiiy  sacred  sod ; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  eommix'd  with  horsey 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 


FUOrnVB  PDSCBS. 


640 


GniTc^  long  with  rttik  and  rigfaiogr  weeds  o'eivpread, 
Ransack'd,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mouM ; 

From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 
Raked  from  repose,  in  search  of  buried  gold. 

HnshM  IB  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre. 
The  minstrers  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death; 

Ko  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire. 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 

ki  length,  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey, 
Retire  —  the  damour  of  the  fight  is  o'er ; 

Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway, 
jknd  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  ]>esolation  holds  her  dreary  court; 

What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign ! 
Suidung  their  dirge,  ill-omen'd  birds  resort 

To  fiit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 

Boon  a  new  mom's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans ; 

WlurIwinds,responsive,greet  bis  labouring  breath; 
Sardi  shudders  as  her  cave  receives  his  bones, 

^i-ffatfri-g  tiie  offering  of  so  dark  a  death. 

The  l^al  Ruler  now  resumes  the  helm, 
He  guides  thro'  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state: 

Hope  cheers  with  wonted  smiles  the  peaceful  realm. 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  Hate, 

The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead,  of  thy  cells, 

Howling  resign  their  violated  nest; 
igain  the  master  on  his  tenure  dwells, 

Bnjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest 

iTassak,  within  thy  hospitable  pale. 
Loudly  carouang,  bless  their  Lord's  return ; 

Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 
Ami  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

L  thouaand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  floaty 
Uawonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  trees ; 

iiid»  hnrkl  the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note, 
The  honter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 

teneath  flieir  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake : 
What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes,  attend  the  chase! 

W  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  lake, 
Bmlting  shouts  announce  the  finish'd  race. 

h!  happy  days!  too  happy  to  endure! 
Sadi  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew ; 
6  splendid  vices  glitter'd  to  allure ; 
Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

tpm  theae  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed; 
Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dan : 
^her  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 
.Anotber  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart 


Newstead !  what  saddening  change  of  sodie  is  thine ! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay; 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray-worn  towers  — 
Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep  -^ 

Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers  •— 
These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

Yet  arc  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret: 
Cherish'd  affection  only  bids  them  flow. 

Pride,  Hope,  and  Love  forbid  him  to  forget,. 
But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion'd  glow. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes. 
Or  gew-gaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  great ; 

Yet  lingers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gidnst  the  will  of  fete. 

Haply  thy  sun, emerging;  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  eradiate  with  meridian  ray ; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 

And  bless  tJiy  future  as  thy  former  day. 


TO   E.   N.  L.   Esq. 

Mil  ego  concnlerini  Jacundo  mobs  amico. 

Dear  L  — ,  in  this  sequestcr'd  scene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie, 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye: 
Thus,  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm, 
While  clouds  the  darken'd  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
1  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow. 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace. 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah !  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again ; 
Or  if,  in  mdancholy  mood. 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  dieck  my  bosom's  fondest  thought, 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream; 
I  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught. 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme . 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedanf  s  lore } 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before; 
Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion. 
And  Manhood  daims  his  stem  dominion. 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy. 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring: 
But,  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fidry-bowent 
41* 


650 


FKJGinVS 


Wliere  sndlingr  Tootk  defigbta  to  d  vctf, 
And  hearts  with  early  laptore  swell; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  cOntrOBl^ 
ConHnea  the  ourrent  of  the  soul. 
Congeals- the  tear  of  Pity's  eye, 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh, 
Or  hears  unmoved  Misfortune^s  groan, 
And  bids  me  feel  for  setf  alone  i 
Oh!  may  my  bosom  nerer  leaiB 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow ; 
Still,  still,  despise  the  censor  stern, 

Bttt  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 
Still  may  I  rove  untutor'd,  wild, 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 

Thongb  now  on  airy  visions  borae , 

To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same, 
Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence!  ye  hours  of  sable  hue. 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrow's  o'er; 
By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I'll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  b  past. 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  lull'd  by  Zephyr  to  repose. 
Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse, 

Attuned  to  love  her  lang^d  lyre : 
But  how,  without  a  theme  to  choose. 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 
My  youthftil  nymphs,  alas!  are  flown ; 

B  —  is  a  wife,  and  C — a  mother. 
And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary's  given  to  another; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  rolled  on  me. 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall : 
In  truth,  dear  L  — ,  'twas  time  to  flee, 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  Sun,  with  genial  rays, 
His  beams  alike  to  aH  displays. 
And  every  lady's  eye's  a  tun, ' 
These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her, 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer  / 
Thus  feint  is  every  former  flame. 
And  passion's  self  is  now  a  name: 
As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which-once  improved  their  light. 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night ; 
Thus  has  it  beiin  with  passion's  fires. 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers. 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now  dear  L  •*-,  'tis  midnight's  noon, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 


Whose  beauties  I  iiwll  act  relMaree» 
Described  in  every  stripliag's  verso; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er» 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  hefoie? 
Yet,  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  performed  her  stated  lovid, 
Has  thrioe  r^tvaeed  her  path  of  light. 

And  ehased  away  the  gloom  yiofa»P^ 
I  trust  that  we^  my  gentle  fiiend, 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend, 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaoeAil  seat 
Which  once  contained  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then,  with  those  our  chihlhood  knew, 
We'll  mingle  with  the  festive  crew ; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away; 
And  all  the  flow  of  soul  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  eease,  till  Luna's  waning  horn 
Soaroe  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  Jtfom. 


TO*«» 
Oh  !  had  my  fote  been  join'd  with  thine. 

As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token. 
These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine. 

For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

To  thee  these  early  feults  I  owe. 
To  tljee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving ; 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loviug. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother ; 

But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 
And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him ; 

Yet,  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah !  since  thy  angel-form  is  gone, 
My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone. 
Attempts,  alas  I  to  find  in  many. 

Then  fere  thee  well,  decdtful  maid, 
'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee; 

Nor  hope  nor  memory  yield  their  aid, 
But  pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  yeiirs. 
This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures. 

These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears, 
These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion^s measures — 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  bem  hush  'd ; 

This  cheek  now  pale  from  early  riot, 
With  passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd, 

But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet 


PtOlTlVB  PIECES. 


651 


TeSy  onoe  the  mral  soene  was  «wee1^ 
For  nature  fleem'd  to  smile  before  thee ; 

And  onoe  mjr  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, 
For  then  it  beat  bat  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joj8> 

To  think  would  driYe  my  soul  to  madfieM  j 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, ' 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness* 

Yet,  even  in  these,  a  thought  will  steal. 
In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour; 

And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel. 
To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


STANZAS. 
I  WOULD  I  were  a  careless  child^ 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  c&ve, 
Or  roaniing  through  the  duiiky  wild, 

Or  bounding  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave. 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon  pride 

Accords  not  with  the  freebom  soul, 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side, 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roll. 

PortdiMl  take  hack  these  c«dtared  lands,      > 

Take  back  tiiis  name  of  splendid  sound! 
I  hale  the  touch  of  servile  hands  — 

I  bate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around: 
Plaee  me  along  the  rocks  I  love^ 

Wliksb  sound  to  ocean's  wildest  roar, 
I  ask  bat  this  —  again  to  rove 

Through  scenesmy  youth  hath  known  before* 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  w<M'kl  was  ne'er  design'd  for  me; 
Ah!  why  do  dark'ning  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be? 
Omc  I  beheld  a  iq^lendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss ; 
Truth  1  wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  world  like  this  t 

I  loved  —  but  those  I  loved  are  gone; 

Had  friends  —  my  early  friends  are  fled ; 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone^ 

When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead ! 
Though  gay  companions,  o'er  the  bowl, 

Dispel  awhile  the  seikae  of  ill. 
Though  Pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart  —  the  heart  is  lonely  stilL 

How  doll  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 

Whom  rank  or  chance,  whom  wealth  or  power, 
Have  made,  though  neither  Friends  or  Foes» 

Associates  of  the  festive  hour . 
Give  me  again  a  faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same, 
.^nd  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew. 

Where  boist'rous  joy  is  but  a  name. 


And  Woman!  lovely  Woman,  thou. 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now. 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall ! 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe. 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine 

Which  Virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 

Fain  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men  — 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind ; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen. 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darken'd  mind. 
Oh !  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  heaven, 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest 


LINES 


trurrTiBN  benbath  an  elm  in  the  churchyard  of 

HARROW  ON  THE  HILL. 

SEPT.  X  1807. 

Spot  of  my  you^l  whose  hoary  branches  sigh, 
Swept  by  the  breeee  that  fans  thy  eloadkfls  sky; 
Where  now  alonel  muse,  who  oft  have  trod. 
With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod ; 
With  those  who,  scatter'd  far,  perchance  deiriore, 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before: 
Oh !  as  I  trace  again  thy  wihding  hill. 
Mate  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still. 
Thou  drooping  £lm!  beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay. 
And  fireqaent  mased  the  twilight-hours  away ; 
Where,  as  they  onoe  were  wont,  my  limbs  redine^ 
Bat  ah !  without  the  thoughts  which  then  were  mine: 
How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past , 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 
'^Take,  while  thou  canst,  a  lingering  last  farewell!" 
When  Fate  shall  chill  at  length  this  fever'd  breast, 
And  calm  Its  cares  and  passions  into  rest. 
Oft  have  I  thought  'twould  soothe  my  dying  hour. 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power. 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell; 
With  this  fond  dream,  methinks  'twere  sweet  to  die. 
And  here  it  lingcr'd,  here  my  heart  might  lie; 
Here  might  I  sleep,  where  all  my  hopes  arose. 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose : 
For  ever  stretch'd  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Prest  by  the  turf  where  once  my  diildhood  phiy'd>* 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mix'd  with  the  earfli  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved; 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Moum'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied. 
And  unremen^>er'd  by  the  world  beside. 


652 


MOROANTB  MAOOIORB. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THB    ITALIAN    OF    PULCL 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Thb  Af  organte  Magipiore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which 
thia  tnuuhition  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlando  In- 
namorato  the  honour  of  having  formed  and  suggested  the 
style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great  defects  of  Boiardo 
were  his  treating  too  seriously  the  narratives  of  chivalry, 
and  his  harsh  style.  Ariosto,  in  his  continuation,  by  a 
judicious  mixture  of  the  gaiety  of  Puici,  has  avoided  the 
one,  and  Berni,  in  his  reformation  of  Boiardo*s  poem, 
has  corrected  the  other.  Pulci  may  be  considered  as  the 
precursor  and  model  of  Berni  altogether,  as  he  has  partiy 
been  to  Ariosto,  however  inferior  to  both  his  copyists. 
He  is  no  less  the  founder  of  a  new  style  of  poetry  very 
lately  sprung  up  ifi  England.  I  allude  to  that  of  the  inge- 
nious Whistlecraft  The  serious  poems  on  Roncesvalles 
in  the  same  language,  and  more  particularly  the  excellent 
one  of  Hf  r.  Merivale,  are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source. 
It  has  never  yet  been  decided  entirely,  whether  Pulci's 
intention  was  or  was  not  to  deride  the  religion,  which  is 
one  of  his  tavonrite  topics.  It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an 
intention  would  have  been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet 
than  to  the  priest,  particularly  in  that  age  and  country ;  and 
the  permission  to  publish  tiie  poem,  and  its  reception 
among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was  nor 
is  so  interpreted.  That  he  intended  to  ridicule  the  mo- 
nastic life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play  with  the 
simple  dulness  of  his  converted  giant,  seems  evident 
enough;  but  surely  it  were  as  unjust  to  accuse  him  of 
irreligion  on  this  account,  as  to  denounce  Fielding  for 
his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas,  Thwackum,  Supple,  and  the 
Ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild,— -or  Scott,  for  the  exquisite 
use  of  his  covenanters  in  the  ''Tales  of  my  Landlord." 


In  the  following  translation  I  have  uaed  tbefibcrty  of 
the  original  with  the  proper  names;  as  Pulci  uses  Gas, 
Ganellon,  or  Ganellone;  Carlo,  Carlomagno,  or  Cario- 
mano;  Rondel,  or  Rondello,  as  it  suits  his  ooavenia»e^ 
so  has  the  translator.  In  otiier  respeots^tiie  venioB  ii 
faithful  to  the  best  of  the  translator's  ability  in  oonbiaqg 
his  interpretation  of  the  one  language  with  the  not  vciy 
easy  task  of  reducing  it  to  the  same  versification  in  Ike 
other.  The  reader  is  requested  to  remember  that  the  anti- 
quated language  of  Pulci,  however  pure,  is  not  ea^  Id 
the  generality  of  Italians  themselves,  firom  its  great  laix- 
ture  of  iTuscan  proverbs;  and  he  may  therefore  benore 
indulgent  to  the  present  attempt  How  far  the  translator 
has  succeeded,  and#rhether  or  no  be  shall  oontimie  the 
work,  are  questions  which  the  public  will  decide.  He 
was  induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly  by  Us  iofe 
for,  and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  language^  of 
which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  slight  knowle^ge^  aad 
with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible  for  a  foreigDer  lo 
become  accurately  conversant  The  Italian  language  is 
like  a  capricious  beauty,  who  accords  her  smiles  to  al^ 
her  favours  to  few,  and  sometimes  least  to  those  who 
have  courted  her  longest  The  translator  wished  also  lo 
present  in  an  English  dress  a  part  at  least  of  a  poem  aerer 
yet  rendered  into  a  northern  language;  at  the  same  tine 
that  it  has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the  most  eekhci- 
ted  productions  on  this  side^  the  Alps,  as  wefl  as  of 
those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  iu  Bi^gtand  vhich 
have  been  already  mentioned. 


CANTO     L 


In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God ; 

God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was  he ; 

This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  witiiout  him  nought  could  be : 

Therefore,  just  Lord !  from  out  thy  high  abode, 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee, 

One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 

Shall  help  my  Ihmoiu,  wortiiy,  old  song  through. 


And  thou,  oh  Virgin  1  daughter,  mother,  bride. 
Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside* 
The  day  tiiy  Gabriel  said,  «AI1  hail!"  to  thee. 
Since  to  thy  servants  pity 's  ne'er  denied. 
With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  aad  free. 
Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind, 
And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 


1COR6ANTB  UAG6IORB. 


653 


T  was  IB  the  seaaon  when  sad  Philomel 
Weeps  with  her  aister,  who  remembera  and 
De|rfores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  befel. 
And  makes  the  nymphs  enamoor'dy  to  the  hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phoebus  loved  so  well 
His  car  (but  temper'd  by  his  sire's  command) 
Was  giTCB,  and  on  the  horizon's  verg^  just  now 
AppeaPdy  so  that  Tithonns  scratch'd  his  brow; 

When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey, 

As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind. 

And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  hiy 

Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 

Bjsereral  pens  already  praised;  but  they 

Who  to  difiuse  his  glory  were  inclined. 

For  all  that  I  can  see  in  prose  or  verse, 

Have  mderstood  Charles  badly  —  and  wrote  worse. 

Leonardo  Aretino  said  already. 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 

Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady. 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter; 

He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready, 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter,    * 

Who  for  the  church  and  Christian  faith  had  wrought, 

Ccrtes  fiur  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought 

You  still  may  see  at  Saint  liberatore 
The  abbey,  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 
Erected  in  the  Abmzai  to  his  glory, 
Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 
A  pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 
And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell : 
And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many, 
Near  them  Giusafia's  would  seem  few,  if  any. 


But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  don't  prise 
His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them:  thou, 
Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  don't  arise, 
And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow. 
All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies : 
IFliate'er  thou  hast  acquired  from  then  till  now. 
With  knightly  courage^  treasure,  or  the  lance, 
\a  apmog  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

rvrelve  paladins  had  CharleS,  in  court,  of  whom 
rhe  vrtsest  and  most  femous  was  Orlando; 
lim  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 
a  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  plann'd  too, 
Whiic  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knell'd  the  doom 
H  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  Imight  can  do; 
knd  I>ante  in  his  comedy  has  given 
'o  him  a  happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 

r  was  Christmas-day;  in  Paris  all  his  court 

!harles  held;  the  chief;  I  say,  Orlando  was, 

lie  I>ane;  Astolfo  there  too  did  resort, 

Iso  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 

I  festival  and  in  triumphant  sport, 

he  much  renown'd  Saint  Dennis  being  the  cause; 

D^riolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

nd  gentle  Belingfaieri  too  came  there ; 


Avolio,  and  Arino,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 

Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salemone, 

Walter  of  Lion's  Mount,  and  Baldovin, 

Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 

Were  diere,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 

The  son  of  Pepin:  —  when  his  knights  came  hither, 

He  groan'd  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether. 

But  watchful  fortune  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  'gainst  our  intents  to  bring. 
While  Charles  reposed  him  thus  in  word  and  deed, 
Orlando  ruled  court,  Charles,  and  every  thing; 
Curst  Gan,  with  envy  bursting,  had  such  need 
To  vent  his  spite,  that  thus  with  Charles  the  King, 
One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 
<H>rlando  must  we  always  then  obey  ? " 

**  A  thousand  times  I  've  been  about  to  say, 
Orlando  toapresumptuously  goes  on; 
Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 
Hamo,  and  Olho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 
Each  have  to  honour  thee  and  to  obey ; 
But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne. 
Which  we  won't  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 
By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

''And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 
To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight, 
And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 
But  I  know  who  that  day  bad  won  the  fight 
If  it  had  not  for  good  Ghcrardo  been : 
The  victory  was  Almonte's  else;  his  sight 
He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 
In  feet  and  ftEiimess  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

"If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 
When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 
The  christian  cause  had  suffer'd  shamefully, 
Had  not  bis  valour  driven  them  back  again. 
Best  speak  the  truth  when  there 's  a  reason  why : 
Know  then,  oh  emperor  1  that  all  complain: 
As  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 
O'er  which  I  cross'd  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

"'Tis  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 

So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part. 

For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief: 

Perhaps  thou  deemst  this  lad  a  Mara  in  heart?" 

Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief. 

As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart : 

IMspleased  he  was  with  Gan  because  he  said  it, 

But  much  more  still  that  Charles  should  give  him  credit 

And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murder'd  Gan, 
But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair. 
And  from  his  hand  extracted  Burlindaa, 
And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 
Orlando,  angry  too  with  Carloman, 
Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there; 
Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief^ 
And  burst  and  madden'd  with  disdida  and  grief. 


654 


MORGANTE  1IA6GIORB. 


From  Ermelliiia,  consort  of  the  Dane, 
He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  Rondell, 
And  on  towards  Brara  prick'd  him  o'er  the  plain; 
And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 
Stretch'd  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  again: 
Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well. 
As  '^Welcome  my  Orlando  home,"  she  said, 
Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head. 

Like  him  a fiiry  counsels;  his  revenge 
On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seem'd  to  take, 
Which  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange. 
Bat  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake; 
And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 
And  he  dismonnted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 
Of  every  thing  which  pass'd  without  demur. 
And  then  reposed  himself  some  dayil  with  kcr. 

Then  foil  of  wrath  departed  from  the  placc^ 

And  far  as  Pagan  countries  roam'd  astray, 

And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  paoe 

The  traitor  Gan  remember'd  by  the  way; 

And  wandering  on  in  error  a  long  spaoe^ 

An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 

Hidst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands  he  found, 

Which  form'd  the  Christian's  and  tbe  Pagan's  hound. 

The  abbot  was  call'd  Clermont^  and  by  bkx>d 
Descended  from  Angrante :  under  cover 
Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood, 
But  certain  savage  giants  look'd  him  over  I 
One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 
And  Alabaster  and  Moigante  hover 
Second  and  third,  with  certain  slingi,  and  throw 
In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  wo  more^ 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood. 
Orlando  knock'd,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seemf'd  good; 
Enter'd,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  bom  of  Mary's  holiest  bkwd, 
And  was  baptized  a  Christian;  and  then  slow'd 
How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  hiaroaA 

Sfud  the  abbot:  <<You  are  welcome;  what  is  mine 
We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  bdieve 
With  us  in  Mary  Mother'sSon  divine; 
And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conoetve 
The  cause  of  omr  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rustidty,  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr'd  to  you; 
Thus  tlK>0e  wbo  in  suspicion  live  must  da 

^n^hen  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  eame 
These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obieure, 
As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 
They  seem'd  to  promise  an  asylum  sure : 
From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fteroe  to  tam^ 
'Twas  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure; 
But  now,  if  here  we'd  stay,  we  needs  nrast  guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watdi  and  ward. 


''These  make  us  stand,  in  foct,  upon  the  walcii; 
For  late  there  have  appear'd  three  giants  rough ; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  bafcb 
I  Imow  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff; 
When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  nMUcfa^ 
You  Imow,  they  can  do  all  —  we  are  not  eDougk: 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  vdiat  to  do  tiO  matters  ohaaga 

''Our  ancient  fhthers  living  the  desert  In, 

For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed; 

Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  'tis  cer^Bin 

That  manna  was  rain'd  down  from  heaveft  fawtMid; 

But  here  'tis  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  In 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  sbower'ddowft for  brad, 

From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  fiuter^ 

And  fluQg  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

"The  third,  Morgante,  's  savagest  by  for;  he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  uud  onks^ 
And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury. 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes/* 
While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  stroket. 
Which  nearly  crush'd  Aondell,  came 
So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  eo v< 


'For  God's  sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  i 
The  manna's  foiling  now,"  the  abbot  cried: 
^'This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  hone  should  tetd. 
Dear  Abbot,''  Roland  unto  him  repfied; 
"Of  restiveness  he  'd  cure  him  had  he  need; 
That  stone  seems  with  good- will  and  idns  appfted" 
The  holy  fother  said,  "I  don't  deceive; 
They^U  one  day  fling  the  jBOuataln,  I  bdkfs.^ 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  RondellOf 
And  also  made  a  breakfost  of  hb  own: 
"Abbot,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  find  that  fdlow 
Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  comer-atone." 
Said  the  abbot:  "Let  not  my  advice  seem  rtadknr. 
As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  atrilh, 
As  knowing  sure  tiiat  you  will  lose  your  lilew 

"That  Passamont  has  in  his  liand  three  darte  — 
Such  slings,  clubs,  baRast-stones,  that  ylefci  you  n 
You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  1 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just; 
If  go  you  will,  guard  well  agadnst  tiieir  arts, 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust" 
Orlando  answcr'd,  "This  I'll  see^  be  sure,. 
And  walk  the  w  ild  on  foot  to  be  i 


The  abbot  sign'd  the  great  cross  on  his  frtNit, 
"Then  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  ■une;" 
Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mounts 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  fine 
Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  tins  design^ 
Survey'd  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant^ 
Then  asked  him :  "If  he  wish'd  to  stay  as  servant  f 


MORGANTB  MAGOIORB. 


655 


And  ptonu9ed  bim  an  offioe  of  freat  e«M . 
Bot,  aatd  Orlaado,  '*Sarauea  insane  I 
I  oome  to  kiJl  yoo,  if  it  shall  so  please 
God,  not  to  senre  as  footboy  in  your  train; 
Toa  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the  peaoe  — 
Tile  dog !  'tis  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  fariotts. 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 

And  being  retnrn'd  to  where  Orlando  stood. 
Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 
The  cord,  he  hnri'd  a  stone  with  strragtb  so  rude, 
Aa  showM  a  sample  of  bis  skill  in  slinging; 
It  it^Pd  on  Count  Orlando's  hebnet  good 
And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing, 
So  tiiat  he  swoon'd  with  pain  as  if  be  died. 
But  more  than  dead,  he  aeem'^  so  stupiflod* 

Then  PaMamont,  who  tbonght  him  slain  outright, 
Sud,  *'I  will  go,  and,  while  be  lies  along, 
IHaarm  me :  why  such  craven  did  I  figbt?" 
Bat  Christ  bis  servants  ne'er  abandons  kmg, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight. 
As  to  desert  wonid  almost  be  a  wrong. 
While  the  giant  goes  to  pat  off  bis  defences, 
Orlando  has  recall'd  bis  force  and  senses: 

And  load  be  shouted,  ^Qumt,  where  dost  go  ? 
Thoa  thoughtst  me  doid>t]ess  for  the  bier  outlaid ; 
To  the  right  aboat ' —  without  wings  thou'rt  too  slow 
To  fly  nqr  vengeance  —  currish  renegade ! 
T  was  bat  by  treachery  thou  laidst  me  low." 
The  giant  bis  astonishment  betray'd, 
And  tarn'd  about,  and  stopp'd  his  journey  on, 
And  dien  he  stoop'd  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand. 
To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed  — 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand, 
And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeem'd, 
Tet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  be  bann'd. 
And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed; 
But  while  bis  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orbndo  thank'd  the  Father  and  the  Woit}>  — 

Saying:  ''What  grace  to  me  dion  'si  this  day  given  1 

And  1  to  thee,  oh  Lord,  am  ever  bound. 
:  I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 
I  Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  down'd. 

AH  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  nouglit  be  found: 

I  pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can 

At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 

And  having  said  fhuB  much,  he  went  his  way; 

,  And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 
To  root  from  out  a  bank  a  rook  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  be  reached  him,  loud  'gan  say, 
''How  tbinkst  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  to  throw  V* 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 

^Be  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling. 


And  hurl'd  a  fn^gment  of  a  sise  so  laige^ 

That  if  it  bad  in  foct  fulfiifd  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  avaifd  him  of  bb  taige^ 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  pfaysioiaB* 

Orlando  set  himself  in  torn  to  charge. 

And  in  bis  bulky  bosom  made  incbion 

With  all  his  sword.  The  lout  fell;  but,  o'ertbrowB,  he 

However  by  no  means  forgot  Ataoone. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode^ 
Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth. 
And  stretch'd  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode. 
And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  birth, 
Orlando  knock'd,  and  knock'd,  again  to  goad 
The  giant  from  bis  sleep;  and  be  came  forth. 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing. 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  bim  slumbering. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  anpent  had  aitaek'd  hio^ 

And  Mahomet  he  call'd,  but  MalHHnet 

Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back'd  ban ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  Bet 

At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  raek'd  bim; 

And  to  the  gate  be  came  with  great  regret  — 

"Who  knocks  here?"  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  ho: 

"That,"  said  Orlando,  "yoa  will  quickly  see. 

"I  came  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  yo«r  brothers, 
Sent  by  the  miserable  monks  —  repentance;  • 
For  Providence  divine,  in  yoa  and  others, 
Condemns  the  evil  done  by  new  acquaintance; 
'Tis  writ  on  high  —  your  wrong  must  pay  another's; 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence ; 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster/' 

Moigantesaid:  "O  gentle  cavalier  I 
Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 
The  fovour  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear. 
And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy.'' 
Replied  Orlando :  "So  much  to  your  ear 
I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly; 
Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord,. 
And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

The  Saracen  rejoin'd  in  humble  tone: 
"I  have  bad  an  extraordinary  vision; 
A  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone. 
And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition; 
Hence  to  tlij[  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferr'd  I  my  petition; 
His  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free. 
And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 

Orlando  ans  wer'd :  "Baron  Just  and  pioas^ 
If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  move 
To  the  true  God,  who  will  not  then  deny  u« 
Eternal  honour,  you  will  go  above. 
And,  if  you  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  us, 
And  I  will  love  you  with  a  perfect  love. 
Tour  idols  are  vain  liars  full  of  fraud. 
The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 


656 


ICORGANTB  MAOOIORB. 


'The  Lord  desoended  to  the  rlrgin  breut 
Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  diYioe; 
If  yoa  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  blest. 
Without  whom  neither  san  or  star  can  shine, 
Abjure  bad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test, 
Your  renegado  God,  and  worship  mine,  — 
Baptise  yourself  with  zeal,  since  you  repent" 
To  whidi  Moi^gante  answer'd:  <l'm  content" 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew. 
And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 
'*To  the  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  yoa :" 
To  whom  Morgante,  **Let  us  go,"replied ; 
"I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 
Which  thing  Orlando  heard  with  inward  pridi*, 
Sayiog:  ''My  brother,  so  devout  and  good, 
Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would : 

^'Sinoe  God  has  granted  your  illumination. 
Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own. 
Humility  should  be  your  first  oblation." 
Horgante  said :  "For  goodness'  sake,  make  known  -- 
Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine  —  your  station. 
And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown; 
Then  will  I  every  thing  at  yoar  command  do," 
On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

^Tben,"  quoth  the  giant,  ^'blessed  be  Jesu, 
A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise ! 
Oft,  perfect  baron !  have  I  heard  of  you 
Through  all  the  different  periods  of  my  days : 
And,  as  I  said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 
1  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 
Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say. 
And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

And  by  the  way,  about  the  giants  dead 
Orbmdo  \7iih  Morgante  reason'd:  *'Be, 
For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted. 
And,  rince  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  me; 
A  thousand  wrongs  unto  the  monks  they  bred ; 
And  our  true  scripture  soundctb  openly  — 
Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill. 
Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 

because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 
Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 
All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small; 
But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore: 
Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 
Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore: 
Ail  men  must  make  bis  will  their  wishes  sway. 
And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey. 

''And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord, 
Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion  — 
That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  heaven  the  Lord, 
If  pity  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 
For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 
In  hell  below,  and  damn'd  in  great  confusion,  -* 
Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nouglit. 
And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought 


""Bat  they  in  Christ  bsve  irniert  hope,  and  an 
Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appear 
Well  done;  nor  could  it  otherwise  befall; 
He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err : 
If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endles  thrall. 
They  don't  disturb  themselves  for  him  or  her; 
What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ;  — 
Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

''A  word  unto  the  wise,''  Moigante  said, 
'*ls  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  grieve  about  my  brethren  dead ; 
And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  good  to  me. 
Just,  as  you  tell  me,  't  is  in  heaven  obey'd  — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  —  merry  let  us  be! 
I  will  cut  off  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks. 
And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

''So  that  all  persons  mny  be  sure  and  cotun 

That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  fear 

To  wander  solitary  this  desert  in. 

And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  dear 

By  the  Lord's  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  flie  curtain 

Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  appear." 

He  cut  his  brethren's  hands  off  at  these  words. 

And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  btrda. 

Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together, 
Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt 
The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  thither. 
To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout. 
Saying,  with  tremor,  *'Please  to  tell  us  whether 
You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out?" 
The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant. 
Too  greatly  fear'd,  at  first,  to  be  compliant 

Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated. 
Said  quickly :  "Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  dieer ; 
He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated. 
And  hath  renounced  his  Macon  false;"  which  here 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 
A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear : 
Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adorrd. 
Saying :  ^hou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord !" 

He  gazed;  Morgante's  height  he  calculated. 
And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  sixe; 
And  then  he  said:  "Oh  giant  celebrated. 
Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  ariae. 
How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late  did. 
When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 
You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 
Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  foe. 

"And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  onee  named. 
Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 
Tin  one  day  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 
"Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thnsT"  said  Christ; 
And  then  from  his  offence  he  was  reclaim'd. 
And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ; 
And  of  the  (kith  became  a  trump,  whose  sonndiq^ 
O'er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebounding. 


] 


MOROANTE  MA6GI0RB. 


657 


*90y  my  Morgante,  yoa  may  do  likewise; 

He  who  repeats,  —  thus  writes  the  ETangelist,  — 

Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  ttie  celestial  list 

Ton  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  seal  for  the  Lord,  that  you'll  exist 

Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore ; 

Bat  yoa  were  lost  and  damn'd  to  hell  before  I" 

And  thus  great  hononr  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot:  many  days  they  did  repose. 
One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  bodi  stray'd, 
And  samj^r'd  here  and  there,  where'er  they  chose, 
The  ablK^t^bow'd  a  chamber, where  array'd 
Mnch  ardipar  was,  and  hung  np  certain  bows; 
And  one  c^these  Moi^nte  for  a  whim 
Girt  on,  thi^ogh  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

There  being'a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 
Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 
^'Morgant^I  could  wish  you  in  this  case 
To  go  for  water."  ''You  shall  be  obey'd 
In  all  commands,"  was  the  reply,  ''straight-way." 
Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid, 
And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a  fountain, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  mountain. 

ArriTed  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears. 
Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 
Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 
An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head; 
And  lo !  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears, 
And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread. 
And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours ; 
So  that  the  giant 's  join'd  by  all  the  boars. 

M oigante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow. 
Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear, 
And  pass'd  unto  the  other  side  quite  thorough; 
So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripp'd  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  forrow. 
Against  the  giant  rush'd  in  fierce  career. 
And  reach'd  the  passage  with  so  swift  a  foot, 
Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot 

Perodving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close. 

He  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head 

As  floor'd  him,  so  that  he  no  more  arose  — 

Smashing  the  very  bone;  and  he  fell  dead 

Next  to  the  other.  Having  seen  such  blows. 

The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fied ; 

Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 

Foil  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved  nor  shook. 

The  ton  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t'  other,  and  he  brush'd  apace 
On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 

r  Nor  apilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 
Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 
With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful  vase, 

^  Marvefl'd  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ;  — 

^  So  did  the  abbot^  and  set  wide  the  gate. 


The  monks,  who  siy^  the  water  fresh  and  good. 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork; 
All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food : 
They  hiy  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 
With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood. 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their  fork. 
Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear. 
For  all  the  &sts  are  now  left  In  arrear. 

As  though  they  wish'd  to  burst  at  once,  tliey  ate; 
And  goiged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat. 
Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick'd  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honour  great, 
A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene. 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse  well  train'd. 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  himself  midntain'd. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led. 
To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 
Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had. 
Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough; 
But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead. 
And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hoof. 
Morgante  said:  "Get  up,  thou  sulky  curl' 
And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount. 
And  said,  "I  am  as  light  as  any  feather. 
And  he  has  burst  —  to  this  what  say  you,  Count?" 
Orlando  answcr'd,  "Like  a  ship's  mast  rather 
You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front :  — 
Let  him  go;  fortune  wills  that  we  together 
Should  march,  but  you  on  foot,  Morgante^  stilt" 
To  whidi  the  giant  answered,  "So  I  will. 

"When  there  shall  be  occasion,  yon  shall  see 
How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fight" 
Orlando  said :  "I  really  think  you  'U  be. 
If  it  should  prove  God's  will,  a  goodly  knight, 
Nor  will  you  napping  there  disoover  me : 
Bat  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 
'T  were  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood. 
If  but  the  means  or  way  I  understood." 

The  giant  said :  "Then  carry  him  I  will, 
Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack  — 
To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 
But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back." 
Orlando  answcr'd:  "If  my  counsel  still 
May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 
To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who. 
As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

"Take  care  he  don't  reveoge  himself,  though  dead. 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  aU  cure; 
I  don't  know  if  the  fact  you  've  heard  or  read, 
But  he  will  make  yon  burst,  you  maybe  sure." 
"But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 
"And  yon  shall  see  what  weight  I  can  endure: 
In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey. 
With  aU  the  bells,  I  'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 
42 


658 


MORGANTB  MaGGIORB. 


The  abbot  said :  ''The  steeple  may  d%well, 
Buty  for  the  bells,  you  've  broken  them  I  wot" 
Morgante  answer'd,  ''Let  them  pay  iu  hell 
The  penalty,  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot:'' 
And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  fell, 
He  said :  "Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got,* 
Orlando,  in  the  legs  —  or  if  I  have  force;"  — 
And  then  be  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse. 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  framed; 
So  if  he  did  this,  'tis  no  prodigy; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed^ 
Because  he  was  one  of  his  family; 
And,  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maim'd. 
Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  bis  burthen  by; 
"Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in." 
Morgante  said,  "I'll  carry  him  for  certain." 

He  did;  and  stow'd  him  in  some  nook  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  return'd  with  speed. 
Orlando  said :  "Why  longer  do  we  stay  ? 
Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed." 
The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 
And  said  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 
To  leave  his  Reverence;  but  for  this  decision 
He  wish'd  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 

The  honours  they  continued  to  receive 
Perhaps  exceeded  what  1ms  merits  claim'd: 
He  said :  "I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 
The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  bhimed ; 
Some  days  ago  I  should  have  ask'd  your  leave, 
Kind  father,  but  I  really  was  ashamed, 
And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment, 
So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content 

"But  in  my  heart  I  bear  tlirough  every  clime. 
The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  solitude  — 
So  much  1  love  you  in  so  short  a  time; 
For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all  good. 
The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime! 
Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood : 
Meanwhile  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing, 
And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing." 

Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlando  heard. 
His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness, 
Such  fervour  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word; 
And,  "Cavalier,"  he  said,  "if  I  have  less 
Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  appear'd. 
Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express, 
I  know  I've  done  too  little  in  this  case; 
Bat  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place. 

"We  can  indeed  but  honour  you  with  masses. 
And  sermonSik  thanksgivings,  and  paternosters. 
Hot  suppers,  dinners  (fitting  other  places 
111  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters) ; 
But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces. 
For  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom  fosters, 
That  wheresoe'er  you  go,  I  too  shall  be. 
And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 


^'Thls  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction; 
But  you,  I  know,  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste, 
And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 
For  your  just  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 
With  the  Lord's  great  reward  and  benedictioii. 
By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste: 
To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due. 
For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  yoo. 

"You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul:  such  fear 

The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 

In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here» 

That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost; 

But  months  and  years  you  could  not  stay  in  sloth^ 

Nor  are  you  form'd  to  wear  our  sober  cloth; 

"But  to  bear  arms  and  wield  the  lance;  indeed. 
With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  cowl; 
In  proof  of  which  the  scripture  you  may  read. 
Tills  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 
By  your  compassion;  now  in  peace  proceed. 
Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroU, 
But,  if  I'm  asked,  this  answer  shall  be  given. 
That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven. 

"If  you  want  armour  or  aught  else,  go  in. 
Look  o'er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you  chose; 
And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  gianf  s  skin." 
Orlando  answer'd :  "If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armour,  ere  our  journey  we  begin. 
Which  might  be  tum'd  to  my  companion's  use. 
The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 
The  abbot  said  to  him:  "Come  in  and  see." 

And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  wall 
Was  cover'd  with  old  armour  like  a  crust. 
The  abbot  said  to  them:  "I  give  you  all." 
Morgante  rummaged  piece-meal  from  the  dust 
The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  small. 
And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 
They  wonder'd  how  it  fitted  him  exactly, 
W^hich  ne'er  had  suited  others  so  compactly. 

'T  was  an  immeasurable  gianf  s,  who 
By  the  great  Milo  of  Argantc  fell 
Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 
The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well; 
In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe. 
Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable: 
Precisely  as  the  war  occurr'd  they  drew  him. 
And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 

Seeing  this  history,  Count  Orlando  said 
In* his  own  heart,  "Oh  God!  who  in  the  sky 
Knowst  all  things,  how  was  Milo  hither  led. 
Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die?" 
And  certain  letters,  weeping,  tlien  he  read. 
So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry,  — 
As  I  will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 
From  evil  keep  you,  the  high  King  of  Glory  ! 


659 


THE  BLUES*); 

A     LITERARY     BCL06UB. 


"Nimlom  ne  erede  colorL'*  —  Vihoil. 

O  trnst  not,  ye  b«aoU/al  creatures,  to  hue, 

Thongh  yonr  hair  were  as  red,  as  your  siockiiiKs  are  blue. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 
London  —  Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  Tbacy,  meeting  Lskbl. 

Ml  You 're  too  late. 

TVtf.  Is  it  over? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd,  like  a  garden  in  flower. 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles ,  who  have  made  it  the 

feshion; 
So,  instead  of ''beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  ''la  belle  passion" 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world,  and  set  all  the  fine  gentlemen  reading. 

TVo.  I  know  it  too  well,  and  have  worn  out  my  patience 
With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There's  Yamp,  Scamp,  and  3£outhy,  and  Words  words 
With  their  damnable  —  [and  Co. 

Ink.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  know 

Whom  you  speak  to? 

JVa.  Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  "the  Row  ♦*) :" 
You  're  an  author  —  a  poet  — 

LUL  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence,  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses? 

TVtf.  Excuse  me:  I  meant  no  offenoe 

To  the  Nine ;  though  the  number  who  make  some  pretence 

*)  Aboat  the  year  I76I,  it  was  mach  the  Ashlon  for  several  ladies  to 
kaTe  erening  asjemblies,  where  the  fhir  &ez  might  participate  In  con- 
versacioa  with  literary  and  ingenlons  men,  animated  by  a  desire  to 
please.  These  societies  were  denominated  Bine-stocking  Clnbs;  the  origin 
af  which  title  being  little  Icnown,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  relate  IL  One 
of  the  most  eminent  members  of  tho^e  societies,  when  they  Arst  com- 
Benced,  was  Mr.  Stitlingfleet,  whose  dress  was  remarkably  grave,  and  in 
parlienjar  it  was  observed  that  h«  wore  blae  stockings.  Sach  was  the 
cxedlencc  of  his  conversation,  that  his  absence  was  felt  as  so  great  a  loss, 
that  it  used  to  be  said,  "W«  can  do  nothing  withoat  the  bine  stocliings;" 
and  tbos  i»y  degrca  the  title  was  etablbhed. 

**)  Paternoster-row  —  long  and  still  celebrated  as  a  verjr  bacaar  of 
hookscUers.  Sir  Walter  Scott  "hitches  into  rhyme"  one  of  the  most  im- 
portaaC  firms  —  that 

"Of  Longman,  Hnrst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Brown, 
OnrlUbcrs  of  the  Row." 


To  their  fovours  is  such but  the  subject  to  drop, 

I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publisher's  shop, 
(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook's ;  so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two  paces. 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places;) 
Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming  critique. 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek! 
Where  your  friend — you  know  who — has  just  got  such 

a  threshing. 
That  it  is,  as  the  phrase  goes^  extremely  ^refreehing,*' 
What  a  beauti^  word! 

Ink.  Very  true;  'tis  so  soft 

And  so  cooling  —  they  use  it  a  little  too  oft; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last  —  but  no  matter. 
So  they  've  cut  up  our  friend  then  ? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter  — 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation, 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age  and  the  nation. 

bik,  1  'm  sorry  to  hear  this  I  for  friendship,  you  know*  ~ 
Our  poor  friend  I  —  but  I  thought  it  would  terminate  so. 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I'll  read  nothing  to  shock  it 
You  don't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your  pocket? 

Tra.  No;  I  left  a  round  dozen  of  authors  and  others 
(Very  sorry,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a  brother's,) 
All  scrambling  and  jostling,  like  so  many  imps. 
And  on  fire  with  impatience  to  get  the  next  glimpse. 

Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra.  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture  ? 

Ink.  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramm'd,  there's  not  room 
for  a  spectre. 
Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd  — 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him  ? 

Ink.  I  heard 

Quite  enough;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  retreat 
Was  from  his  vile  nonsense,  no  less  than  the  heat 

TVo.  I  have  had  no  great  loss  then? 

Ink.  Loss !  —  such  a  palaver  I 

I'd  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 


660 


THB  BLUES. 


Of  a  dog  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he  pours, 
Pump'd  up  with  such  effort,  disgorged  with  such  labour, 
That come^do  not  make  me  speak  ill  of  one's  neigh- 
bour. 

Tro*  /make  you! 

Ink,  Tes,  yon !  I  said  nothing  antil 

Ton  compelled  me,  by  speaking  the  truth — 

TVa.  lb  speak  ittr 

Is  that  your  deduction? 

Ink,  When  speaking  of  Scamp  ill, 

I  certainly /oZ/ott',  not  tet  an  example. 
The  fellow's  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 

TVtf.  And  the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that  one  fool 
makes  many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise. 

Ink,  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire. 

TVtf.  I  would,  but 

Ink,  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 

Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jews'  harp  he  nicknames  bis  lyre, 
To  call  you  to  this  hot-bed. 

2V«.  I  own  it— 'tis  true — 

A  four  lady 

JM,  A  spinster  ? 

TVo.  lliss  Lilac! 

Ink,  The  Blue! 

The  heiress? 

Tra,  The  angel! 

LUk,  The  devil !  why,  man! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
You  wed  with  Miss  Lilac!  't  would  be  your  perdition: 
She's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematidan. 

TVtf.  I  say  she's  an  angeL 

Ink.  Say  rather  an  an^fle. 

If  yon  and  she  marry,  you'll  certainly  wrangle  *). 
1  say  she's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 

Dra,  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming  together? 

Ikk*  Humph !  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy  alliance 
Which  has  lately  sprung  up  from  a  wedlock  with  science. 
She's  so  learned  in  all  things ,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning, 
That 

2V«.        What? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongne ; 

But  there's  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you  you're 
wrong. 

TVo,  Ton  forget  Lady  Lilac's  as  rich  as  a  Jew, 

Ink,  Is  it  Miss,  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you  pursue? 

TVo.  Why,  Jack,  I '11  be  frank  with  you  ^something 
The  girl's  a  fine  girL  [of  both. 

Ink,  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good  lady-mother's  reversion ;  and  yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  I  will  bet 

Tra,  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes;  I  demand 
Nothing  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter  and  hand. 

*)  Her  ftvonrite  idence  wif  the  nathanaded 
— In  ibort,  ih«  wu  a  walking  calcnlation, 
MlM  Bdfaworth'i  novcb  ateppinf  Item  tfadr  ooTcri, 
Morality'*  prlni  pcnonMcaUoa  -~ 
But  ~  oh  1  ye  Jordu  of  ladies  inteliectaal, 
lororm  as  truly,  have  they  not  hen.pcck'd  yoa  allf 


Ink,  Why,  that  heart's  in  the  inkstand^tbat  hand 
on  the  pen.  [tliea? 

TVtf.  A  propos  —  Will  you  write  me  a  aong  now  aid 

Ink.  To  what  purpose? 

TVa.               Tou  know,  my  dear  firiend,  tiiat  in  prose 
My  talent  Is  decent,  as  fiur  as  it  goes ; 
But  in  rhyme 

JnJL  Ton're  a  terrible  slide,  to  be  snic; 

TVa,  1  own  It;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there 'a  no  hnt 
For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stansa  or  two; 
And  so,  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few  ? 

Ink,  In  your  name? 

7V«.  In  my  name.  I  will  oopy  then  out, 

To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout 

Ink,  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hasard  this? 

TVa.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-8tocking*s  eye. 
So  fiv  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What  I've  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as  snblime? 

Ink.  At  sublime  /  If  it  be  so,  no  need  of  my  Muse; 

JVa.  But  consider,  dear  Inkel,  she^s  one  of  the^BIaes." 

Ink.  As  sublime!— Mr.  Tracy— I've  nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  prose  ^  As  sublime  !!^but  I  wish  yoogoodday. 

TVtf.  Nay,  stay,  my  dear  fellow— consider— I'n 
I  own  it;  but,  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 

Ink,  As  sublime!! 

7Va.  I  but  used  the  expression  in  1 

Ink,  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy ,  but  shows  damn'd  btd 
taste. 

TVo.  I  own  it  - 1  know  it^  acknowledge  it— what 
Can  I  say  to  you  more? 

Ink.  Iaeewhatyou*dbeat; 

Tou  disparage  my  parts  with  insidious  abuse^ 
Till  you  think  yon  can  turn  them  best  to  your  own  use. 

TVff.  And  is  that  not  a  sign  I  respect  them  f 

Ink.  Why,  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference. 

7V«.  I  know  what  is  what: 

And  you,  who  're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a  poet  of  t*  other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean,  by  a  word,  to  offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend.  fis  doe 

Ink,  No  doubt;  you  by  this  time  should  know  what 
To  a  man  of —  but  come — let  us  shake  hands. 

TVa,  Youkacw, 

And  yon  know,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy.  [sale; 

InL  That's  my  bookseller's  business;  I  care  not  Ik. 
Indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fiul. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays, 
And  my  own  grand  romance 

TVtf.  Had  its  fall  share  of  praise 

I  myself  saw  it  puTd  in  the  'H>ld  Girl's  Review  *) ." 

Ink.  What  Review?  [Trevoox;' 

TVa,  'T  is  the  Englirii  •"Journal  4ft 

A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it? 

Ink,  That  pleasure's  to  c 


*)  *MyOrandmother»sBeTiew,thcBrkiak''— Tltbhca^joaMl 
has  siiicc  heen  gathered  to  to  gimdnMCfaera. 


THB  BLUBS. 


661 


Drm.  Make  haste  then. 

Ldk.  Why  so? 

TVs.  I  have  heard  pe<^le  say 

rhat  it  threatened  to  gire  ap  the  ghost  f  other  day.  ' 

ML  WelJ,  that  Is  a  sign  of  some  igMni. 

TVik  No  doubt 

Hiall  yon  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome's  roat? 

Ink.  I 'Tea  card,  and  shall  go:  but  at  present,  as  soon 
Kb  friend  Scamp  shall  be  pleased  to  step  down  £h>m  the 

moon 
[Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits), 
iad  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
[*Qi  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation, 
ro  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learnM  conversation: 
T  is  a  sort  of  re-union  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
[)f  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and  praise; 
lind  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that 't  is  not  unpleasant 
W^ill  you  go?  There 's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  present 

TVo.  That  ''metal's  attractive.'' 

LJL  No  doubt  —  to  the  pocket. 

TV-a,  Ton  should  rather  encourage  my  passion  than 
shock  it  « 

But  let  us  proceed ;  for  I  think,  by  the  hum  —  — 

ink.  Very  true;  let  us  go,  then,  before  they  can  come, 
Or  else  we  'II  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy. 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Bark!  Zounds,  they  '11  be  on  us ;  I  know  by  the  drone 
[)f  old  Botherby's  spouting  ex-cathedr&  tone. 
ly!  there  he  is  at  it  Poor  Scamp!  better  join 
four  friends,  or  he  '11  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 

TVtf.  All  fair;  't  is  but  lecture  for  lecture. 

JU.  Tbaf  s  clear. 

But  for  God's  sake  let 's  go,  or  the  Bore  will  be  here. 
CSome^  come :  nay,  I  'm  off.  [Exit  ihksl. 

2Va.  Tou  are  right,  and  I  '11  follow ; 

T  is  bigb  time  for  a  ^Sie  me  tervavit  ApoUo  *)." 
Iknd  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandies,  and  dowagers,  and  second-hand  scribes, 
%ll  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle's. 

CExic  TB4CT. 


ECLOGUE  SECOND. 

if »  AparUMnt  in  the  House  of  Lady  BlUjoottlb.  ^  A 
Table  prepared, 

Sis  RiCHAED  BlAJSBOTTLB  Mloa. 

^as  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so  sorry? 
[ike  a  fool,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  a  hurry. 

*)  SoChcby  ii  «  good  man  —  rhymes  well  (if  doc  wisely);  bat  Is  • 
lora.  He  sekes  yov  by  the  bottou.  Oae  night  of  a  root  at  Mrs.  Hope*!, 
It  had  Ihsttaed  npoa  me  ->  (something  abont  Agamemnoo,  or  Orestes, 
r  aomt  ofUa  plays)  notwithstanding  my  sympcomsof  manlftst  distress  — 
Ikr  I  was  in  Iotc^  and  Jast  nicked  a  minaCe  when  neither  mothers,  nor 
lalMundSy  nor  rivals,  nor  gossips  were  near  my  then  idol,  who  was  bean- 
Ifcl  n»  the  Staines  of  the  gallery  where  we  stood  at  the  time.  Bolheby,  I 
^«  bnd  seised  npon  me  by -the  bntton  and  the  heartstrings,  and  spared 
tUhcr.  WiUSm  Spencer,  who  likes  fen,  and  don*t  disttke  mischief, 
IV  Bay  case,  and  coming  ap  to  ns  both,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  pa^ 
Mkafly  bade  me  fkrewell;  "for,"  said  he,  "I  see  it  is  all  OTer  with 
•a."     Sotbeby  then  went  away:    sic  me  servavit  Apollo.    £yron*s 


&ry  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy'd ; 
My  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void. 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employed : 
The  twelve,  do  I  say  ?  —  of  the  whole  twenty-four. 
Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  own  any  more? 
What  with  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and  dining, 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scribbling,  and 

shining. 
In  science  and  art,  I  '11  be  cursed  if  I  know 
Myself  from  my  wife;  for  although  we  are  two, 
Tet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things  shall  be  done 
In  a  style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 
But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 
Than  the  bills  of  the  week  (though  they  trouble  me  sore) 
Is  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue. 
Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost 
—  For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray'd  bj^the  host  -« 
No  pleasure  I  no  leisure!  no  thought  for  my  pains, 
But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains; 
A  smatter  and  chatter,  glean'd  out  of  reviews. 
By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call  <*Blues:" 

A  rabble  who  know  not But  soft,  here  they  come ! 

Would  to  Ck>d  I  were  deaf  I  as  I  'm  not,  I  '11  be  dumb. 


£nter  Lady  BLUBBorrLt,3liMLiLA0,  Ladt  Blubxoctnt,  Mb.  Botbibbt, 
iMKtu  TaicT,  Miaa  Masabuo,  and  others,  with  Scaht  the  Lectu- 
rer, etc 

Zndy  Blueb,  Ah!  Sir  lUchard,  good  morning;  I  've 
brought  you  some  friends. 

Sir  Bieh,  (bows,  and  afterwards  aside.)   If  friends,  they  're 
the  first 

Ladtf  Blueb,  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  ^'sans  eh'hmme*^ 
Mr,  Scamp,  you'  re  fatigued;  take  your  chair  there, 

next  me.  CThey  all  sit. 

Sir  Rich,  (asideO    If  he  does,  his  fetigue  is  to  come. 

Lady  Blueb,  Mr.  Tracy  — 

Lady  Biuemonnt —  Miss  Lilao—  be  pleased,  pray,  to 
'  And  you,  Mr.  Botherby  —  [place  ye ; 

Both,  Oh,  my  dear  Lady, 

I  obey. 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Inkel,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye: 
Yon  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  I  was; 

But  the  beat  forced  me  out  in  the  best  part  —  aJas  I 
And  when 

LadyBbub.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling;  but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a  lecture! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

2Va.  How  can  you  know  that?  there  are  two  more. 

Boa.  Because 

I  defy  him  to  beat  this  day's  wondrous  appbinse. 
The  very  walls  shook. 

Ink,  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I  allow  our  friend  Scamp  has  this  day  done  his  best 
Miss  Litec,  permit  me  to  help  you;  —  a  wlngt 

Miss  IaL  No  more,  sir,  I  thank  you.   Who  lectures 

Both.  Dick  Dunder.  [next  spring? 

Ink.  Thatis,ifhelivc% 


662 


THB  BtUfiS. 


Ms$  IaL  And  why  not? 

Ink,  No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he '8  a  sot 
Lad  J  Biaemount!  a  glaw  of  Madeira? 

Lmtfy  Bluem,  With  pleasure. 

/nA.  How  does  jour  friend  Wordswords,  that  Win* 
dennere  treasure? 
Does  he  stick  to  liis  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he  sings. 
And  their  gatherers,  as  Homer  sang  warriors  and  kings? 

Lmdy  Bhieh,  He  has  jost  got  a  place. 

Ink,  As  a  footman? 

Ladjf  Bluem.  For  shame ! 

Nor  profene  with  jonr  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 

InK  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  pitied  bis  master; 
For  the  poet  of  pcdlers  't  were,  sure,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a  new  livery;  the  more,  as 't  is  not 
The  first  time  he  has  tum'd  both  his  creed  and  his  coat 

Lady  Bluem.  For  shame  I  I  repeat   If  Sir  George 
could  but  hear 

LadjfBlueh,  Nevermind  our  friend  Inkel;  we  all  know, 
my  dear, 
"Tts  his  way. 

Sir  Rich.        But  this  place 

Ink,  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 

Lady  Blueh,  Excuse  me  —  'tis  one  in  '^he  Stamps  r'' 
He  is  made  a  collector. 

TVa.  Collector! 

Sir  Rich,  How? 

MissLil.  What? 

Ink,  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy  a  new  hat: 
There  his  works  will  appear 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

Ink,  I  sha'n't  go  so  far  —  I  can  have  them  at  Grange's. 

Lady  Blueh.  Oh  fie! 

Miss  LiL  And  for  shame ! 

Lady  Bluem.  You're  too  bad. 

Botk,  Very  good! 

LadyBhtem.  How  good? 

Lady  Bhieh,  He  means  nought  —  'tis  his  phrase. 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueh,  He  means  nothing;  nay,  ask  him. 

Lady  Bluem.  Pray,  sir !  did  you  mean 

What  you  say? 

Ink.  Never  mind  if  he  did ;  'twill  be  seen 

That  whatever  he  means  won't  alloy  what  he  says. 

Both.  Sir  I 

Ink.  Pray  be  content  with  yourportion  of  praise; 
Twas  in  your  defence. 

Both,  If  you  please,  with  submission, 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botherby,  never  defend 
Yourself  or  your  works ;  but  leave  both  to  a  friend. 
A  propos  —  Is  your  play  then  accepted  at  last? 

Both.  At  last? 

Ink.  Why  I  thought  --  that 's  to  say — there  had  pass'd 
A  few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted  —  you  know. 
That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so. 

Botk.  Sir,  the  green-room's  in  rapture,  and  so 's  the 
committee. 

Ink.  Ay  —  yours  are  the  plays  for  exciting  our  "pi^ 


And  fear,''  as  the  Greek  says :  for  ^pntgiaig  the  mmV 
1  doubt  if  you  'II  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 

Botk.  I  have  written  the  prologue,  and  memnt  to  have 
For  a  spice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue's  aid.  Lp*^^ 

ML  Well,  timeenooghyet, when  tbeplay'sto  be playU 
Is  it  cast  yet  ? 

Both,  The  actors  are  fis^tii^  for  parts. 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  lit^|;ioas  of  arts. 

Lady  Blueh.  We'll  all  make  a  party,  and  go  tktfrsl 

TVa.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  InkeL      [night 

Ink.  Mot  ^aile. 

However,  to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 
I'll  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  be  double. 

Tra.  Why  so? 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Botk.  Sir,  I'm  happy  to  say,  I  haye  no  feus  oa  that 
Your  parts,  Mr.  Inkel,  are — —  [aeon. 

Jnk.  Never  mind  mem ; 

Stick  to  those  of  your  play,  whidi  is  quite  your  own  fine. 

Lady  Bluem,  You're  a  fugitive  writer,  I  think,  sir,  of 
rhymes? 

Ink,  Yes,  ma'am;  and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes^ 
On  Words  words,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight. 
Or  on  Mouthey,  his  friend,  without  taking  to  fiigfat 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  your  taste  is  too  common;  but  time 
and  posterity 
Will  r^ht  these  great  men,  and  this  age's  severity 
Become  its  reproach. 

Ink.  I've  no  sort  of  objection. 

So  I'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection.     [wiH  take? 

Lady  Blueh.  Perhaps  you  have  doubts  that  they  ever 

Ink.  Not  at  all;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  lake 
Have  taken  ahready,  and  still  will  continue 
To  take  —  what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a  guinea. 
Of  pension  or  place;  —  but  the  subject 's  a  bore. 

Lady  Bluem,  Well,  sir,  the  time 's  coming. 

Ink.  Scamp !  don't  you  feel  sore? 

What  say  you  to  this? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 

Ink,  Then  why  not  unearth  it  in  one  of  your  lectures? 

Scamp.  It  is  only  time  past  which  comes  under  my 
strictures. 

Lady  Blueh.  Come,  a  truce  with  all  tartness:  —  the 
joy  of  my  heart 
Is  too  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  that  is  art 
Wild  Nature!  —  Grand  Shakspeare! 

Botk.  And  down  Aristollr! 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir  George  thinks  exactly  with  Ledj 
Bluebottle; 
And  my  Lord  Seventy-four,  who  protects  our  dear  Bard,   i 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard  i 

For  the  poet,  w  ho,  si  nging  of  pedlers  and  asses,  ] 

Has  found  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Pamaasiis.  | 

TVa.  And  you.  Scamp !  —  j 

Scamp.  I  needs  must  confess  I'm  embamsMn 

Ink.  Don't  call  upon  Scamp,  who's  ahready  so  hanarifl 

With  old  schools,  and  new  sckooUf  and  no  eckaaie,  anAdfl 

schools.  I 

Tra.  Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  mam  mustbelbahl 
I  should  like  to  know  who. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


663 


hdu  And  I-shoQld  not  be  sorry 

ro  know  who  are  not:  ^  it  would  save  us  some  worry. 

Lmdjf  JBhteb,  A  tmoe  with  remark,  and  let  nothing  con- 
riiis  *feast  of  oar  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul."        [trol 
[lh!  my  dear  Mr.  Botberby !  sympathise!  —  I 
Mow  feel  such  a  rapture,  I'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic  —  '*so  buoyant  —  $o  Imoyanti" 

ML  Tracy!  open  the  window. 

2V*  I  wish  her  much  Joy  on't 

BotM,  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check  not 
rius  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Dpon  earth.  Give  it  way;  'tis  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth ;  the  sublimest  of  gifts ; 
Por  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chain'd  to  his  mountain. 
Tis  the  source  of  all  sentiment  —  feeling's  true  fountain: 
ITis  tbe  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth:  'tis  tho  gas 
Of  the  soul:  'tis  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass, 
^d  making  them  substance:  'tis  something  divine:  — 

Jnk»  Shall  I  help  yon,  my  friend^  to  a  little  more  wine? 

Both,  I  thank  you ;  not  any  more^  sir,  till  I  dine. 

JjiA.  A  propos  —  Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphry  to- 
day? [your  way. 

7V«.  1  should  think  with  Duke  Humphry  was  more  in 

Ink.  It  might  be  of  yore;  but  wc  autliors  now  look 
Eo  tbe  knighty  as  a  landlord,  much  more  than  the  Duke. 


The  truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  ease  is. 

And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where  he  pleases. 

But  'tis  now  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 

TVtf.  And  I'll  take  a  turn  with  you  there  till  'tis  dark. 
And  you,  Scamp  -* 

Scamp.  Excuse  me ;  I  must  to  my  notes. 

For  my  lecture  next  week. 

■ink.  He  must  mind  whom  be  quotes 

Out  of  ''Elegant  Extracts.'' 

Ladjf  Bbuh,  Well,  now  we  break  up ; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle  invites  us  to  sup. 

Ink,  Then  at  twobours  past  midnight  we  all  meet  again, 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champaigne ! 

Tra,  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad! 

Both, ,  I  honour  that  meal ; 

For  'tis  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely —feel. 

Ink,  True;  feeling  is  truest  ihen,  far  beyond  question: 
I  wish  to  the  gods  'twas  the  same  witli  digestion ! 

Ladjf  Blueb.  Pshaw !  ~  never  mind  that ;  for  one  mo- 
Is  worth  —  God  knows  what.  [mcnt  of  feeling 

Ink                                'Tis  at  least  worth  concealing 
For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  comes  your  car- 
riage. 

Sir  Rich,  (aside.)  I  wish  all  these  people  were  d d 

with  my  marriage!  [ExeuDu 


A    FRAGMENT. 


June,  17, 1810. 

In  the  year  17 — ,  having  for  some  time  determined  on 
I  journey  through  countries  not  hitherto  much  frcquent- 
sdby  travellers,  I  set  out,  accompanied  by  a  friend,  whom 
[  shall  desigpiate  by  the  name  of  Augustus  Darvell.  He 
iras  a  few  years  my  elder,  and  a  man  of  considerable  for- 
ame  and  ancientfomily— advantages  which  an  extensive 
apadty  prevented  him  alike  from  undervaluing  or  over- 
ating.  Some  peculiar  circumstances  in  his  private  history 
lad  rendered  him  to  me  an  object  of  attention,  of  interest, 
ind  even  of  regard,  which  neither  the  reserve  of  his  man- 
lers,  nor  occasional  indications  of  an  inquietude  at  times 
learly  approaching  to  alienation  of  mind,couId  extinguish . 

I  wa5  yet  young  in  life,  wliich  I  had  begun  early;  but 
riy  intimacy  with  him  was  of  a  recent  date:  we  had  been 
dacated  at  the  same  schools  and  university;  but  hispro- 
teas  through  these  had  preceded  mine,  and  he  had  been 
leeply  initiated  into  what  is  called  the  world,  while  I  was 
iM  in  my  noviciate.  While  thus  engaged,  I  had  heard 
Mch  both  of  his  past  and  present  life ;  and,  although  in 
bese  accounts  there  were  many  and  irreconcilable  con- 
mdictions,  I  could  still  gather  from  the  whole  that  he  was 
lieing  of  no  common  order,  and  one  who,  whatever  pains 
e  might  take  to  avoid  remark,  would  still  be  remarkable. 


I  had  cultivated  his  acquaintance  subsequently,  and  en* 
dcavoured  to  obtain  his  friendship,  but  this  last  appeared 
to  be  unattainable;  whatever  affections  he  might  have 
possessed  seemed  now,  some  to  have  been  extinguished, 
and  others  to  be  concentred:  that  his  feelings  were  acute 
I  had  sufficient  opportunities  of  observing ;  for,  although 
he  could  control,  he  could  not  altogether  disguise  them: 
still  he  had  a  power  of  giving  to  one  passion  the  appear- 
ance of  another  in  such  a  manner  that  it  was  difficult  to 
define  the  nature  of  what  was  working  within  him;  and 
the  expressions  of  his  features  would  vary  so  rapidly, 
tliough  slightly,  that  it  was  useless  to  trace  them  to  tlieir 
sources.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  prey  to  some  cure- 
less disquiet;  but  whether  it  arose  from  ambition,  love, 
remorse,  grief,  from  one  or  all  of  these,  or  merely  from  a 
morbid  temperament  akin  to  disease,  I  could  not  discover : 
there  were  circumstances  alleged  which  might  have  justi- 
fied the  application  to  each  of  tliese causes;  but,  as  I  have 
before  said,  these  were  so  contradictory  and  contradicted, 
that  none  could  be  fixed  upon  with  accuracy.  Where  there 
is  mystery,  it  is  generally  supposed  that  there  must  also 
be  evil:  I  know  not  how  this  may  be,  but  in  him  there  cer- 
tainly was  theone,  though  I  could  not  ascertain  the  extent 
of  the  otiier  —  and  f^t  loth,  as  for  as  regarded  himselfi  to 


664 


A  FRAGilENT. 


believe  in  its  existenoe.  My  adTsaces  were  reoebed  with 
anffieieiit  coldness;  but  I  was  yoong^,  and  not  easily  dis- 
couraged, and  at  length  saoceeded  in  obtaining*  to  a  ob- 
tain degree,  thatoommon-plaoeinteroourseandmoderate 
confidence  of  common  and  every-day  concerns,  created 
and  cemented  by  similarity  of  porsnit  and  firequency  of 
meeting,  which  is  called  intimacy,  or  friendship,  according 
to  the  ideas  of  him  who  uses  those  words  to  express  them. 

Darvell  had  already  trayelled  extensively,  and  to  him 
I  had  applied  for  information  witli  regard  to  the  oondaet 
of  my  intended  journey.  It  was  my  secret  wish  that  he 
might  be  prevailed  on  to  accompany  me:  it  was  also  a 
probable  hope,  founded  apon  the  shadowy  restlessness 
which  I  had  observed  in  him,  and  to  which  the  animation 
which  he  appeared  to  feel  on  such  subjects,  and  his  appa- 
rent indifference  to  all  by  which  he  was  more  immediately 
surrounded,  gave  fresh  strength.  This  wish  I  first  hinted, 
and  then  expressed :  his  answer,  though  I  had  partly  ex- 
pected it,  gave  me  all  the  pleasure  of  surprise  —  he  con- 
sented; and,  after  the  requisite  arrangements,  we  com- 
menced our  voyages.  After  journeying  through  various 
countries  of  the  south  of  Europe,  our  attention  was  turned 
towards  the  East,  according  to  our  original  destina- 
tion; and  it  was  in  my  progress  through  those  regions 
that  the  incident  occurred  upon  wliich  will  turn  what  Imay 
have  to  relate. 

The  constitution  ofParvell,  which  must,  from  his  ap- 
pearance, have  been  in  early  life  more  than  usually  robust, 
had  been  for  some  time  gradually  giving  way,  without  the 
intervention  of  any  apparent  dis^ise :  he  had  neither  cough 
nor  hectic,  yet  he  became  daily  more  enfeebled:  his  habits 
were  temperate,  and  he  neither  declined  nor  complained 
of  fatigue,  yet  he  was  evidently  wasting  away :  he  became 
more  and  more  silent  and  sleepless,  and  at  length  so 
altered,  that  my  alarm  grew  proportionate  to  what  I  con* 
oeived  to  be  bis  danger. 

We  had  determined,  on  our  arrival  at  Smyrna,  on  an 
excursion  to  the  ruins  ofEphesus  andSardis,  from  which 
I  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him,  in  his  present  state  of  in- 
disposition— but  in  vain:  there  appeared  to  be  an  oppres- 
sion on  his  mind,  and  a  solemnity  in  his  manner,  which 
ill  corresponded  with  his  eagerness  to  proceed  on  what 
1  regarded  as  a  mere  party  of  pleasure^  little  suited  to  a 
valetudinarian;  but  I  opposed  him  no  longer  —  and  in  a 
few  days  we  set  off  together,  accompanied  only  by  a  ser- 
rugee  and  a  ringle  janizary. 

We  had  passed  half-way  towards  the  remains  ofEphe- 
sus, leaving  behind  us  the  more  fertile  environs  of  Smyrna, 
and  were  entering  upon  that  wild  and  tenantless  track 
through  the  marches  and  defiles  which  lead  to  the  few 
huts  yet  lingering  over  the  broken  columns  of  Diana  — 
the  roofless  walls  of  expelled  Christianity,  and  the  still 
more  recent  but  complete  desolation  of  abandoned  mos- 
ques —  when  the  sudden  and  rapid  illness  of  my  com- 
panion obliged  us  to  halt  at  a  Turiush  cemetery,  the  tur- 
bancd  tombstones  of  which  were  the  sole  indication  that 
human  life  had  ever  been  a  sojourner  in  this  wilderness. 
The  only  caravanserai  we  had  seen  was  left  some  hours 
behind  us ;  not  a  vestige  of  a  town,  or  even  cottage,  was 
within  sight  or  hope,  and  tliis'<city  of  the  dcad^appearcd 
lo  be  the  sole  refuge  for  my  unfortunate  friend,  who 


seemed  on  the  veige  ai  beocwiing  4lie  last  of  Us  ■- 
habitants. 

In  this  situation,  I  looked  roond  for  a  piiMe  wfacRhe 
might  most  conveniently  repose: — oontrwy  to  tlM  asnl 
aspect  of  Mahometan  burial-groonds,  the  cypgcaact  men 
in  this  few  in  number,  and  these  thinly  scattered  owifii 
extent:  the  tombstones  wete mostly  fiillea»amt  won  wA 
agel  —  upon  one  of  the  most  considerable  of  tbesc^  aad 
beneath  oneof  the  most  spreading  trees,J>arvellaappotted 
himself,  in  a  half-redining  posture,  with  great  diflkaitj. 
He  asked  for  water.  I  bad  some  doubts  of  our  bckvaUe 
to  find  any,  and  prepared  to  go  in  search  of  it  withhcsi- 
tating  despondency  —  but  he  desired  me  to  i 
turning  to  Suleiman, our  janisary,  who  stood  bjr  i 
ing  with  great  tranquillity,  he  said,  "Suldmna, 
su"  (f.  e,  bring  some  water),  and  went  on  descrilHpg  the 
spot  where  it  was*  to  be  found  with  great  minateaess»  at 
a  small  well  for  camels,  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the  i%ht: 
the  janisary  obeyed.  I  said  to  Darvell,  ^How  did  yoa 
know  this?"  —  He  replied,  ^'From  our  ntnaikNi;  yoi 
must  percdve  that  this  place  was  once  inlMhtted,  and 
could  not  have  been  so  without  springs:  I  haTe  also  been 
here  before." 

^You  have  been  here  before!  —  How  oame  jonaever 
to  mention  this  to  met  and  what  could  you  be  doiiy  iaa 
place  where  no  one  would  remain  a  moment  longer  than 
they  could  help  itr 

To  this  question  I  received  no  answer.  In  the  saeaa 
time,  Suleiman  returned  with  the  water,  leaving  the  scr- 
rugee  and  the  horses  at  the  fountain.  The  quenching  of 
his  thirst  had  the  appearance  of  reviving:  him  lor  a  sso- 
ment;  I  conceived  hopes  of  his  being  able  to  proceed  v 
at  least  to  return,  and  I  urged  theattempt.  He  was  aiieat— 
and  appeared  to  be  coUectiog  his  spirits  for  an  effort  to 
speak.  He  began. 

«This  is  the  end  of  my  journey,  and  of  my  life—  I  came 
here  to  die:  but  I  have  a  request  to  make>  acoaumad  — 
for  such  my  last  words  must  be.  ~  You  will  obserre  itr 

*'Most  certainly ;  but  have  better  hopes." 

<*I  have  no  hopes,  nor  wishes,  but  this  —  coaoeal  my 
death  from  every  human  being." 

'  <•!  hope  there  will  be  no  occasion ;  that  you  williecovcr, 
and—" 

"Peace  1  it  must  be  so:  promise  this." 

«Ido." 

<*Swear  itby  all  that"—  He  here  dictated  aa  oath  of 
great  solenmity. 

^There  is  no  occasion  for  this  —  I  will  observe  yoor 
request;  —  and  to  doubt  me  is  — " 

"It  cannot  be  helped,  —  yon  must  swear.*' 

I  took  the  oath:  it  appeared  to  relieve  him.  Heicsaovei 
a  seal -ring  from  his  finger,  on  which  were  some  Ambfe 
characters,  and  presented  it  to  me.  He  proceeded  — 

"On  the  ninth  day  of  the  month,  at  noon  pndsc^ 
(what  month  you  please,  but  this  must  be  the  dayXysa 
must  fling  this  ring  into  the  salt  springs  whidi  raa  hrts , 
theBayofElettsis:  the  day  after,  at  the  same  hour,  yw 
must  repair  to  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Cerct,  aad  vii 
one  hour." 

"Why?" 

"You  will  sec." 


LBTTBR  ON  BOWUBS*  SnUCTURBS  ON  POPE. 


665 


«*Tlie  lUBElh  day  of  ihe  uoBtht  y on  iay  r 

"The  ninth." 

As  I  obflerved  thai  the  present  was  the  ninth  day  of  the 
m  )nthy  his  countenance  changed^and  he  paused.  As  he 
sate,  evidently  becoming  more  feeble^  a  stork,  with  a 
SBidce  in  her  beak»  perd^d  upon  a  tombstone  near  us, 
•ndywitlioat  derouringher  prey,appeared  to  t>e  stead&stly 
sqiarding  us.  I  Icnow  not  what  impelled  me  to  drive  it 
away»  but  the  attempt  was  useless ;  she  made  a  few  circles 
in  the  air,  and  returned  exactly  to  the  same  spot  Darvell 
pointed  to  it,  and  smiled:  he  spoke  —  I  know  not  whe- 
tiMT  to  himself  or  to  me  —  but  the  words  were  only, 
rrisweU!" 

^Whatiswell?  what  do  you  mean!'' 

^No  matter:  yon  must  bury  me  here  this  evening,  and 
cxaetiy  where  that  bird  is  now  perched.  You  know  the 
lest  of  my  injunctions." 

He  then  proceeded  to  give  me  several  directions  as  to 
the  manner  in  which  his  death  might  be  best  concealed. 
MBer  these  were  tinisfaed,  he  exclaimed,  <<  You  perceive 
that  bird?" 

^'Certainly." 

^And  the  serpent  writhing  in  her  beak?" 

^JDoabtless:  there  is  nothing  uncommon  in  it;  it  is 
hernatoral  prey.  But  itis  odd  that  she  does  not  devour  it" 


Hesndled  in  a  ghastly  manner,  and  said,  ftintly,  «<It 
is  not  yet  time!"  As  he  spoke,  the  stork  flew  away.  My 
eyes  followed  it  for  a  moment,  it  could  hardly  be  longer 
than  ten  might  be  counted.  1  f«lt  Darvelfs  we^t,  as  it 
were,  increase  upon,  my  shoulder,  and,  taming  to  look 
upon  his  ftce,  perceived  that  he  was  deadl 

I  was  shocked  with  the  sudden  certainty  which  could 
not  be  mistaken  —  his  countenance  in  a  few  minutes 
became  nearly  black.  I  should  have  attributed  so  rapid 
a  change  to  pcnson,  had  1  not  been  aware  that  he  had  no 
opportunity  of  receiving  it  unperceived.  The  day  was 
declining,  the  body  was  rapidly  altering,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  to  fulfil  his  request  With  the  aid  of  Sulei- 
man's ataghan  and  my  own  sabre,  we  scooped  a  shallow 
grave  upon  the  spot  which  Darvell  had  indicated:  the 
earth  easily  gave  way,  having  already  received  some 
Mahometan  tenant  We  dug  as  deeply  as  the  time  per- 
mitted us,  and  throwing  the  dry  earth  upon  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  singular  being  so  lately  departed,  we  cut 
a  few  sod»  of  greener  turf  from  the  less  withered  soil 
around  us,  and  laid  them  upon  his  sepulchre. 

Between  astonishment  and  grief,  I  was  tearless 


LETTER 


TO 


J.  MUBJRAY,  ESQ.  on  thb  REV.  W.  L.  BOWLES'  STRICTURES 

ON  THB 

LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OP    POPE, 


1  *U  pity  at  BowU  with  tiM  md  and  moon." 

Olo  Soao. 

"My  mitber**  raid,  Str,  and  sbe  hM  rather  forgotten 
hera«l  in  speaking  to  my  Leddy.  that  canna  wed  bide 
to  be  coutradicldt  (as  I  ken  naebody  likes  it  If  they  could 
help  themseli)*" 

Talm  op  mt  Lakulord,  toL  11.  p.  IS3. 


RATHiiia,  Fcbmary  rth,  IStl. 
DEAR  SDK, 
In  &e  ctifferent  pamphlets  whieh  you  hare  had  the 
goonness  to  send  me,  on  the  Pope  and  Bowles  oontro- 
versy,  I  percelTe  that  my  name  is  occasionally  introduced 
by  both  parties.  Mr.  Bowles  refers  more  than  once  to 
what  he  is  pleased  to  consider  ^  remarkable  ciroum- 
stance,''  not  only  in  his  letter  to  Mr.  Campbell,  but  in  his 
leply  to  the  Quarterly.  The  Quarterly  also  and  Mr.  Gil- 
dbrist  have  c<mferred  on  me  the  duigerous  honour  of  a 


quotation ;  and  Mr.  Bowles  indirectly  makes  a  kind  of  ap* 
peal  to  me  personally,  by  saying,  **Lord  Byron,  tf  he 
remembert  the  circumstance,  will  witiuts  —  (wiineu  IN 
rrAUC,  an  ominous  character  for  a  testimony  at  present) 
I  shall  not  avail  mjfself  of  a  ^'non  mi  ricordo''  even 
after  so  long  a  residence  in  Italy ;  —  I  do  '^remember  the 
circumstance,"  —  and  have  no  reluctanec  to  relate  it 
(since  called  upon  so  to  do)  as  correctly  as  the  distance 
of  time  and  the  impression  of  intervening  events  will 
permit  me.  In  the  year  1812,  more  than  three  years  after 
42* 


666 


liBTTBR  ON  BOWLSS"  STBICTCKBS  CM  POH. 


yiepQUwtfioiior'<Bo9lUliBttrdiaiid8eoteiatevfewM,'' 
I  had  the  iiOBoar  of  UMsiiog  Mr.  Bowles  in  tiie  hovie 
9f  oar  veDerable  host  the  author  of  ''Hiuiiaa  Life/'  the 
Uai  Affonaut  of  classic  English  poetry*  and  the  Nestot 
of  our  inferior  race  of  living  poets.  Mr.  Bowles  calls  this 
''soon  after"  the  publication;  but  to  me  three  years 
appear  a  considerable  segment  of  the  immortality  of 
a  modern  poem.  I  recollect  nothing  of  '*the  rest  of  the 
company  going  into  another  room"  ~  nor,  though  I  well 
remember  the  topography  of  our  hosf  s  elegant  and  ola»- 
sically  furnished  mansiout  could  I  swear  to  the  very  room 
where  the  conversation  occurred,  though  the  ^'taking 
«fe«»i  the  poem,''  seems  to  fix  it  in  the  library.  Had  it  been 
'Haken  up**  it  would  probably  have  been  in  the  drawing- 
room.  I  presume  also  that  the  ^'remarkable  circumstance" 
took  place  after  dinner,  as  I  conodve  that  neither  Mr. 
Bowles'  politeness  nor  appetite  would  have  allowed  him 
to  detain  ''the  rest  of  the  company"  standing  round  their 
chairs  in  the  "other  room"  while  we  were  discussing  'Hhe 
Woods  of  Madeira"  instead  of  circalating  its  vintage. 
Of  Mr.  Bowles'  "good  humour"  I  have  a  ftill  and  not  un- 
grateful recollection ;  as  also  of  bis  gentlemanly  manners 
and  agreeable  conversation.  I  speak  of  the  wMole,  and 
not  of  particulars;  for  whether  he  did  or  did  not  use  the 
precise  words  printed  in  the  pamphlet,  I  cannot  say,  nor 
could  he  with  accuracy.  Of  "the  tone  of  seriousness"  1 
oertainly  recollect  nothing:  on  the  contrary,  I  thought 
Mr.  Bowles  rather  disposed  to  treat  the  subject  lightly; 
for  he  said  (I  have  no  objection  to  be  contradicted  if  in« . 
correct),  that  some  of  hisgood-natared  friends  had  come 
to  him  and  exclaimed,  'fEh  I  Bowles  1  how  came  you  to 
make  the  Woods  of  Madeira  tremble?"  and  that  he  had 
been  at  some  pains  and  pulling  down  of  the  poem  to  con- 
vince them  that  he  had  never  made  "the  Woods"  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  He  was  right,  and  /  wtu  wrong,  and 
have  been  wrong  still  up  to  this  acknowledgment ;  for  I 
ought  to  have  looked  twice  before  I  wrote  that  which  in- 
volved an  inaccuracy  capable  of  giving  pain.  The  (act 
was,  that  although  I  had  certainly  before  read  "the  Spirit 
of  Discovery,"  I  took  the  quotation  from  the  Review.  But 
the  mistake  was  mine,  and  not  the  Revmo'i,  which  quo* 
tod  the  passage  correctly  enough,  I  believe.  I  blundered — 
God  knows  how — into  attributing  the  tremors  of  the  lo- 
vers to  the  "Woods  of  Madeira,"  by  which  they  were 
surrounded.  And  I  hereby  do  fully  and  freely  declare  and 
asseverate,  that  the  Woods  did  not  tremble  to  a  kiss,  and 
that  the  lovers  did.  I  quote  from  memory  — 

AkiM 

Stole  on  Ch«  litC*nlDrailonce,  — 
They  (the  lovers)  trembled,  — 

And  if  I  had  been  aware  that  this  declaration  would  have 
been  in  the  smallest  degree  satisfoctory  to  Mr.  Bowles, 
I  should  not  have  waited  nine  years  to  make  it,  notwith- 
standing that  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers"  had 
been  suppressed  some  time  previously  to  my  meeting  him 
at  Mr.  Rogers'.  Our  worthy  host  might  indeed  have  told 
him  as  much,  as  it  was  at  bis  representation  that  I  sup- 
pressed it  A  new  edition  of  that  lampoon  was  preparing 
for  the  press,  when  Mr.  Rogers  represented  to  me,  that 
<«I  was  now  acquainted  with  many  of  the  persons  mention- 
ed in  it,  and  with  some  on  terms  of  intimacy ;"  and  that 


he  knew  ''oneftmily  in  parHeulw  to  whom  Us 
sion  would  give  pleasure."  I  didnothesitale«Bei 
it  was  cancelled  instantly;  and  it  is  no  frmlt  of 
it  has  ever  been  republished.  When  I  left 
April,  18ie,  with  no  very  vtolent  iatentioas  of 
that  country  again,  and  amidst  scenes  of  varioiis 
todistract  my  atttention  — almost  my  last  ad,  Ibefieve, 
was  to  sign  a  power  of  attorney,  to  yourself,  to  prevent 
or  suppress  any  attempts  (of  which  several  had  been 
In  Ireland)  at  a  republication.  It  is  proper  thttC  I 
state,  that  the  persons  with  whom  I  was  suhscmienfly  m^ 
quainted,  whose  names  had  ooenired  in  that  pabfienfiDn, 
were  made  my  acquaintances  at  tlmr  own  desire,  or 
through  the  unsought  intervention  of  others.  I  never,  t» 
the  best  of  my  knowledge,  sought  a  personal  introdue- 
tion  to  any.  Some  of  them  to  this  day  I  know  only  by 
correspondence;  and  with  one  of  those  it  was  begun  by 
myself  in  consequence,  however,  of  a  poOto  vcrtai  cgsih 
moaioation  from  a  third  person. 

I  have  dwelt  for  an  instant  on  these  rircmmifnnnfi, 
because  it  has  sometimes  been  made  a  subject  of  bitler 
reproach  to  me  to  have  endeavoured  to  ntpprom  that  sa- 
tire. I  never  shrunk,  as  those  who  know  me  know,  ficm 
any  personal  consequences  which  could  be  attacked  to 
its  publication.  Of  its  subsequent  suppression,  as  I  pes* 
sessed  the  copyright,  I  was  the  best  judge  and  the  sole 
master.  The  ciroumstances  which  occasioned  the  suppres- 
sion I  have  now  stated ;  of  the  motives,  each  must  jo4ge 
according  to  his  candour  or  malignity.  ICr.  Bowles  does 
me  the  honour  to  talk  of  "noble  mind,"  and  '^generous 
magnanimity ;"  and  all  this  because  *Hhe  cirenmslanos 
would  have  been  explained  had  not  the  book  been  anp- 
pressed."  I  see  no  '^nobility  of  mind"  in  an  act 
justice;  and  I  hate  the  word  "ma^iumfWQr," 
have  sometimes  seen  it  applied  to  the  grossest  of  impos- 
tors by  the  greatest  of  fools ;  but  I  would  have  ''explained 
the  dronmstance,"  notwithstanding  "the  suppression  c^ 
the  book,"  if  Mr.  Bowles  had  expressed  any  desire  4at 
Ishould.  Asthe««galIantGaibraith"saystD'9aiUieJar- 
vie,"  "Well,  the  devil  take  the  mistake  and  alt  that  occa- 
sioned it"  I  have  had  as  great  and  greater  mistakes  ssade 
about  me  personally  and  poetically,  once  a  month  fiir 
diese  last  ten  years,  and  never  cared  very  much  about 
correcting  one  or  the  other,  at  least  after  the  first  eight  and 
forty  hours  had  gone  over  them. 

I  must  now,  however,  say  a  word  or  two  about  Pepe, 
of  whom  youhave  my  opinion  more  at  large  in  the  unpub- 
lished letter  on  or  to  (for  I  foiget  which)  the  etfilor  of 
"Blackwood'sEdinbuigh  Magazine;"— and  here  Idoibt 
that  Mr.  Bowles  will  not  approve  of  my  sentimentSL 

Although  I  regret  having  published  '^English  Bmds 
and  Scotdi  Reviewers,"  tiie  part  which  I  regret  the  least 
is  that  which  regards  Mr.  Bowles  with  reference  to  Pop& 
Whilst  I  was  writing  that  publkation,  in  1807  and  IMS. 
Mr.  Hobhouse  was  desirous  that  I  should  express  ear 
mutual  opinion  of  Pope,  and  of  Mr.  Bowies'  edition  sf 
bis  works.  As  I  had  completed  my  outline,  and  felt  taay* 
I  requested  that  k«  would  do  so.  He  did  it  Hia 
lines  on  Bowies'  Pope  are  in  the  first  edition  of' 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers;"  and  are  quite  as  severe 
and  much  more  poetical  than  my  own  in  the  seooBML  Qa 


LBTTBR  ON  BOWLBS*  STBtCTUBBS  ON  FOr& 


667 


ffpvkrtii^  tiie  work,  mI  pot  my  Mme  to  it,  I 
Ujr«  HobhcNise's  fines,  «iid  replaoed  (hem  with  my  own, 
hywUfih  the  work  gaiagiltei  than  Mr. Bowles.  I  have 
stated  this  in  the  preteetodie  second  edition.  Itismany 
years  ainoe  I  baTe  read  that  poem ;  but  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, Mr.  OetSfins  Gilohrist,  and  Mr.  Bowies  himself, 
liaTe  been  so  obligii^  as  to  refresh  my  memory,  and  that 
of  the  pnblie,  I  am  grieved  to  say,  that  in  reading  over 
those  fines,  I  repent  of  their  having  so  far  ftllen  short  of 
what  I  meant  to  express  npoa  the  subject  of  Bowies'  edi- 
Hon  ofPope's  Works,  Mr.  Bowles  says,  that  '<Lord  By- 
fon  AsMM  he  does  not  deserve  tbisoharactcr.'^  I  know  no 
wmeib  thing.  I  have  met  Mr«  Bowles  occasionally,  in  the 
best  society  in  London;  he  appeared  to  me  an  amiable, 
wen  infiormed,  and  extremely  able  man.  I  desire  nothing 
bettor  tlian  to  dine  in  company  with  such  a  mannered  man 
wsery  dttj  in  the  week :  but  of  **bis  character"  1  know  no- 
thing personally;  I  can  only  speak  to  his  manners,  and 
these  have  my  warmest  approbation.  But  I  never  judge 
from  manners,  for  loaoe  had  my  pocket  picked  by  the 
cMlest  gentlfsnan  I  ever  met  with ;  and  one  of  the  mildest 
persons  I  ever  saw  was  Ali  Pacha.  OCMr.  Bowles'  "cAa- 
rsrAft^'Iwillnot  do  him  the  nyuttiee  to  judge  from  the 
edilioa  of  Pope,  if  be  prepared  it  heedlessly;  nor  the 
/KfSiee,  should  it  be  otherwise,  because  I  would  neither 
beeome  a  fitecary  executioner,  nor  a  personal  one.  Mr. 
Bowles  the  individual,  and  Mr.  Bowles  the  editor,  appear 
the  two  most  opposite  things  imaginable. 

"And  be  UaM«l/  one aDdUittli.'* 

I  won't  say '<vile,"  because  it  is  harsh;  nor  ^'mistakea/' 
heeaase  it  has  two^yllables  too  many :  batevery  onemust 
fifl  np  the  blank  as  he  pleases. 

JWhat  I  saw  of  Mr.  Bowies  increased  my  surprise  and 
regret  that  be  should  ever  have  lent  his  talents  to  sudi  a 
task.  It  he  had  been  a  fool,  there  would  have  been  some 
cxeaseforbim;  If  he  bad  been  a  needy  or  a  bad  man,  his 
cmdnet  would  have  been  intelligible :  but  he  is  the  oppo- 
site of  ali  these;  and  thinking  and  feeling  as  I  do  of  Pope, 
to  sse  the  whole  thing  is  unaccountable.  However,  I  must 
caU  diiags  by  their  right  names.  I  cannot  call  his  edition 
of  Pope  a  '^Bdid"  work ;  and  I  stUl  think  that  there  is 
aa  aifeetation  of  that  quality  not  only  in  those  volumes, 
imi  ia  the  pamphlets  lately  published. 

"Wlqr  yet  be  doCfa  deDjr  kU  prieonen.* 

Mr4  Bowles  says :  **I  have  seen  passages  in  Pope's  letters 
to  Martha  Blount  which  were  never  published  by  me,  and 
1  kmpe  nawtr  wHi  be  by  others;  which  are  so  pr09$  as  to 
Imply  the  ^rostsjt  Ueentioasness."  Is  this  fidr  play!  It 
aay,  or  it  may  not  be  that  such  passages  exist;  and  that 
pope,  who  was  not  a  monk,  although  acatholic,  may  have 
oooasionally  sinned  in  word  and  in  deed  with  woman  in 
his  youth ;  but  is  this  a  snfficientground  forsuch  a  sweep- 
Is^  denunciation?  Where  is  the  unmarried  Bnglishman 
ofacertaiarankoflife,  who  (provided  he  has  not  taken 
asders)  has  aot  to  reproach  himself  between  the  ages  of 
and  thirty  with  far 'more  liceatiouflness  than  has 
yet  been  tnced  to^ope?  Pope  Uved  in  tbepublioeye 
his  yovth  upwards;  he  had  all  the  dnaoes  of  hisown 
^iase  for  his  enemies,  and,  lam  sorry  to  say,  some,  who 
have  aot  the  apotogy  of  duhiess  for  detraction,  since  Us 
death ;  and  yet  to  what  do  aU  theuraeonmulated  hints  and 


chaigesamoQBtf  — to  aa  equivooallMfffen  with  Martha 
Blount,  which  might  ariseas  much  from  his  infirmities  as 
from  hispas^oos ;  to  a  hopeless  flirta^n  with  Lady  Mary 
W.  Montagu;  to  a  story  of  Gibber's ;  and  to  two  or  three 
coarse  passages  in  his  works.  IfXocould  come  forth  dear* 
er  from  an  invidious  inquest  on  a  life  of  fifty-six  years  ? 
Why  are  we  to  be  officiously  reminded  of  such  passages 
in  his  letters,  provided  that  they  exist  Is  Mr.  Bowles 
aware  to  what  such  rummaging  among  ^letters''  and 
''stories"  might  lead?  I  have  myself  seen  a  collection  of 
letters  of  another  eminent,  nay,  pre-eminent,  deeeased 
poet,  so  abominably  gross,  and  elaborately  coarse,  that  I 
do  not  believe  that  they  could  be  paralleled  in  our  lan« 
gnage.  What  is  more  strange,  is,  that  some  of  these  are 
couched  as  potUeripU  to  his  serious  and  sentimental  let* 
ters,  to  which  are  tacked  either  a  piece  of  prose,  or  some 
verses,  of  the  most  hyperboUcal  indecency.  He  himself 
says,  that  if ''obscenity  (using  a  much  coarser  word)  be 
the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  he  most  certainly  cannot 
be  saved."  These  letters  are  in  existence,  and  have  been 
seen  by  many  besides  myself;  but  would  his  editor  have 
been  "dnubVf  '  in  even  alluding  to  them  ?  Nothing  would 
have  even  provoked  m$,  an  indifferent  spectator,  to  al» 
lode  to  them,  but  this  forther  attempt  at  the  depreciation 
of  Pope. 

What  should  we  say  to  an  editor  of  Addison,  who  cited 
the  following  passage  from  Walpole's  letters  to  George 
Montagu  1  "Dr.  Young  has  published  a  new  book.  Mr. 
Addison  sent  for  the  young  Earl  of  Warwick,  as  he  was 
dying,  to  show  him  in  what  peace  a  Christian  could  die; 
unluckily  he  died  of  ^randfy ;  nothing  makes  a  Christian 
die  in  peace»lilce  being  maudlin  I  but  don't  say  this  in 
Gatb  where  you  are."  Suppose  the  editor  introduced  it 
with  this  preface;  ''One  circumstance  is  mentioned  by 
Horace  Walpole,  which  if  true  was  Indeed  fiagitioui* 
Walpole  informs  Montagu  that  Addison  sent  for  the 
young  Barl  of  Warwick,  when  dying,  to  show  him  in 
what  peace  a  Christian  could  die;  but  unluckily  he  died 
drunk."  Now,  although  there  might  occur  on  the  sobse> 
qnent,  or  on  the  same  page,  a  frunt  show  of  disbelief; 
seasoned  with  the  expression  of  "the  tmme  cmndour** 
(the  MRM  exactly  as  throughout  the  book),  I  should  say 
that  this  editor  was  either  foolish  or  false  to  his  trust; 
such  a  story  ought  not  to  have  been  admitted,  except  for 
one  brief  mark  of  crushing  indignation,  unless  it  were 
eompleUfyprwed,  Why  the  words  "if  truer  that  ^" 
is  not  a  peace-maker.  Why  talk  of  "Cibber's  testimony" 
to  his  licentiousness;  to  what  does  this  amount?  that 
Pope  when  very  young  was  pnce  decoyed  by  some  noble- 
man and  the  player  to  a  house  of  carnal  recreation.  Mr. 
Bowles  was  not  always  a  clergyman;  and  when  he  was 
a  very  young  man,  was  he  never  seduced  into  as  much? 
If  I  were  in  the  humour  for  storytelling,  and  relating  little 
anecdotes,  I  could  tell  a  much  better  story  of  Mr.Bowles, 
^ban  Cibber's,  upon  much  better  authority,  vis.  that  of 
Mr.  Bowles  himself.  It  was  not  related  by  kirn  in  my 
presence,  but  in  that  of  a  third  person,  whom  Mr.  Bowles 
names  oflener  than  once  in  the  course  of  his  replies.  This 
gentleman  related  it  to  me  as  a  humourous  and  witty 
anecdote;  and  soit  was,  wliatever  itsother  characteristics 
might  be.  But  should  I,  for  a  jf  outhful  frolic,  brand  Mr.      M 


668 


UTTER  ON  BOWLES'  BIWCTURBS  ON  MPB. 


Bowles  witha  '^libertiiie  sort  of  love,"  or  with  ^lieentioin- 
ness  ?"  la  he  the  less  now  a  pioas  or  a  good  maa,  for  not 
having  always  been  a  priest?  No  sach  thing;  I  am  willing 
to  believe  him  a  good  man,  almost  as  good  a  man  as  Pope* 
but  no  better. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  these  days  the  grand  "priwmm 
mobiie"  of  England  is  emni;  cant  political,  caat  poetical, 
cant  religions,  cant  moral ;  but  always  cant,  multiplied 
throu^  all  the  varieties  of  life.  It  is  the  fhshion,  and 
while  it  lasts  will  be  too  powerful  for  those  who  can  only 
exist  by  taking  the  tone  of  the  time.  I  say  c«iU,  because 
it  is  a  thing  of  words,  without  the  smallest  influence  upon 
human  actions;  the  English  being  no  wiser,  no  better, 
and  much  poorer,  and  more  divided  amongst  themselvea, 
as  well  as  fhr  less  moral,  than  they  were  before  the  pre- 
valence of  this  verbal  decorum.  This  hysterical  horror  of 
poor  Pope's  not  very  well  ascertained,  and  never  fully 
proved  amours  (for  even  Gibber  owns  that  he  prevented 
tiie  somewhat  perilous  adventure  in  which  Pope  was  em- 
barking) sounds  very  virtuous  in  a  controversial  pamph* 
let;  but  all  men  of  the  world ^who  know  what  life  is,  or 
at  least  what  it  was  to  them  in  their  youth,  must  laugh  at 
such  a  ludicrous  ioundation  of  the  charge  of  ''a  libertine 
sort  of  love;"  while  the  more  serious  will  look  upon  those 
who  bring  forward  such  charges  upon  an  insulated  fact, 
as  fhnatics  or  hypocrites,  perhaps  both.  The  two  are 
sometimes  compounded  in  a  happy  mixture. 

Mr.  Octavius  Gilchrist  speaks  rather  irreverently  of  a 
''second  tumbler  of  Ao<  white- wine-negus."  What  does 
he  mean  ?  Is  there  any  harm  in  negus  ?  or  is  it  the  worse 
for  being  hot?  or  does  Mr.  Bowles  drink  negus?  I  had  a 
better  opinion  of  him.  I  hoped  that  whatever  wine  he 
drank  was  neat ;  oiv  at  least,  tbat,like  the  ordinary  in  Jo- 
nathan Wild,  "he  preferred /mncA,  the  rather  as  there  was 
nothing  against  it  in  Scripture."  I  should  be  sorry  to 
believe  that  Mr.  Bowles  was  fond  of  negus ;  it  is  such  a 
*<candid"  liquor,  so  like  a  wishy-washy  compromise  be- 
tween the  passion  for  wine  and  the  propriety  of  water. 
But  different  writers  have  divers  tastes.  Judge  Black- 
stone  composed  his  '^Commentaries"  (he  was  a  poet  too 
in  his  youth)  with  a  bottle  of  port  before  him.  Addison's 
oonversation  was  not  good  for  much  till  he  had  taken  a 
similar  dose.  Perhaps  the  prescription  of  these  two  great 
men  was  not  inferior  to  the  very  different  one  of  a  soi- 
disant  poet  of  tliis  day,  who  after  wandering  amongst  the 
hillf,  returns,  goes  to  bed,  and  dictates  his  verses,  being 
fed  by  a  bystander  with  bread  and  butter  during  the 
operation. 

I  now  come  to  Mr.  Bowles'  ''invariable  principles  of 
poetry."  These  Mr.  Bowles  and  some  of  his  correspond- 
ents pronounce  "unanswerable;"  and  they  are  "unan- 
swered," at  least  by  Campbell,  who  seems  to  have  been 
astounded  by  the  title.  The  sultan  of  the  time  being  offered 
to  ally  himself  to  a  king  of  France,  because  "he  hated  the 
word  league;^'  which  proves  that  the  Padisha  nnder- 
.  stood  French.  Mr.  Campbell  has  no  need  of  my  alliance, 
nor  shall  I  presume  to  offer  it;  but  I  do  bate  that  word 
"invariiibU,"  What  is  there  of  Aumait,  be  it  poetry,  philo- 
sophy, wit,  wisdom,  science,  power,  glory,  mind,  matter; 
life,  or  death,  which  is  "m«arta^/r  ?"  Of  ooursel  put  things 
divine  out  of  the  question.  Of  all  arrogant  baptisms  of  a 


book,  this  title  loa  pampMet  appears  Ae  most  i 
eently  oonoeited.  It  is  Mr.  Campbef  I'a  part  to  ttesvrer  I 
contents  of  this  performance  a^jA  especially  to  i 
his  own  "Ship,"  which  Mr.  Bowles  most  tria 
proefaums  to  have  struck  to  his  very  lirst  Are. 

"Qnoth  he,  there  was  a  Ship; 

N^w  tec  n«  go,  tbo«  fpmy-UtiH  loon. 

Or  my  staff  jihatt  mA«  ikM  lUpw* 

It  is  no  affhir  of  mine,  but  having  onee  begim  (oertiMy 
not  by  my  own  wish,  bat  called  upon  by  Hie  1 
reourrenee  to  my  name  in  the  pampUets),  I  am  ] 
Irishman  in  a  "Km,''  "ny  body's  ovslomcr/'    1 1 
therefore  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  "Ship.*' 

Mr.Bowles  aasots  tkatCampbell's  •ISIiip  oflifeUnc^ 
derives  all  its  poetry  not  from  ^mrt/'  hot  from  ' 
"Takeaway  the  waves,the  winds,the  s«i,#i 
a  stripe  of  blue  bwitiBg ;  and  the  otfaor  a  piece  ef  c 
canvass  on  three  tall  poles."  Very  true;  take  atmy  tte 
"waves,"  "the  winds,"  and  tfiere  wHl  be  no  ship  at  aa 
not  only  for  poetieal,  bat  for  any  other  purpose ;  i 
away  "the  son,"  and  we  must  read  Mr.  Bowies'  ] 
let  by  candlelight  Bat  the  "poetry"  of  tte 
does  n0t  depend  on  "the  waves;"  on  fte  contrary,  fka 
"Ship  of  the  Linc^'  confers  its  own  poetry  upon  the  «a* 
ters,  and  heightens  (Aetrt.  I  do  not  deny,  that  tiw  "waves 
and  winds,"  and  above  aU  "the  mm,"  are  highly  poefiBri; 
we  kaow  it  to  our  cost,  by  the  many  deacriptioiis  of  Ihem 
in  varse:  but  if  the  waves  bMe  only  the  foam  iqioa  thdr 
bosoms,  if  the  winds  walled  only  the  seaweed  to  the  shores 
if  the  sun  shone  neither  upon  pyramids,  nor  fleets,  nor 
fortresses,  would  its  beams  be  equally  poetioal!  I  Ihiak 
not:  the  poetry  is  at  least  reciprocal.  Take  away  "the 
Ship  of  the  Line"  "swinging  round"  the  «Sadm  water,* 
and  the  calm  water  becomes  a  somewhat  monotonoaf 
thing  to  look  at»  particulariy  if  not  transparently  dear: 
witness  the  thousands  who  pass  by  without  looking  on il 
atall.  What  was  it  attracted  the  thoosaads  to  the  faMDMii! 
they  might  have  seen  thepoetioal  "calm  water"  at  Ws|ip> 
ing  or  in  the  "Lcmdon  Dock,"  or  in  thePaddlngtoa  Csaal, 
or  in  a  horse-pond,  or  in  a  slopbasln,or  in  any  othemsa 
They  mighthave  heard  the  poetical  winds  ho wfingthraagh 
Uie  chinks  of  a  pigstye,  or  the  garret- window;  they 
might  have  seen  the  sun  shiidng  on  a  feotnMwi's  llveiy, 
or  on  a  brass  warming-pan;  but  oookl  the  *^ialm  water,* 
or  the  "wind,"  or  the  "sun,"  make  all^  or  any  ef  1 
"poetkal  V  1  think  not  Mr.  Bowles  admits  the  < 
to  be  poetical,  but. only  from  those  aceesaariea;  now  9 
they  coi^tfr  poetry  so  as  to  asake  one  thiagpoetacal,  they 
would  make  other  thiiigs  poetical;  the  mate  ao,  as  Ms» 
Bowles  calls  a  "ship  of  the  line"  without  thcss,  that  k  ta 
say,  its  "masts  and  sails  and  streasMn,"  "Mae  hwaiiag^'*' 
and  "ooarse canvass,"  and  "taU  poles."  Sotheya>e;aad  - 
poroehun  is  day,  and  man  is  dust,  and  llerii  is  grass;  wi  '■ 
yet  the  two  latter  at  least  are  the  subjects  of  mvdi  podQ^- 

Bid  Mr.  Bowles  ever  gaae  upon  the  seal  I  { 
that  he  has,  at  least  upon  a  sea-piece.  Did  any  ' 
ever  paint  the  sea  e»/y,  without  ^tiie  additioa  of  a  Mf^  ' 
boat,  wreck,  or  soaie  srnii  aiynoot?  Is  the  aea  Uaetf  at-^ 
morcattraetive, a  more  ssoral,  a asore poetical  ohjeet wMlh  -* 
or  without  a  vessel,  breaking  its  vast  bat  fidigoiag  asa*  ^ 
notoayl  IsasturmmoiepoetioBlwithoatasliip;  or,^hr*- 


lATTSH  ON  BOWLBff  STRICTUHB8  ON  PCMPB. 


669 


m  poem  of  Uie  Shtt^Msk,  19  it  ike  atorm  or  tiie  slrip 
vUck  moft  iotereiU!  both  wmtk  undoabtedJy ;  but  with- 
out tbe  vessely  what  ahoald  we  cure  for  the  tempest?  It 
would  auik  uto  mere  deieripttve  poetry,  which  in  itself 
was  never  esteemed  a  high  order  of  that  art 

I  look  upon  myself  as  entitled  to  talk  of  nand  matters, 
•t  kost  to  poets :  —  with  the  exeeption  of  Walter  Soott, 
Moere^nad  Sowthey,  perhaps  (who  have  been  voyagers), 
I  hare  summ  awro  miles  than  all  the  rest  of  them  together 
BOW  living  ever  skiUdf  and  have  lived  for  months  and 
numtha  on  shipboard;  and  daring  the  whole  period  of 
^■Jife  abroad  have  scaiedy  ever  passed  a  month  oat  of 
light  of  the  ocean:  besides  being  broagfat  up  from  two 
years  till  tenon  the  brink  of  it  I  reooUect,  when  anchored 
off  Cape  Sigenm,  in  1810^  in  an  English  frigate,  a  violent 
s^nali  coming  on  at  sonset,  so  violent  as  to  make  as  ima- 
gme  that  the  ship  would  part  oable,  or  drive  from  her 
aaebmcage.  Mr.  Uobhoose  and  mytelf,  and  some  officers 
had  been  vp  the  Dardanelles  to  Abydos,  and  were  jnst 
retomed  in  time*  The  aspect  of  a  storm  in  the  Arehipe- 
1^0  ia  as  poetical  as  need  be,  the  sea  being  particalarly 
rihcirt»  dashing,  and  dangerous,  and  the  navigation  intri- 
cate and  broken  by  the  isles  and  currents.  GapeSigeam, 
the  tamnli  of  the  Troad,  Iicmnos,  Tenedos,  all  added  to 
the  associations  of  the  time.  Bat  what  seemed  the  most 
"p^^Hemt*  of  all  at  the  moment,  were  the  numbers  (about 
two  hundred)  of  Greek  and  Turkish  craft,  which  were 
obliged  to  **cut  and  run"  before  the  wind,  from  their  an- 
lafe  anchorage,  some  for  Tenedos,  some  for  other  isles, 
Mne  for  the  main,  and  some  it  might  be  for  eternity.  The 
i%fatof  these  little  scndding  vessels,  darting  over  the  foam 
in  the  twilight,  now  appearing  and  now  disappearing 
between  the  waves  in  the  doud  of  night,  with  their  pecu* 
Uarly  wkiiB  sails  (the  Levaht  sails  not  being  of  "eoerte 
(«iiMM#,"bHt  of  whiteootton),skimming  along  as  quiiskly, 
M  kia  safely  than  the  sea-mews  which  hovered  o?er 
then ;  their  evident  distress,  their  reduction  to  fluttering 
ipu^ka  ia  the  dintance,  thar  crowded  succession,  their 
imieness^  as  contending  with  the  giant  element,  which 
■nde  our  stout  forty -four'i^  temk  timbers  (she  was  built 
m  India)  creak  again  1  their  aspect  and  their  motion,  alt 
ilniek  rae  as  something  far  more  "poetical"  than  the  mere 
MToady  brawling,  shipless  sea,  and  the  sullen  winds,  could 
KMsably  have  been  without  them. 
'Tlie  JBuxine  is  a  noble  sea  to  look  upon,  and  the  port  of 
3a—tantinople  the  most  beautiful  of  harbours,  and  yet  I 
aMnot  but  think  that  the  twenty  sail  of  the  line,  some  of 
me  buiidred  and  forty  guns,  rendered  it  more  <*poeticar' 
Of  dmy  in  the  sun,  and  by  night  perhaps  still  more,  for  the 
rawka  iUumiaate  their  vessels  of  war  in  a  manner  themost 
AetBrcsque,  and  yet  all  thisis«rli>fot«/.  As  for  theEuxine, 
;,^ood  upon  the  Symplegades  —  I  stood  by  the  broken 
liar  atiU  exposed  to  the  winds  upon  one  of  them  —  I  Irlt 
if  4las  ''poeity  of  the  situation,  as  I  repeated  the  first 
M^Mb  of  Medea;  but  would  not  that  *<poetry"  have  been 
cllditened  by  the  Argio  /  It  was  so  even  by  the  appearance 
Cpmjr  merdiaat-vessel  arriving  from  Odessa.  But  Mr. 
I^ivlea^ysy ''why  bring  your  ship  off  tliestocksr  For 
m  vcsson  that  1  know,  except  that  ships  are  built  to  be 
MPaebed.  The  water  undoubtedly  HaifiHTBNS  the  poetical 
thus  it  does  not  mukg  them ;  and  the  ship 


amply  repays  the  obligation:  they  aid  each  other;  the  wa- 
ter is  more  poetical  with  the  ship— the  ship  less  so 
without  the  water*  But  even  a  ship,  laid  up  in  dock,  is  a 
grand  and  a  poetical  sight  Bven  an  old  boat,  keel  up- 
wards, wrecked  upon  the  barren  sand,  is  a  **poeticar'  ob- 
ject (and  Wordsworth,  who  made  a  poem  about  a  wasli- 
ing-tub  and  a  blind  boy,  may  tell  you  so  as  well  as  1) ; 
whilst  a  long  extent  of  sand  and  unbroken  water,  without 
the  boat,  would  be  as  like  dull  prose  as  any  pamphlet 
lately  published. 

What  makes  the  poetry  in  Ae  image  of  the  "marble 
W09UofTtidm9r,'*  in  Grainger's  *'Ode  to  Solitude,"  so 
much  admired  by  Johnson  ?  Is  it  the  "marble,'*  or  the 
**w$U,"  the  artifieial  or  thenetura/objcct  ?  The  *«waste"^ 
is  like  all  other  wastes;  but  the  "marble"  of  Pahnyra 
makes  the  poetry  of  the  passage  as  of  the  place. 

The  beautiftil  but  barren  Hymettus,  the  whole  coast  of 
Attica,  herhillsand  mountains,  Pentelicus,' A nchesmus, 
Philopappus,  are  in  themselves  poeticbl,  and  would  be 
so  if  the  name  of  Athens,  of  Athenians,  and  her  very  ruins, 
were  swet>t  from  the  earth.  But  am  I  to  be  told  that  the 
''nature"  of  Attica  would  be  more  poetical  without  the 
''art"  of  the  Acropolis?  of  the  Temple  of  Theseus?  and 
of  the  still  all  Greek  and  glorious  monuments  of  her  ex- 
quisitely artHknal  genius  ?  Ask  the  traveller  what  strikes 
him  asmost  poetical,  the  Parthenon,  or  the  rock  on  which 
it  stands?  The  columns  of  Cape  Colonna,  or  the  Cape 
itself?  The  rocks  at  the  foot  of  it,  or  the  recollection  that 
Falconer's  «A^  was  bulged  upon  them?  There  are  a  thou- 
sand roeks  and  capes,  fiir  more  picturesque  than  those  of 
the  Acropolis  and  Cape  Suninm  in  themselves;  what  are 
they  to  a  thousand  scenes  in  the  wilder  parts  of  Greece, 
of  Asia  Minor,  Switaerland,  or  even  of  Cintra  in  Portu- 
gal, or  to  many  scenes  of  Italy,  and  the  Sierras  of  Spain? 
But  it  is  the  "art/'  the  columns,  the  temples,  the  wrecked 
vessel,  which  give  them  their  antique  and  their  modem 
poetry,  and  not  the  spots  themselves.  Without  them,  the 
spots  of  earth  would  be  unnoticed  and  unknown;  buried^ 
like  Babylon  and  Nineveh,  in  indistinct  confusion,  with- 
out poetry,  as  without  existence;  but  to  whatever  spot  of 
earth  these  ruins  were  transported.  If  they  were  eapabh 
of  transportation,  like  the  obelisk,  and  the  sphinx,  and 
the  Memnon's  head,  there  they  would  still  exist  in  the 
perfection  of  their  beauty  and  in  the  pride  of  their  poetry. 
I  opposed,  and  will  ever  oppose,  the  robbery  of  ruins  from 
Athens,  to  instruct  the  BngKsh  in  sculpture;  but  why  did 
I  do  so?  The  rutnf  are  as  poetical  in  Piccadilly  as  they 
were  in  the  Parthenon;  but  the  Parthenon  and  its  rock 
are  less  so  without  them.  Such  is  the  poetry  of  art. 

Mr.  Bowles  contends,  again,  that  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
are  poetical,  because  of ''the  association  with  toundloM 
deserts,"  and  that  a  "pyramid  of  the  same  dimensiona'' 
would  not  be  sublime  in  "Lincoln's  Inn  Fields :"  not  #0 
poetical  certainly;  but  take  away  the  "pyramids,"  aud 
what  is  the  "desert?"  Take  away  Stone-henge from  Salis- 
bury-plain, and  it  is  nothing  more  than  Hounslow-Heathi 
or  any  other  uninclosed  down.  It  appears  to  me  that  St 
Peter's,  the  Coliseum,  the  Pantheon,  the  Palatine^  the 
Apollo,  theLaocoon,  the  Venus  di  Medicis,  the  Hercules, 
the  dyingGladiator,  the  Moses  of  Michel  Angelo^  and  ait 
the  higher  works  of  Canova  (I  have  already  spoken  of 


670 


USTTER  ON  BOWUSr  STRICTURES  ON  FOP& 


those  of  ancient  Greece,  ftill  extant  in  that  country,  or 
transported  to  England),  are  %s  poetical  as  Mont  Blanc 
or  Mount  i£tna,  perhaps  still  mcnre  so,  as  they  are  direet 
manifestations  of  mind,  and  pretuppoie  poetry  in  their 
▼ery  conception ;  and  have,  moreoyer,  as  b^ng  such,  a 
something  of  actual  life,  which  cannot  belong  to  any  part 
of  inanimate  nature,  unless  we  adopt  the  system  ofSpi- 
noaa,  tliat  the  world  is  the  Deity.  There  can  be  nothing 
more  poetical  in  its  aspect  than  the  city  of  Venice :  does 
this  depend  upon  the  sea,  or  the  canals?  — 

'^be  dirt  and  ■•••weed  whence  prond  Teolee  roief 

Is  itthe  canal  which  runs  between  thepalaceand  theprisouy 
or  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs"  which  connects  them,  that  renders 
it  poetical  ?  Is  it  the  <<Canal  Grande"  or  the  Rialto  which 
arches  it,  the  churches  which  tower  over  it,  the  palaces 
which  line,  and  the  gondolas  whichglide  over  the  waters, 
that  render  this  city  more  poetical  than  Rome  itself?  Mr. 
Bowles  will  say,  perhaps,  that  the  Rialto  is  but  marble, 
the  palaces  and  churches  only  stone,  and  the  gondolas  a 
^Vsoarse"  black  doth,  thrown  oyer  some  planks  of  carved 
wQod,  with  a  shining  bitoffimtastically-formediron  attlie 
pton/*witkoui"ihe  water.  And  I  tell  him  that  without  these 
ihh  water  would  be  nothing  but  a  day-coloured  ditch,  and 
whoever  says  the  contrary,  deserves  to  be  at  the  bottom 
of  that  where  Pope's  heroes  are  embraced  by  the  mud 
nymphs.  There  would  be  nothing  to  make  the  canal  of 
Venice  more  poetical  than  that  of  Paddington,  were  it  not 
for  the  artificial  adjuncts  above  mentioned,  although  it  is 
a  perfectly  natural  canal,  formed  by  the  sea,  and  the  in- 
numerable islands  which  constitute  the  site  of  thia  extra- 
ordinary city. 

The  yery  Cloaca  of  Tarquin  at  Rome  are  as  poetical  as 
Ridunond-Hill;  many  will  think  more  so.  Take  away 
Rome^  and  leave  the  Tiber  and  the  seven  hills  in  the  na- 
ture of  Eyander's  time:  let  Mr.  Bowles,  or  Mr.  Words- 
worth, or  Mr.  Southey,  or  any  of  the  other  '^naturals,'' 
nuike  a  poem  upon  them,  and  then  see  which  Is  most  poet* 
ieal,  their  production,  or  the  commonest  guide-book 
which  tells  you  the  road  from  St  Peter's  to  the  Coliseum, 
and  informs  you  what  you  will  see  by  the  way.  Tbe ground 
interests  in  Virgil,  because  it  will  be  Rome,  and  not  be- 
cause it  is  Eyander's  rural  domain. 

Mr.  Bowles  then  proceeds  to  press  Homer  into  his  ser- 
vice, in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Mr.  Campbeirs,  that  ^Ho- 
mer was  a  great  describer  of  works  of  art"  Mr.  Bowles 
contends  that  all  his  great  power,  even  in  this,  depends 
upon  their  connexion  with  nature,  ^he  shield  of  Achil- 
les deriyes  its  poetical  interest  from  the  subjects  described 
on  it"  And  from  what  does  the  spemr  of  Achilles  derire 
its  interest?  and  the  helmet  and  the  mail  worn  by  Patroo- 
lus,  and  the  celestial  armour,  and  the  very  brazen  greaves 
oftiieweil-bootedGreeks?  Is  it  soldy  from  the  legs,  and 
tiieback,  and  the  breast,  and  the  human  body,  which  they 
inclose?  In  that  case,  it  would  have  been  more  poetical  to 
have  made  them  fight  naked;  and  Gulley  and  Gregson,  as 
bdng  nearer  to  a  state  of  nature,  are  more  poetical,  boxing 
In  a  pair  of  drawers,  than  Hector  and  Achilles  in  radiant 
armour,  and  with  heroic  weapons. 

Instead  of  the  dash  of  helmets,  and  the  rushing  of  dia- 
riots,  and  the  whicEing  of  spears,  and  the  glandng  of 
swords,  and  the  deaving  of  sliidds,  and  the  pierdog  of 


breast-plales,  wky  not  represent  tfie  Greeks  and  Ttajmi 
like  two  sayage  tribes,  tqgging  and  tearing,  andkad^ 
and  bitiag,  and  gnashing,  foanng,  gnBKung^sitAgo^ 
ing,  in  all  thepoetry  of  martial  nature^  nnim  mnilw  ml  ■» 
gross,  prosaic  artificial  arms,  an  equal  — pcifliiitj  is  lie 
natural  warrior,  and  his  natural  poet?  la  there  any  fta^ 
unpoetioal  in  Ulysses  striking  the  horaea  of  Rkesas  mA 
hi$  bow  (having  forgotten  his  thoQg),  or  would  Mr.hmh 
les  baye  had  him  icick  them  with  Us  foot,  or  wmmk  then 
witii  his  hand,  as  bdng  more  unsophistionled? 

In  Gray's  Elegy,  is  there  an  image  more  atrikiagttas 
his  '^shapeless  sculpture?"  Of  soniptttrein  geneni,  itsni 
be  observed,  that  it  is  more  poetical  thannntmeifsdtBK 
asmuch  as  it  represents  and  bodies  forth  that  ideal  besi^ 
and  snUimity  which  is  never  to  be  fonadmaotnalaatma 
This  atleast  is  the  general  opinion ;  but,  nlwaysezccptiss 
the  Venus  di  Mec&as,  I  difibr  from  that  o|Hnion,  at  IbhI 
as  Our  as  regards  female  beauty;  for  tlie  head  of  Lid|f 
Charlemont  (whenlfirst  saw  her,  nineyears  ago)seeBHtf 
to  possess  all  that  sculpture  could  require  for  ilsideBL  I 
recollect  seeing  something  of  the  same  kind  in  the  head 
of  an  Albanian  girl,  who  was  actually  employed  in  mcatf- 
ing  a  road  in  the  mountains,  and  in  some  Greek,  aaiiose 
or  two  Italian  foces.  But  of  nikfimi^,  I  have  never  sea 
any  thing  in  human  nature  at  all  to  approach  the  eipns* 
siott  of  sculpture,  dther  in  the  Apollo,  the  Moses,  orolher 
of  the  sterner  works  of  andent  or  modern  art 

Let  us  examine  a  little  further  this  Hiabble  of  gnea 
fields,"  and  of  bare  nature  in  general,  as  superior  to  aril* 
fidal  imagery,  for  the  poetical  purposes  (tf  the  fine  aita 
In  landscape-painting,  the  great  artist  does  not  givefN 
a  literal  copy  of  a  country,  but  he  inyenta  and  composet 
one.  Nature,  in  her  actual  aspect,  does  not  ftnnish  \m 
with  such  existing  scenes  as  he  requires.  Even  where  he 
presents  yon  with  some  fomoos  dty,  or  cselehrated  soeoe 
from  mountainor  other  nature,  it  must  be  takenfromsaae 
particular  point  of  yiew,  and  with  such  light,  and  shade-, 
and  distance,  as  serve  not  only  to  heighten  its  beantiei^ 
but  to  shadow  its  ddbrmitiea.  Tbe  poetry  of  Nafme 
alone,  9xaeUy  as  she  appears,  is  not  snfBcient  tobearlnM 
out  The  very  sky  of  his  painting  is  not  thejMrinslef 
the  sky  of  Nature;  it  is  a  composition  of  difoent  iM 
observedat different  times,  and  not  the  whole  copied  fi«Ml 
any  partienUr  day.  And  why?  Becanae  Nature  is  aeC 
lavish  of  her  beauties;  they  are  widdy  scattered,  and 
occasionally  displayed,  to  he  sdeeted  with  oaie,  sal 
gathered  with  difficulty. 

Of  sculpture  I  have  just  spoken.  It  is  the  great  seopt 
of  the  sculptor  to  heighten  Nature  into  heroic  bennty,vn 
in  plain  Engfish,  to  surpass  his  modd.  When  Gmi 
forms  a  statue,  he  takes  a  limb  from  one,  a  handfiWM  i 
another,  a  feature  from  a  third,  and  a  shape,  H  may  kt^ 
from  a  fourth,  probably  at  the  same  time  improvingapM  < 
all,  as  the  Greek  of  old  <Sd  in  embodying  hia  Venus, 

Ask  a  portrait-painter  to  deacriiie  hia  agonies  in  9^ 
commodatiag  the  fiioes  with  wfai^  Nature  and  his  di 
have  crowded  his  painting-room  to  the  prineiplesefll^ 
art:  with  the  exception  of  perhi^  tea  faces  in  asm 
millions,  tiiere  is  not  one  which  lie  oan  yentnre  to  gW; 
without  shading  much  and  adding  more.  Nature,  exad 
simply,  iiardy  Nature,  wUi  anke  no  great  nrtialfif  flif 


USftTER  ON  BOWLBS'  STRICTUSES  ON  POPH 


671 


Jted,  and  kutof  all  a  poet  *- llie  most  arttfldaJ^perhaps, 
afaHartiatiinlMftverycgaetice.  With  regard  to  natural 
taugery,  tlie  poetf  are  obliged  to  take  soBiie  of  their  best 
ttutmioiis  from  art.  Yon  say  that  a  '^antain  is  as 
dear  or  dearer  than  glass"  to  express  its  beaqty  *— 

'O  flbns  lfandiwh>,  sptendtdtor  nitro  I » 

la  the  speech  of  Mark  Antony » the  body  of  Caesar  is  ^»- 
pbyedy  bat  so  also  is  his  mantia : 

"Toa  «tt  do  know  tbls  mantle,'* 
*Lo«kl  In  tbto  ptace  nui  Ca«aia«^  daggar  tbrovgh." 

if  the  poet  had  said  that  Cassias  had  ran  his  Jist  through 
the  rent  of  the  mantle,  it  would  have  had  more  of  ICr. 
Bowies'  Mature''  to  help  it;  but  the  artificial  daggw\A 
■ore  poetical  than  any  natural  hand  without  it  In  the 
sahfime  of  sacred  poetry,  '<Who  is  this  that  oometh  from 
Sdom?  with  i[^«{^«niitfiUr  from  Bozrahr  Would  *the 
eoBier"  be  poetical  without  his  *^dgtd garmsnUf'  whioh 
strike  and  startle  the  spectator,  and  identify  the  ap* 
proadiiog  object 

The  mother  of  %era  is  represented  listening  for  the 
'*mhs^  of  his  ckarioL"  Solomon,  in  his  Song,  compares 
Ihenose  of  his  beloved  to<*a  tower,''  which  to  us  appears 
■I  eastern  exaggeration.  If  he  had  said,  that  her  stature 
was  like  that  of  a  'tower,"  it  would  have  been  as  poetical 
as  if  he  had  compared  her  to  a  tree. 

"Hm  TlrlDeas  Marda  lowera  above  her  ie*,** 

iiaa  instance  of  an  artificial  image  to  express  a  moral 
nperiority.  Bat  Solomon,  it  is  probable,  did  not  com- 
pare hts  beloved's  nose  to  a  ''tower"  on  account  of  its 
length,  but  of  its  symmetry ;  and,  making  allowance  for 
eastern  hyperbole  and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  discreet 
Inage  for  a  female  nose  in  nature,  it  is  perhaps  as  good 
s  figure  as  any  other. 

'Art  is  not  inferior  to  nature  for  poetical  purposes. 
What  makes  a  regiment  of  soldiers  a  more  noble  object 
of  view  than  the  same  mass  of  mob?  Their  arms,  their 
dnssea,  their  banners,  and  the  art  and  artificial  symmetry 
af  thek-  posMioa  and  movements.  A  Highlander's  plaid, 
I  K oasQlman's  turban,  and  a  Roman  toga,  are  more 
pocttoal  than  the  tattooed  or  untattooed  buttocks  of  a 
Wsw-Sandwich  savage,  although  they  were  descriiied  by 
ITtffiam  Wordswwth  himself  likethe  «4diot  in  his  glory." 

I  have  seen  as  many  mountains  as  most  men,  and  more 
ietts  flian  the  generality  of  landsmen :  and,  to  my  mind, 
^large  convoy,  with  a  few  sail  of  the  fine  to  conduct  them, 
las  noble  and  as  poetical  a  prospect  as  all  that  inanimate 
litore  ean  produce.  1  prefer  the '^ast  of  some  great  am- 
airaJ,"  with  all  its  tackle,  to  the  Scotch  fir  or  the  Alpine 
maiem;  and  think  that  tiMre  poetry  has  hoon  made  out 
fit  Ib  what  does  tiie  infinite  superiority  of '<Fal6oner's 
Upwreck,"  over  all  other  shipwrecks,  consist?  In  his 
isBirabie  application  of  the  terms  of  his  art;  in  a  poet- 
lUor^s  description  of  the  sailor's  fate.  These  twry  termi, 
fMa  triplication,  make  the  strength  and  reality  of  his 
itni.  Why?  because  he  was  a  poet,  and  in  the  hands 
It  poet  «r<  will  not  be  found  less  ornamental  than  nature. 
Ms  predsely  in  general  nature,  and  in  stepping  out  of 
Is  element,  that  Falconer  fiiils;  where  he  digresses  to 
paakof  aneientGraece,  and  ^ach  branches  of  learning." 
^  Dyei^s  Gvongar  Hill,  upon  which  his  fiune  rests,  the 


very  appearance  of  Nature  herself  is  moralised  into  an 
artificial  image  : 

Thas  If  Nature**  vestare  wroaehl; 
To  inctraeC  oar  wandcrii^  thoaght; 
Tbw  Bhe  dresses  greea  and  say. 
To  disperse  oar  cares  away. 

And  here  also  we  have  the  telescope,  the  mis-use  of 
which,  from  Milton,  has  rendered  Mr.  Bowles  so  triumph- 
ant over  Mr.  Campbell. 

So  we  mistake  the  Aitare't  flwe^ 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass. 

And  here  a  word,  en  passant,  to  Mr.  Campbell 

As  yoD  summits,  soft  and  Mr, 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air» 
Which,  to  those  who  Journey  near. 
Barren,  brown,  and  rougfa  a|^>ear, 
ScUl  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way  •^■ 
The  present's  still  a  ciondy  day. 

Is  not  this  the  original  of  the  far-fiuned 

TIs  dbtance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  nonntain  In  its  aanre  hnef 

To  return  once  more  to  the  sea.  Let  any  one  look  on 
the  long  wall  of  Malamocoo,  which  curbs  the  Adriatic, 
and  pronounce  between  the  sea  and  its  master.  Surely 
that  Roman  work  (I  mean  Roman  in  conception  and  per^ 
formance),  which  says  to  the  ocean,  'Hhus  far  shalt  thou 
come,  and  no  further,"  and  is  obeyed,  is  not  les  sublime 
and  poetical  than  the  angry  waves  which  vainly  break 
beneath  it 

Mr.  Bowles  makes  the  chief  part  of  a  ship's  poesy  de* 
pend  on  the  **wmdy'  then  why  is  a  ship  under  sail  more 
poetical  tlian  a  hog  in  a  high  wind  ?  The  hog  is  all  nature, 
the  ship  is  all  art,  hoarse  canvass,"  "blue  bunting,"  and 
<*tall  poles;"  both  are  violently  acted  upon  by  the  wind, 
tossed  here  and  there,  to  and  (ko;  and  yet  nothing  but 
excess  of  hunger  could  make  me  look  upon  the  pig  as  the 
more  poetical  of  the  two,  and  then  only  in  the  shape  of  a 
griskin. 

'  Will  Mr.  Bowles  tell  us  that  the  poetry  of  an  aquedoot 
consists  in  the  water  which  it  conveys?  Let  him  look  on 
that  of  Justinian,  on  those  of  Rome,  Constantinople^ 
Lisbon,  and  Elvas,  or  even  at  the  remains  of  that  in 
Attica. 

We  are  asked  ^what  makes  the  venerable  towers  of 
Westminster  Abbey  more  poetical,  as  objects,  than  the 
tower  for  the  manufactory  of  patent-shot,  surrounded  by 
the  same  scenery?"  I  will  answer  —  the  arckiUetart. 
Turn  Westminster  Abbey,  or  Saint  Paul's,  into  a  powder* 
maga^ne^  thdr  poetry,  as  objects,  remains  the  same ;  the 
Parthenon  was  actually  converted  into  one  by  the  Turks, 
during  Morosini's  Venetian  siege,  and  part  of  it  destroyed 
in  consequence.  Cromwell's  dragoons  stalled  their  steeds 
in  Worcester  cathedral;  was  it  less  poetical,  as  an  object, 
than  before  ?  Ask  a  foreigner  on  his  approach  to  London, 
what  strikes  him  as  the  most  poetical  of  the  towers  be* 
fore  him:  he  will  point  out  St  Paul's  and  Westminster 
Abbey,  without,  perhaps,  knowing  the  names  or  asso- 
ciations of  either,  and  pass  over  the  <<lower  for  patent* 
shot,"  not  that,  for  any  thing  be  knows  to  the  contrary,  it 
miglit  not  be  the  mausoleum  of  a  monarch,  or  a  Water- 
loo-column, or  a  Trafelgar-monument,  but  because  its 
architeotnre  is  obviously  inferior. 


672 


USTTER  ON  BOWLES'  STKICTUHBS  ON  POFBL 


To  the  qaestion,  '^whether  the  description  of  a  game 
of  cards  be  as  poetical,  supposing  the  execation  of  the 
artists  equal,  as  a  description  of  a  walk  in  a  forest?"  it 
may  be  answered,  that  the  materials  are  certainly  not 
equal;  but  that  ''tlie  artist/'  who  has  rendered  the  ''game 
of  cards  poetical,"  is  by  far  the  greater  of  the  two.  But 
all  this  ''ordering"  of  poets  is  purely  arbitrary  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Bowies.  There  may  or  may  not  be,  in  fact,  different 
orders  of  poetry,  but  the  poet  is  always  ranked  according 
to  his  execution,  and  not  according  to  his  branch  of 
the  art 

Tragedy  is  one  of  the  highestpresumed  orders.  Hughes 
has  written  a  tragedy,  and  a  very  successfiil  one;  Fenton 
anotlier;  and  Pope  none.  Did  any  man,  however, — will 
even  tAr,  Bowles  himself  rank  Hughes  and  Fenton  as 
poets  above  Pope?  Was  even  Addison  (the  author  of 
Cato),  or  Rowe  (one  of  the  higher  order  of  dramatists, 
as  far  as  success  goes),  or  Toung,  or  even  Otway  and 
Southeme,  ever  raised  for  a  moment  to  the  same  rank 
witli  Pope  in  the  estimation  of  the  reader  or  the  critic, 
before  hb  death  or  since?  If  Mr.  Bowles  will  contend  for 
classifications  of  tliis  kind,  let  him  recollect  that  descrip- 
tive poetry  has  been  ranked  as  among  the  lowest  branches 
of  the  art,  and  description  as  a  mere  ornament,  bat  which 
shonld  never  form  "the  subject"  of  a  poem.  The  Italians, 
with  the  most  poetical  language,  and  the  most  fiMtidiom 
taste  in  Europe,  possess  now  five  ^rre^U  poets,  they  say, 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  lastiy  Alfleri;  and 
whom  do  they  esteem  one  of  the  highest  of  these,  and  some 
of  them  the  very  highest?  Petrarch,  ^e  sonneteer:  it  is 
trae  tiiat  some  of  his  Canzoni  are  not  less  esteemed,  but 
not  more;  who  ever  dreams  of  his  Latin  Africa? 

Were  Petrarch  to  be  ranked  according  to  the  ''order" 
of  his  compositions,  where  would  the  best  of  sonnets 
phioehim?  With  Dante  and  the  others?  No;  hot,  aa  I 
have  before  said,  tlie  poet  who  executes  best  is  the  highest, 
whatever  his  department,  and  will  ever  be  so  rated  in  the 
world's  esteem. 

Had  Gray  written  nothing  but  his  Blegy,  higli  as  he 
stands,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  stand  higher ;  it 
is  the  corner-stone  of  his  glory :  without  it,  his  odes  would 
be  insufficient  for  his  fame.  The  depreciation  of  Pope  is 
partly  founded  upon  a  false  Idea  of  the  dignity  of  his  or- 
der of  poetry,  to  which  he  has  partly  oontributed  by  the 
ingenuous  boast. 

That  not  in  FuMy*i  mate  be  wandei'd  long, 
Bui  ttoop'd  to  Trnlh,  and  iBoraUxcd  bb  toag. 

He  should  have  written  ''rose  to  truth."  In  my  ndnd  the 
highest  of  all  poetry  is  ethical  poetry,  as  the  highest  of  all 
earthly  objects  must  be  moral  truth.  Religion  does  not 
make  a  part  of  my  subject;  it  is  something  beyond  hu- 
man powers,  and  has  fiiiled  in  all  human  hands  except 
Milton's  and  Dante's,  and  even  Dante's  powers  are  in- 
volved in  his  delineation  of  human  passions,  tiiough  in 
supernatural  circumstances.  What  made  Socrates  the 
greatest  of  men?  His  moral  truth  —  his  ethics.  What 
proved  Jesus  Christ  the  Son  of  God  hardly  less  tiian  his 
miracles?  His  moral  precepts.  And  if  ethics  have  made 
a  philosopher  the  firsi  of  men,  and  have  not  been  dis« 
dained  as  an  adjunct  to  his  Gospel  by  the  Ddty  himself,  are 
^e  to  be  told  that  ethical  poetry,  or  by  whatever 


youtermit,  whoaeofa|eot  Is  to  makemen  better  aBd.wiso, 
is  not  the  very  first  order  ot  poetry;  and  are  we  t*  b» 
told  this  too  by  one  of  the  priesthood?  It  r^airesMMK 
mind,  more  wisdom,  more  power,  than  all  the 
that  ever  vere  ''walked"  for  iheir  "descriptkm/' 
the  epics  that  ever  were  founded  upon  ^tida  of  faaltlfc. 
The  Geoigics  are  indiH>utabiy,  and,  I  believe^  wwA'y 
tedfy,  even  a  finer  poem  than  the  JSneid.  Viiigil  knew 
this ;  he  did  not  order  them  to  he  burnt 

"The  proper  itady  ^imaakSmd  is  naa." 

It  is  the  ftishionof  the  day  to  lay  great  atreas  upon  wk^ 
they  call  "imagination"  and  "invention,"  the  two  odm- 
monest  of  qualities:  an  Irish  peasant  with  a  little  wUsfcey 
in  hia  head,  will  imagine  and  invent  more  tfaaa  wogU 
furnish  forth  a  modern  poem.  If  Lucretiiis  bakd  not  beea 
spoiled  by  the  Epicurean  system,  we  shooid  have  had  a 
far  superior  poem  to  any  now  in  exiscencis.  As  wuae 
poetry,  it  is  the  first  of  Latin  poeoM.  What  then  haa  mined 
it?  His  ethics.  Pope  has  not  this  defect;  his  nsoral  is  as 
pure  as  his  poetry  1^  glorious.  In  speakiogofartifieiainb- 
jects,  I  have  omitted  to  touch  upon  one  whicii  I  will  aow 
mention.  Cannon  may  be  presumed  to  be  as  higUy  poet- 
ical as  art  can  make  her  objects.  Mr.  Bowles  wiU,  pcvhapi, 
tell  me  that  this  is  because  liiey  resemble  &at  giaadiB- 
tural  article  of  sound  in  heaven,  and  simile  upon  eattk— 
thunder.  I  shaU  be  told  trinnphantly,  tint  BGItoa  made 
sad  work  with  bis  artillery,  when  he  armed  his  devBs 
therewitiiaL  He  did  so;  and  tiiis  artifioal  obfcet  Mast 
have  had  much  of  tiie  sublime  to  attract  his  atteatioafiK 
snohaoonfiict  He  Asf  made  aa  absurd  use  of  it;  batlke 
absurdity  consists  not  un  using  c«aa#a  against  the  n^rii 
of  God,  but  any  mmUriml  weapon.  The  thmider  of  Ike 
clouds  would  have  been  as  ridiculous  and  vain  in  the 
hands  of  the  devils,  as  tiie  '^villanous  saltpetre :"  theaqgcfc 
were  as  impervious  to  the  one  as  to  the  other.  Thethm- 
derbolts  became  sublime  in  the  hands  of  the  Alaughty, 
not  as  such  but  because  ke  deigns  to  use  theaa  asaaneaas 
of  repelling  therri>el  spirits;  hot  no  one  can  attribute  IhA 
defeat  to  this  grand  piece  of  natural  ekctrinity:  dieAI- 
miglity  willed,  and  they  fiell;  his  word  would  I 
enough;  and  Milton  is  as  absurd  (and  in  At(ty 
ous)  in  putting  material  lightnings  into  the  faaftds  oC  *e 
Godhead  as  in  giving  him  hands  at  all. 

The  artillery  of  the  demons  wasbut  the  firat  step  of  his 
mistake,  the  thunder  the  next,  and  it  is  a  step  lower,  it 
would  have  been  fit  for  Jove,  but  not  for  Jehovah,  life 
subject  altogether  wasessentially  uapoetaoal ;  hehaamada 
more  of  it  tiian  another  ooald,  hut  it  is  beyond  him  «■! 
all  men. 

In  a  portion  of  Ins  reply,  Mr*  Bowles  asserts  that  Boyfe 
^'envied  Philips,"  beeanse  he  qoissed  his  pastarais  hi  A* 
Guardian,  in  that  most  admirable  model  of  irony,  hispid 
per  on  the  subject  If  there  was  any  thiioirenviaibleabaii 
Philips,  it  could  hardly  be  his  pastorals.  They  were  4l^ 
spicable,  and  Pope  expressed  his  ooatempt  If  Mr.  WIttf 
gerald  published  a  volume  of  adbnets,  or  a  **Spiiit  ofBh^  | 
covery,"  or  a  <'MiBsiottafy,"and  Mr.  Bowles  wrote  I 
periodical  journal  an  ironical  paper  upon  thess, 
this  be  «envy  ?"  Theautiiors  of  tiie"BejectedAililniM^i 
have  ridiculed  the  sixteen  or  twenty  ^first  living  I 
of Uie  day;  but  do  they  «5enfy"  fliem?  '"Bavy" 


LBTTBB  ON  BOWLES'  STBICTURES  ON  VOV& 


673 


t  don't  laugh.  .Tbe  aatbors  of  the  Rejeeted  Addresses 
lay  despise  some,  but  they  can  hardly  "envy"  any  of  Uie 
pTSons  whom  they  have  parodied;  and  Pope  could  have 
o  more  envied  Phillips  than  he  did  Welstcd,  or  Theo- 
aids,  orSmedley,  or  any  other  given  hereof  the  Dunciad. 
(e  could  not  have  envied  him,  even  had  he  himself  not 
een  the  greatest  poet  of  his  age.  Did  Mr.  Ings  "envy" 
rlr.Phillips  whenhe  asked  him,  ''how  came  your  Pyrrhus 
9  drive  oxen,  and  say,  l8im$oadedoa  hy  love?"  This 
[uestion  silenced  poorPbilUps;  but  it  no  more  proceeded 
Eom  *'envy"  than  did  Pope's  ridicule.  Did  he  envy  Swift? 
Hd  he  envy  Bolingbroke?  Did  he  envy  Gay  the  unparal- 
dedsaocessofhis  ^'Beggar's  Opera ?*'  We  may  beaib- 
twered  that  these  were  his  friends — true;  but  does/rten<f- 
kip  prevent  envy?  Study  the  first  woman  you  meet  with, 
IT  tlie  first  scribbler;  let  Mr.  Bowles  himself  (whom  I  ac- 
lakt  fully  of  such  an  odious  quality)  study  some  of  his 
inn  poetical  intimates :  the  most  envious  man  I  ever 
leard  of  is  a  poet,  and  a  high  one;  besides  it  is  snuniver- 
ml  passion.  Goldsmith  envied  not  only  the  puppets  for 
heir  daucing,  and  brokehis  shins  in  tbe  attempt  at  rivalry, 
nt  was  seriously  angry  because  two  pretty  women  re* 
isived  more  attention  than  he  did.  Thiiuenvtf ;  but  where 
loes  Pope  sho  w  a  sign  of  the  passion  ?  In  that  case  Dry- 
lea  envied  the  hero  of  his  Mao  Flecknoe.  Mr.  Bowles 
9fKDpares,  when  and  where  he  can.  Pope  with  Cowper 
[Ae  same  Cowper  whom  in  hb  edition  of  Pope  he  laughs 
It  lor  hiaattachment  toan old  woman,  Mrs. Unwin:  search 
indyou  will  find  it;  I  remember  the  passage,  though  not 
iKpage) ;  in  particular  he  requotes  Cowper's  Dutch  deli- 
Mfttion  of  a  wood,  drawn  up  like  a  seedsman's  catalogue, 
nth  an  aB'ected  imitation  of  Milton's  style,  as  burlesque 
a  the  ^'Splendid  shilling."  These  two  writers  (for  Cow- 
Mr  is  no  poet)  come  into  comparison  in  one  great  work — 
he  translation  of  Homer.  Now,  with  all  the  great,  and 
aaiiifesty  and  manifold,  and  reproved,  and  acknowledged, 
md  oncontroverted  foults  of  Pope's  translation,  and  all 
Ike  sehohurship,  and  pains,  and  time,  and  trouble,  and 
Mask  verse  of  tlie  other,  who  can  ever  read  Cowper  ?  and 
iho  will  ever-  lay  down  Pope,  unless  for  the  original? 
jlepe'a  was  ''not  Homer,  it  was  Spondanns;"  but  Cow- 
NT's  is  not  Homer,  either,  it  is  not  even  Cowper.  Asa 
hild  I  first  read  Pope's  Homer  with  a  rapture  which  no 
ajbseqnent  work  oould  ever  afford,  and  children  are  not 
he  worst  judges  of  their  own  language.  As  a  boy  I  read 
innier  in  the  original,  as  we  have  all  done,  some  of  ud  by 
hiM,  and  a  few  by  fovoor;  under  which  description  I 
nne  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  it  Is  enough  that  I  read 
im.  As  a  man  I  have  tried  to  readCowper's  version,  and 
riband  it  impossible.  Has  any  human  reader  ever  sue- 
wded? 

^  And  now  that  we  have  heard  the  Catholic  reproached 
ilhenvy,  duplicity,  licentiousness,  avarice  —  what  was 
fe  Calvinist?  He  attempted  the  most  atrocious  of  crimes 
Irtiie  Christian  code,  viz.  suicide  —  and  why?  because  he 
Its  to  be  examined  whether  he  was  fit  for  an  office  which 
^  seems  to  wish  to  have  made  a  sinecure.  His  connexion 
Ml  Mrs.  Unwin  was  pore  enough,  for  the  old  lady  was 
bvoot,  and  he  was  deranged ;  but  why  then  Is  the  infirm 

tthen  elderly  Pope  to  be  reproved  for  his  connexion 
Martha  Blonnt?  Cowper  was  the  almoner  of  Mrs. 


Throgmorton;  but  Pope's  charities  were  his  own,  and 
they  were  noble  and  extensive,  far  beyond  his  fortune's 
warrant  Pope  was  the  tolerant  yet  steady  adherent  ofthe 
most  bigoted  of  sects;  and  Cowper  the  most  bigoted  and 
despondent  sectary  that  ever  anticipated  damnation  to 
himself  or  others.  Is  this  harsh  ?  I  know  it  is,  and  I  do 
not  assert  it  as  my  opinion  of  Coyf  per  personally,  but  to 
$kow  what  might  be  said,  with  just  as  great  an  appearance 
of  truth  and  candour,  as  all  the  odium  which  has  been  a& 
cumulated  upon  Pope  in  similar  speculations.  Cowper 
was  a  good  man,  and  lived  at  a  fortunate  time  for  his  works 
Mr.  Bowles,  apparently  not  relying  entirely  upon  his 
own  arguments,  has,  in  person  or  by  proxy,  brought  for- 
ward the  names  of  Southey  and  Moore.  Mr.  Southey 
"agrees  entirely  with  Mr.  Bowles  in  his  invariable  prin- 
ciples of  poetry."  The  least  that  Mr.  Bowles  can  do  in 
return  is  to  approve  the  "invariable  principles  of  Mr. 
Southey."  I  should  have  thought  that  the  wor&Hnvariable" 
might  have  stuck  in  Southey's  throat,  like  Macbeth's 
"Amen  I"  I  am  sure  it  did  in  mine,  and  I  am  not  the  least 
consistent  of  tbe  two,  at  least  as  a  voter.  Moore  (et  tu, 
Brute/)  also  approves,  and  a  Mr.  J.  Scott  There  is  a 
letter  also  of  two  lines  from  a  gentleman  in  asterisks,  who, 
it  seems,  is  a  poet  of  "the  highest  rank"  —  who  can  this 
be?  not  my  friend,  Sir  Walter,  surely.  Campbell  it  can't 
be;  Rogers  it  won't  be. 

"Yon  hftve  hit  tbe  nail  io  Uie  head,  end  *  *  *  * 
[Pope,  I  pre«ame]  en  the  head  oliio.'* 

J  remain  yoar«,  aflfectionately, 
(Four  Aitcrisks.) 

And  in  asterisks  let  him  remain.  Whoever  this  person 
may  be,  he  deserves,  for  such  a  judgment  of  Midas,  that 
"the  nail"  which  Mr.Bowlcs  has  "hit  m  the  head"  should 
be  driven  through  his  own  ears ;  I  am  sure  that  they  are 
long  enough. 

Tbe  attempt  of  the  poetical  populace  of  the  present  day 
to  obtain  anostradsm  against  Pope  is  as  easily  accounted 
for  as  the  Athenian's  shell  against  Aristides;  they  are 
tired  of  hearing  him  always  called  "the  Just"  They  are 
also  fighting  for  life;  for  if  he  maintains  his  station,  they 
will  reach  their  own  by  falling.  They  have  raised  a  mos- 
que by  the  side  ofa(jirevian  temple  of  the  purest  architec- 
ture; and,  more  barbarous  tlian  the  barbarians  from  whose 
practice  I  have  borrowed  the  figure,  they  are  not  contented 
with  fheir  own  grotesque  edifice,  unless  they  destroy  the 
prior  and  purely  beautiful  fabric  which  preceded,  and 
which  shames  tliem  and  tlieirs  for  ever  and  ever.  I  shall 
be  told  that  amongst  those  I  hmee  been  (or  it  may  be,  still 
am)  conspicuous  —  true,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it  I  have 
been  amongst  the  builders  of  this  Babel,  attended  by  a 
confusion  of  tongues,  but  n#v«r  amongst  the  envious  des- 
troyers of  the  classic  temple  of  our  predecessor.  I  have 
loved  and  honoured  the  fame  and  name  of  that  illustrious 
and  unrivalledman,  for  more  than  my  own  paltry  renown, 
and  the  trashy  jingle  ofthe  crowd  of  "Schools"  and  up- 
starts, who  pretend  to  rival,  or  even  surpass  hhn.  Sooner 
than  a  single  leaf  should  be  torn  firom  his  laurel,  it  were 
better  that  all  which  these  men,  and  that  I,  as  one  of  theii 
set^  have  ever  written,  should 

Line  trunks,  clothe  Aptce,  or,  Sntfertng  In  a  row, 
BcMng*  tlie  rail*  of  Bedlam  or  Soho  t 

43 


674 


UBTTER  ON  BOWLES'  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


Tliere  are  flKMe  who  will  bdieve  thit»  and  thofe  who  win 
BOt.  You,  Sir,  luiow  how  fiurlom  sincere,  and  whether  my 
opinion^  not  only  in  the  short  work  intended  for  publica- 
tion, and  in  private  letters  which  can  never  be  published, 
has  or  has  not  been  the  same.  I  look  upon  this  as  the  de- 
clining age  of  English  poetry;  no  regard  for  others,  no 
selfish  feeling,  can  prevent  mc  from  seeing  this,  and  ex- 
pressing the  troth.  There  can  be  no  worse  sign  for  the 
taste  of  the  times  than  the  depreciation  of  Pope.  It  would 
be  better  to  receive  for  proof  Mr.  Cobbett's  rough  hot 
strong  attack  upon  Sbakspeare  and  Milton,  than  to  allow 
this  smooth  and  "candid"  andermining  of  the  reputatioa 
of  the  most  perfect  of  our  poets  and  the  purest  of  our 
moralists.  Of  his  power  in  the  paaions,  in  description, 
in  the  mock  heroic,  I  leave  others  to  descant  1  take  him 
OB  his  strong  ground,  as  an  etkieml  poet:  in  the  former 
none  excel,  in  the  modL-heroio  and  the  ethical  none 
equal  him;  and  in  my  mind,  the  latter  is  the  highest 
of  all  poetry,  because  it  does  that  in  verse,  which  the 
greatest  of  men  have  wished  to  aooomplish  in  prose.  If 
the  essence  of  poetry  must  be  a  tie,  throw  it  to  the  dogs, 
or  banish  it  from  your  republic,  as  Plato  would  have 
done.  He  who  can  reconcile  poetry  with  trutiiand  wisdom, 
is  the  only  true  "poet"  in  its  real  sense:  '*tbeiiMA«r/' 
<Uhc  creator"  -^  why  must  this  mean  the  ^liar,"  the 
<<feigner/'  'Hbe  tale-teller  ?"  A  man  may  make  and  create 
better  things  than  these. 

I  shall  not  presume  to  say  that  Pope  is  as  high  a  poet 
as  Sbakspeare  and  Milton,  though  his  enemy,  Warton, 
places  him  immediately  under  them.  I  would  no  more 
say  this  than  I  would  assert  in  the  mosqae  (once  Saint 
Sopliia's),  that  Socrates  was  a  greater  man  than  Maho- 
met. But  if  I  say  that  he  is  very  near  them,  it  is  no  more 
than  has  been  asserted  of  Bums,  who  is  supposed 

'^o  rivil  all  bat  ShakipMrVi  aaiii«  below.** 

I  say  nothing  against  this  opinion.  Bat  of  what  ^ordier'* 
aooording  to  the  poetical  aristocracy,  are  Barns'  poems  ? 
There  are  his  opms  magnMm,  ''Tam  O'Shanter,''  atfult; 
the<'Ck>tter's  Saturday  Night,"  a  descriptive  sketch;  some, 
others  in  the  same  style;  the  rest  arc  songs.  So  much 
for  the  rctiA  of  his  producUont;  the  rank  d  Bums  is  the 
very  first  of  his  art  Of  Pope  I  have  expressed  my  opi- 
nion elsewhere,  as  also  of  the  effect  which  the  present  at- 
tempts at  poetry  have  had  upon  our  literature.  If  any 
great  national  or  natural  convulsion  could  or  should 
overwhelm  your  country,  in  such  sort  as  to  sweep  Great 
Britain  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  and  leave  only 
that,  after  all,  the  most  living  of  human  thii^ia,  a  deeul 
le»gua$e,  to  be  studied,  and  read,  and  imitated  by  the 
wise  of  future  and  fiEur  generations  upon  foreign  shores ; 
if  your  literature  should  beoooie  the  leanuBg  of  maokiBd, 
divested  of  party-cabals,  temporary  fiuhions,  and  national 
pride  and  prqjadice;  an  Englishman,  anxioas  that  the 
posterity  of  strangers  should  know  that  there  bad  been 
snch  a  thing  as  a  British  Epic  and  Tragedy,  might  wish 
for  the  preservation  of  Sbakspeare  and  Milton;  hot  the 
surviving  world  would  snatch  Pope  from  the  wreck,  and 
let  the  rest  sink  witli  the  people.  He  is  the  moral  poet  of 
all  civilization ;  and,  as  such,  let  us  hope  that  he  will  one 
day  be  the  national  poet  of  mankind.  He  is  the  only  poet 
that  never  shocks ;  die  only  poet  yihoB^fouUUssnau  has 


been  made  his  reproach.  Cast  yoor  eye  over  Ut  pta- 
ductions;  consider  their  extent,  and  oontemplate  thdr 
variety :  -^  pastoral,  passion,  mock  heroic^  transiatis^ 
sature,  ethics,  —  all  exoeUent,  and  often  petfeet  If  kis 
great  charm  be  his  mehdjf,  how  comes  it  tbatt  forrigaos 
adore  him  even  in  their  diluted  translatioBs  ?  Bat  I  have 
made  this  letter  too  long.  Give  my  oompliiiieBta  to  Rr. 
Bowles. 

Yours  ever,  very  truly, 

BYRON, 
PostscriptunL,  —  Lootg  as  this  letter  baa  grown,  I  find  il 
necessary  to  append  a  postscript,  —  if  possible,  a  shod 
one.  Mr.  Bowles  denies  that  he  has  aceuaed  Pope  of  ^ 
sordid  money-getting  passion;"  but  be  ndds^  *'if  I  hid 
ever  done  so,  I  should  be  glad  to  find  any  testimoay  thU 
might  show  he  was  not  so."  This  testimony  he  may  fiad 
to  his  heart's  content  in  Spence  and  elsewhere.  Finl, 
there  is  Martha  Blount,  who^  Mr.  Bowles  chaiilably  sayi, 
^^probably  thought  he  did  not  save  enoogii  for  her  as  le- 
gatee." Whatever  she  thomgAt  upon  this  point, her  words 
are  in  Pope's  fiiroor.  Then  there  is  Aldenaan  Barhor; 
see  Spenoe's  Anecdotes.  There  is  Pope's  oold  answer  to 
Halifax  when  he  proposed  a  pennon;  his  befaavioBr  to 
Craggs  and  to  Addison  upon  like  occasions;  sod  his  ova 
two  lines  — 

Ami,  thanks  to  Hraiwv  time*  I  tfre  sad  Chri«% 
Indebted  to  no  priiwc  or  peer  alive  — 

written  when  princes  wonld  have  been  proud  to  pessioa, 
and  peers  to  promote  him,  and  when  the  whole  any  of 
dances  were  in  array  against  him,  and  would  have  beea 
but  too  happy  to  deprive  him  of  this  boast  oCindepcnd* 
enoe.  But  there  is  something  a  little  moreserioos  in  Mr. 
Bowles'  declaration,  that  he  ^'womU  have  spokco"  cf  hia 
''noble  generosity  to  the  oatoast,  Ridiard  Smngc,"  and 
other  instances  of  a  compassionate  and  generous  beait, 
"kad  thetf  occurred  to  kis  reeoUection  wkem  ke  wrote," 
What!  is  it  come  to  this?  Does  Mr.  Bowles  sit  down  to 
write  a  minute  and  laboured  life  and  editioii  of  a  great 
poet  t  Does  he  anatomijRe  his  character,  moral  and  po^- 
ical?  Does  he  present  as  with  his  frialts  and  with  his 
foibles?  Does  he  sneer  at  his  feelings,  and  dooht  of  his 
sincerity  ?  Docs  he  unfold  his  vanity  and  dopficity !  aad 
tlM^n  omit  the  good  qoalitiei  which  might,  in  part,  have 
^covered  this  multitude  of  sinsf '  aad  then  plead  Ihit 
'Hkeydidnat  occur  to  kioretoUectiamr*  Is  this  the  franc 
of  mind  and  of  memory  with  which  the  illostiioas  dead 
are  to  be  approached?  If  Mr.  Bowles,  who  nost  have 
had  access  to  all  the  Buans  of  refreshiAg  his  MMSMMy,  did 
not  reeoHect  these  frets,  he  is  unfit  for  his  task ;  but  if  he 
did  recollect,  and  oaut  them,!  know  not  what  heisfitte 
bat  I  know  what  woald  be  fit  for  him.  Is  the  plea  of  «^ot 
recollecting"  such  prominent  fiicto  to  he  admitted?  Mk. 
Bowles  has  been  at  a  pablic  school,  and,  as  I  have  been 
publicly  edacated  aiso^  I  can  sympathise  with  his  prafr 
lection.  When  we  were  in  the  third  form  even,  kadva 
pleaded  on  the  Monday  morning,  that  we  had  noili 
up  the  Saturday's  exercise,  because  ''we  had 
it,"  what  would  have  been  the  reply  ?  And  is  an  t 
which  would  not  be  pardoned  to  a  schoolboy,  to  pai»  y 
current  in  a  matter  which  so  nearly  concerns  the  bmm  of  j 
the  first  poet  of  his  age,  if  not  of  his  oooaliy!  If  jfe  < 


A  8EGOND  liBTTBR  ON  BOWLBS'  SnUCTUKBS  ON  POPB. 


675 


SO  readily  forgeta  tiieTtrtoes  of  otb^n»  wbgr  oom* 
piain  so  grievoasly  that  others  have  a  better  memory  for 
his  own  faults?  They  arc  bat  the  faults  of  an  aathor; 
while  the  virtaes  he  omitted  from  his  oatalogae  are  es- 
gwfitial  to  the  justice  dae  to  a  man. 

Mr.  Bowles  appears,  indeed,  to  be  sasoeptibie  beyond 
the  privilege  of  authorship.  There  is  a  plaintive  dedi- 
cation to  Mr.  Giffordy  in  which  he  is  made  responsible 
for  all  the  articles  of  the  Quarterly.  Mr.  Southey,  it  seems, 
**the  most  able  and  eloquent  writer  in  that  Review/'  ap- 
psores  of  Mr.  Bowles'  publication.  Now,  it  seems  to  me 
Ihe  more  impartial,  that,  notwithstanding  that  the  great 
writer  of  the  Quarterly  entertains  opinions  opposite  to 
the  able  article  on  Spenoe^  nevertheless  that  essay  was 
pcnaittod  to  appear.  Is  a  Review  to  be  devoted  to  the 
opiiiioiis  of  any  one  man?  Must  it  not  vary  aoeording  to 
ciienmstanoes,  and  according  to  the  subjects  to  be  criti- 
cised 1 1  fear  that  writers  must  take  the  sweets  and  bitters 
of  the  public  journals  as  they  ooour,  and  an  author  of  so 
ioogJL  Standing  as  Mr.  Bowles  might  have  become  aoous- 
toaaed  to  such  incidents;  he  might  be  angry,  but  not 
astonished.  1  have  been  reviewed  in  the  Quarterly  al- 
asost  as  often  as  Mr.  Bowles,  and  have  had  as  pleasant 
things  said,  and  some  as  trnpUasantf  as  ooujd  well  be  pro- 
noiUKsed.  In  the  review  of  ''The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,''  it  Is 
stated  thatl  have  devoted  ''my  powers  to  the  worst  parts 
of  3i£anicheism,"  which,  being  interpreted,  means  that  I 
vorabip  the  deviL  Now  I  have  neither  written  a  reply, 
nor  complained  to  Gifford.  I  believe  that  I  observed  in 
a  letter  to  you,  that  I  thought  ^'that  the  critic  might  have 
piaised  Milman  without  finding  it  necessary  to  abuse 
ne ;"  hut  did  I  not  add  at  the  same  time,  or  soon  after 
(apropos  of  the  note  in  the  book  of  Travels),  that  I  would 


not,  if  it  were  even  in  my  power,  have  a  single  line  caap- 
celled  on  my  account  in  that  nor  in  any  other  publi- 
cation? >-  Of  course,  I  reserve  to  myself  the  privilqj;e  of 
response  when  necessary.  Mri  Bowles  seems  in  a  whiai- 
sical  state  about  the  author  of  the  article  on  Spence.  Yoa 
know  very  well  that  I  am  not  in  your  confidence,  nor  in  that 
of  the  conductor  of  the  joumaL  The  moment  I  saw  tliat 
artid^  I  was  morally  certain  that  I  knew  the  author  "by 
his  style."  You  will  tell  me  that  I  do  fio<  ibitfi0  him :  that 
is  all  as  it  should  be;  keep  the  secret,  so  shall  I,  though 
no  one  has  ever  intrusted  it  to  me.  He  is  not  the  person 
whom  Mr.  Bowles  denounces.  Mr.  Bowles'  extreme 
sensibility  reminds  me  of  a  cironmstance  which  occurred 
on  board  of  a  frigate,  in  which  I  was  a  passenger  and 
guest  of  thceaptain's  for  a  considerable  time.  Thesuigeon 
on  board,  a  very  gentlemanly  young  man,  and  remarkably 
able  in  his  profession,  wore  a  wiff.  Upon  this  ornament 
he  was  extremely  tenacious.  As  naval  jests  are  sometimes 
a  little  rough,  his  brother-officers  made  occasional  allu- 
sions to  this  delicate  appendage  to  the  doctor's  person. 
One  day  a  youqg  lieutenant,  in  the  course  of  a  fiioetious 
discussion,  said :  ^'Suppose  now,  doctor,  I  should  take  off 
yourAsl."  "Sir,"  replied  the  doctor,  "I  shall  talk  no  longer 
with  you;  you  grow  icurriUms."  He  would  not  even 
admit  so  near  an  approach  as  to  the  hat  which  protected 
it  In  like  manner,  if  any  body  approaches  Mr.  Bowies' 
laurels,  even  in  his  outside  capacity  of  an  ediim',  "they 
grow  seurriimu^"  You  say  that  yon  are  about  to  prepare 
an  edition  of  Pope;  you  cannot  do  better  for  your  own 
credit  as  a  publisher,  nor  for  the  redemption  of  Pope 
from  Mr.  Bowles,  and  of  the  public  taste  firom  rapid 
degeneracy. 


A  SECOND  LETTER  TO  JOHN  MURRAY,  ESQ. 

ON  THE  REV.  W.  L.  BOWLES'  STRICTURES  ON  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

OF  POPE. 


Rtrenaa,  Mmrck  M,  18$I. 

I>BAR  SIR, 
Iittteihrtfaer<'Observatlons"ofMr.Bowles,lnrefofaider 
to  the  diarges  brought  against  his  edition  ofPope,  it  is  to 
Itt  regretted  that  he  has  lost  his  temper.  Whatever  the 
Iwgiiage  of  his  antagonists  may  have  been,  I  fear  that  bis 
fvplies  have  afforded  more  pleasure  to  them  tfian  to  the 
f^blie.  That  Mr.  Bowles  should  not  be  pleased  Is  natinral, 
'  ivhefter  right  or  wrong;  but  a  temperate  defence  would 
have  answered  his  purpose  in  the  former  case  —  and,  in 
Ihe  latter,  no  defence,  however  violent^  can  tend  to  any 


thfaig  hut  (lis  disoomfltare.  I  have  read  over  this  third 
pamphlet,  vrhhsh  yon  have  been  so  obliging  as  to  sendme, 
and  shall  rentnre  a  few  observations,  m  addition  to  those 
upon  tlie  previous  eontroversy. 

Mr.  Bowles  sets  out  with  repeating  his^^eonfirmedcom- 
mcHen,"  that  "what  he  said  of  the  moral  part  of  Pope's 
character  was,  generally  speaking,  true;  and  that  the  prin- 
ciples aXpoetkai  eriticlsm  which  he  has  laid  down  are  m- 
wmrimkU  and  mmUnerabU;'*  and  that  he  is  the  JMr« 
persuadedof  thisby  the  '*#jrs5f^«nK>sii#of  hisopponents." 
This  is  all  very  well,  and  highly  natural  and  shioerc.  No- 


676 


A  SECOND  LBTTBR  ON  BOWLBS'  8TRICTURBS  OK  POPB. 


body  ever  expected  that  eitber  Mr.  Bowles,  or  any  other 
author,  wonld  beooiiTiiicedofhuman  fallibility  in  their 
own  persons.  But  it  is  nothing  to  the  purpose  —  for  it  is 
not  what  Mr.  Boivles  thinks,  but  what  is  to  be  thought 
of  Pope,  that  is  the  question.  It  is  what  he  has  asserted 
or  insinuated  against  a  name  which  is  the  patrimony  of 
posterity,  that  is  to  be  tried ;  and  Mr.  Bowles,  as  a  party, 
can  be  no  judge.  The  more  he  is  persuaded,  the  better  for 
himself,  if  it  give  him  any  pleasure:  but  he  can  only  per- 
suade others  by  the  proofs  brought  out  in  his  defence. 

After  these  prefatory  remarks  of  ''conviction ,"  Mr. 
Bowies  proceeds  to  Mr.  Gilchrist;  whom  he  charges 
with  ''slang"  and  "slander,"  besides  a  small  subsidiary 
indictment  of  "abuse,  ignorance,  malice,"  and  so  forth. 
Mr.  Gilchrist  has,  indeed,  shown  some  anger;  but  it  is  an 
honest  indignation,  which  rises  up  in  defence  of  the  illus- 
trious dead.  It  is  a  generous  rage  which  interposes  be* 
twecn  our  ashes  and  their  disturbers.  There  appears  also 
to  have  been  some  slight  pers:>nBt  provocation.  Mr.Gil- 
dirist,  with  a  chivalrous  disdain  of  the  fury  of  an  incensed 
poet,  put  his  name  to  a  letter  avowing  the  production  of 
aformer  essay  in  defence  of  Pope,  and  consequently  of  an 
attack  upon  Mr.  Bowles.  Mr.  Bowles  appears  to  be  angry 
with  Mr.  Gilchrist  for  four  reasons :  —  firstly,  because  he 
vm>te  an  article  in  "The  London  Magazine ;"  secondly, 
because  he  afterwards  avowed  it;  thirdly,  because  he  was 
theauthor  of  a  still  morecxtended  article  in"The  Quarterly 
Review ;"  and,  fourtlily,  because  he  was  not  the  author  of 
the  said  Quarterly  article,  and  had  the  audadty  to  disown 
it —for  no  earthly  reason  but  because  he  bad  not  written  it 

Mr.  Bowles  declares,  that  "he  will  not  enter  into  a  par- 
ticular examination  of  the  pamphlet,"  which  by  a  misno- 
mer is  called  '^Gilchrist's  Answer  to  Bowles,"  when  it 
should  have  been  called  "Gilchrist's  Abuse  of  Bonles." 
On  this  error  in  the  baptism  of  Mr.  Gilchrist's  pamphlet, 
it  may  be  observed,  that  an  answer  may  be  abusive  and 
yet  no  less  an  answer,  though  indisputably  a  temperate 
one  might  be  tlic  better  of  the  two ;  but  if  abuse  is  to  cancel 
all  pretensions  to  reply^,  what  becomes  of  Mr.  Bowles' 
answers  to  Mr.  Gilchrist? 

M.  Bowles  continues :  —  "But  as  Mr.  Gilchrist  derides 
my  peculiar  seneiiipeness  to  eritkism,  before  I  show  how 
tlettitute  of  truth  is  this  represeiUation,  I  will  here  expli- 
citly declare  the  only  grounds." —  Mr.  Bowles'  sensibi- 
lity in  denying  his  "sensitiveness  to  criticism"  proves, 
perhaps,  too  much.  But  if  he  has  been  so  charged,  and 
ijuiy  —  what  then?  There  is  no  moral  turpitude  in  such 
aouteness  of  feeling:  it  has  been,  and  may  be,  combined 
with  many  good  and  great  qualities.  Is  Mr.  Bowles  a  poet, 
or  is  he  not?  If  he  be,  he  must,  from  his  very  essence,  be 
sensitive  to  criticism;  and  even  if  he  be  not,  he  need  not 
be  ashamed  of  tlie  common  repugnance  to  being  attacked. 
All  that  is  to  be  wished  is,  that  he  had  considered  how 
disagreeable  a  thing  it  is,  before  he  assailed  the  greatest 
moral  poet  of  any  age^  or  in  any  language. 

Pope  himself  "sleeps  well,"  --  nothing  can  touch  him 
farther;  but  tliose  who  love  die  honour  of  th^  country, 
the  perfection  of  her  literature,  tbegloryofhcriangruage— 
are  not  to  be  expected  to  permit  an  atom  of  his  dust  to  be 
stirred  in  his  tomb,  or  a  leaf  to  be  stripped  from  the  laurel 
whicb  grows  over  it 


Mr.  Bowles  assigns  several  reasons  why  and  vrlien  ^a 
author  is  justified  in  appealing  to  every  upright  and  h^ 
nourahle  mind  in  the  kingdom.**  If  Mr.  Bow  les  Itmits  Ihe 
perusal  of  his  defence  to  the  "upright  and  bonoarabk^ 
only,  I  greatly  fear  that  it  will  not  be  extensive!  j  circniated. 
I  should  rather  hope  that  some  of  the  downright  and  dis- 
honest will  read  and  be  converted,  or  convicted.  But  <hc 
whole  of  his  reasoning  is  here  superfluous  —  ^an  sadkse 
is  justified  in  appealing,"  when  and  why  he  pleases.  HjA 
him  make  out  a  tolerable  case,  and  few  of  his  readers  wifl 
quarrel  witli  his  motives. 

Mr.  Bowles  "will  now  plainly  set  before  the  fiteraiy 
public  alt  the  circumstances  which  have  led  to  Iom  nawu 
and  Mr.  Gilchrist's  being  brought  together."  Cov- 
tesy  requires,  in  speaking  of  others  and  ourselTest,  that 
we  should  place  the  name  of  the  former  first  —  and  not 
^Ego  et  Rex  mens."  Mr.Bowles  should  have  written*Mr. 
Gilchrisf  s  name  and  his." 

This  point  he  wishes  '^particularly  to  address  to  those 
most  respectable  characters  who  have  the  direction  andma- 
nagement  of  the  periodical  critical  press.'*  That  the  press 
may  be,  in  some  instances,  conducted  by  respectable 
characters  is  probable  enough ;  but  If  they  are  so,  there  is 
no  occasion  to  tell  them  of  it;  and  if  they  are  not  it  is  a 
base  adulation.  In  either  case,  it  looks  likeakind  of  flattery, 
by  which  those  gentry  are  not  very  likely  tobe  sofleoed: 
since  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  two  passages  in  fifteen 
pages  more  at  variance,  than  Mr.  Bowles'  prose  at  Ike 
beginning  of  this  pamphlet  and  his  verse  at  the  end  of  it 
In  page  4  he  speaks  of  ^Hhosemost  respectablecharac^aa 
who  have  the  direction  of  the  periodical  press,"  and  in 
page  10,  we  find  — 

*'Yc  dork  inqnUItort,  a  monk-like  band, 
Who  o'er  some  •hrinking  victim  aathor  Muid, 
A  lolemn,  secret,  ami  vindicttva  l»rood» 
Only  terriOe  in  jronr  cowl  and  hood.* 

And  so  on  —  to  "bloody  law"  and  "red  sooniges,"  with 
other  similar  phrases ,  which  may  not  be  altogether 
agreeable  to  the  above-mentioned  "most  respectable  cha- 
racters." Mr.  Bowles  goes  on,  '^  conceded  my  observa- 
tions on  the  last  Pamphleteer  with  feelings  not  wsksmd 
towards  Mr.  Gilchrist,  or"  [it  should  be  nor^  to  the  author 
of  the  review  of  Spcnce,  be  he  who  he  might."  —  "I  was 
in  hopes,  as  I  have  always  been  ready  to  odsnH  mny  erran 
I  might  have  been  led  into,  or  prejudioe  I  might  have  en- 
tertained, that  even  Mr.  Gilchrist  might  be  disposed  loa 
more  amicable  nM>de  of  dLscussiog  what  I  had  advanced 
in  regard  to  Pope's  moral  character."  As  Major  Stnigeaa 
observes,  "There  never  was  aset  of  more  «auc«to  dicas 
with  tlie  exception  of  a  boxing- bout  between  Capcsia 
Shears  and  the  ColoneL" 

A  page  and  a  half —nay  only  a  page  before  —  Mb 
Bowles  re-affirms  his  conviction^  that  "what  he  baa  said 
of  Pope's  moral  character  is  (yeneraiiy  speaking)  <r««»aai 
that  his  "poetical  principles  are  invariabie  and  inprnhm*' 
able,"  He  has  also  published  three  pamphlets, — ay«  ft«r 
of  the  same  tenour,  —  and  yet,  witli  tliis  dedaiatiQii  and 
these  declamations  staring  him  and  hisadireraaiiea  indhs 
face,  he  speaks  of  his  "readiness  to  admit  errors  or  t» 
abandon  prejudices ! ! !"  His  use  of  the  word ' 

me  <tf  the  Irish  Institution  (which  I  have  i 


A  SECOND  LETTER  ON  BOWLES'  STRICTURBS  ON  POPE. 


677 


Vbone  Iward  or  read  of)  oaUed  tbe  **FH0ndfy  Sodety/' 
where  the  preflideiit  alwajs  carried  piatcrfs  in  his  pocket, 
M>  that  wlien  one  amScahleg^itleman  knocked  down  ano- 
tber»  the  difference  might  be  adjusted  on  the  spot,  at  the 
harmonious  distance  of  twelve  paces. 

But  Mr.  Bowles  ''has  since  read  a  publication  by  him 
Qlj,  Gikbrist),  containinir  >ach  yulgal*  slander,  affect- 
insr  private  life  aqd  character;"  and  Mr.  Gilchrist 
has  also  had  the  advantage  of  reading  a  publication  by 
Mr.  Bowies  suffidenfiy  imbued  with  personality;  for  one 
of  the  first  and  principal  topics  of  reproach  is  that  he  is  a 
froeer,  that  he  has  a  ''pipe  in  his  nioutii,  ledger* book, 
green  canisters,  dingy  shopboy,  half  a  hogshead  of  brown 
treade/'  Nay,  the  same  delicate  raillery  is  upon  the  very 
title* page.  When  controversy  has  once  commenced 
upon  this  footing,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  toDr.Perey,  ''Sir, 
there  is  an  end  of  politeness — we  are  to  be  as  rude  as  we 
please  —  Sir,  you  said  that  I  was  shori'Hffkted."  As  a 
man's  profession  is  generally  no  more  in  his  own  power 
ten  his  person  —  both  having  been  made  out  for  him  — 
his  hard  that  he  should  be  reproached  with  either,  and 
still  more  that  an  honest  calling  should  be  made  a  reproach. 
If  there  is  any  thingmore  honourable  to  Mr.  Gilchrist  than 
another,  it  is,  tiiat  being  engaged  in  conOmeroe  he  has  had 
the  taste,  and  found  the  leisure,  to  become  so  able  a  pro- 
ficient in  the  higher  literature  of  his  own  and  other  coun- 
tries. Mr.  Bowles,  who  will  beproud  to  own  Glover,  Chat- 
ferton.  Burns,  and  Bloomfield  for  his  peers,  should  hardly 
have  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Gilchrist  for  his  critic.  Mr.  Gil- 
chrisf  a  station,  however,  which  might  conduct  him  to  the 
highest  civic  honours,  and  to  boundless  wealth,  has  no* 
flung  to  require  apology ;  but  even  if  it  had,  such  a  reproach 
was  not  very  gracious  on  the  part  of  a  clergyman,  nor 
graceful  on  that  of  a  gentleman.  The  allusion  to"  Christian 
criticism"  is  not  particularly  happy,  especially  where  Mr. 
Gilchrist  is  accused  of  having  "$ei  the  first  example  of  this 
faode  m  Rtrape,"  What  Papon  criticism  may  have  been, 
weknow  but  little  ;thc  names  of  Zoilus  and  Aristarchus  sur 
Vive ;  and  the  works  of  Aristotle,Longinus,and  Qntntilian : 
but  of' 'Christian  criticism"  we  have  already  had  some  spe- 
cimens in  the  works  of  Philelphus,  Pogf^us,  Scafiger, 
Milton,  Salmasius,  tbe  Cruscauti  (versus  Tasso) ,  the 
French  Academy  (against  the  Cid),  and  the  antagonists 
^Voltaire  and  of  Pope— to  say  nothing  of  some  articles 
in  most  of  tbe  reviews,  since  their  earliest  institution  in 
Ike  person  of  their  respectable  and  still  prolific  parent, 
'*t1ie5fonfhly."  Why,  then,  is  Mr.  Gilchrist  to  be  singled 
out  ''as  having  set  the  first  example  V  A  sole  page  of  Mil- 
ton or  Salmarins  contains  moreabuse  —  rank,  rancorous, 
vmieaventd  abuse  •—  than  all  that  can  be  raked  forth  from 
the  whole  works  of  many  recent  critics.  There  are  some, 
Indeed,  who  still  keep  up  the  good  old  custom,  but  fewer 
English  than  foreign.  It  is  a  pity  that  Mr.  Bowles  cannot 
witness  some  of  the  Italian  controversies,  or  become  the 
sabjeet  of  one.  He  would  then  look  upon  Mr.  Gilchrist 
«h  a  panegyrist 

In  tbe  long  sentence  quoted  from  the  article  in  "The 
London  Magasine,"there  is  one  coarse  image,  the  justice 
or  whose  appltcatiou  I  shall  not  pretend  to  determine : — 
*frbe  pmriency  with  whidi  his  nose  is  hiidto  the  ground" 
li«i  expression  whieh,  whether  Ibunded  or  not^  might 


have  been  omitted.  But  the  "anatomical  minuteness"  ap- 
pears to  me  justified  even  by  Mr.  Bowles^  own  subse^ 
quent  quotation.  To  the  point:  **  Many  facts  tend  to  prove 
the  peculiar  susceptibility  of  his  passions ;  nor  can  we  im- 
pU<»t]y  believe  that  the  connexion  between  him  and  Mar- 
tha Blount  was  of  a  nature  so  pure  and  innocent  as  his 
panegyrist  Ruffhead  would  have  us  believe."  —  "At 
no  time  could  she  have  regarded  Pope  personally  with 
attachment."  —  "But  the  most  extraordinary  circum- 
stance in  regard  to  his  connexion  with  female  society, 
was  the  strange  mixture  o(  indecent  and  even^^one  le- 
vity which  his  conduct  and  language  often  exhibited.  The 
cause  of  this  particularity  may  be  sought,  perhaps,  in  his 
consciousness  of  physical  defect,  which  made  him  affecta 
eharacter  uncongenial,  and  a  language  opposite  to  tbe 
truth."  ->  If  this  is  not  "minute  moral  anatomy,"  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  what  is  I  Itis  dissectionin  all  its  brandies. 
I  shall,  however,  hazard  a  remark  or  two  upon  this  quo- 
tation. 

To  me  it  appears  of  no  very  great  consequence  whether 
Martha  Blount  was  or  was  not  Pope's  mistress,  though  I 
could  have  wished  him  a  better.  She  appears  to  have 
been  a  cold-hearted,  interested,  ignorant,  disagreeable 
woman,  upon  whom  the  tenderness  of  Pope's  heart  in  tbe 
desolation  of  his  latter  days  was  cast  away,  not  knowing 
whither  to  turn,  as  he  drew  towards  his  premature  old 
age,childlessand  lonely,— like  the  needle  which  approach- 
ing within  a  certain  distance  of  the  pole,  becomes  help- 
less and  useless,  and,  ceasing  to  tremble^  rusts.  She  seems 
to  have  been  so  totally  unworthy  of  tenderness,  that  it  is 
an  additional  proof  of  the  kindness  of  Pope's  heart  to 
have  been  able  to  love  such  a  being.  But  we  must  love 
something.  I  agree  with  Mr.B.  that  she  "could  at  no  time 
have  regarded  Pope  personally  with  attachment,"  because 
she  was  incapable  of  attachment;  but  I  deny  that  Pope 
could  not  be  regarded  with  personal  attachment  by  a 
worthier  woman.  It  is  not  probable,  indeed,  that  a  woman 
would  havefallen  in  love  with  him  as  he  walked  along  the 
Mali,  or  in  a  box  at  the  opera,  nor  from  a  balcony,  nor  in 
a  ball-room;  but  in  society  he  seems  to  have  been  as 
amiable  as  unassuming,  and,  with  the  greatest  disadvan- 
tages of  figure^  lus  head  and  face  were  remarkably  hahd* 
some,  especially  his  eyes.  He  was  adored  by  his  friends — 
friends  of  the  most  opposite  dispositions,  ages»  and 
talents  —  by  the  old  and  wayward  Wycherley,  by  the 
cynical  Swift,  the  rough-Atterbury,  the  gentle  Spence,th6 
stem  attorney-bishop  Warburton,thevirtuous  Berkeleyi 
and  the  "cankered  BoKngbroke."  Bolingbroke  wept 
over  him  like  a  child;  and  Spence's  description  of  his 
last  moments  is  at  least  as  edifying  as  the  more  ostenta^ 
tious  account  of  the  deathbed  of  Addison.  The  soldier 
Peterborough  and  the  poet  Gay,  the  witty  Congreve  and 
the  langhingRo we,  the  eccentric  Cromwell  and  the  steady 
Bathurst,  were  all  his  intimates.  The  man  whooouldcon- 
oiliate  so  many  men  of  the  most  opposite  description,  not 
one  of  whom  but  was  a  remarkable  or  a  celebrated  dia- 
racter,  nught  well  have  pretended  to  all  the  attachment 
which  a  reasonable  man  would  desire  of  an  amiable 
woman. 

Pope,  in  foct,  wherever  he  got  it,  appears  to  have  un- 
derstood the  sex  well.  Bolingbroke,  "a  judge  of  the  sub<- 


678 


A  SECOND  LETTER  ON  BOWLES*  STRiOTURffi  ON  POPS. 


ject/'  says  Warfon,  Hioaght  hu  ^'Epistle  od  the  Cfaa- 
TBcters  of  Women"  his  <^maaterpiece/'  And  even  with 
respect  to  the  grosser  passion,  which  talces  occasionally 
the  name  of  ^Vomanft'c/'  accordingly  as  the  degree  of 
sentiment  elevates  it  above  the  definition  of  love  by 
Bnfibn,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  It  does  not  always  de* 
pend  upon  personal  appearance,  even  in  a  woman.  Ma- 
dame Cottin  was  a  plain  woman,  and  might  have  been 
virtuons,  it  may  be  presumed,  without  much  interruption. 
Yiftuous  she  was,  and  the  consequences  of  this  inveterate 
virtue  were  that  two  different  admirers  (one  an  elderly 
gentleman)  killed  themselves  in  despair  (see  Lady  Mor- 
gan's ''France'').  I  would  not,  however,  recommend  this 
rigour  to  plain  women  in  general,  in  the  hope  of  securing 
the  glory  of  two  suicides  apiece.  I  believe  that  there  are 
few  men  who,  in  the  course  of  their  observations  on  life, 
may  not  have  perceived  that  it  is  not  the  greatest  female 
beauty  who  forms  the  longest  and  the  Strongest  passions. 
But,  apropos  of  Pope.  —  Voltaire  tells  us  that  the 
Marshal  Luxembonrg(who  had  precisely  Pope's  fignre) 
was  not  only  somewhat  too  amatory  for  a  great  man,  but 
fortunate  in  his  attachments.  La  Yali^re,  the  passion  of 
Louis  XIY.,  had  an  unsightly  defect.  The  Princess  of 
EboH,  the  mistress  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  and  Maugiron, 
the  minion  of  Henri  III.  of  France,  had  each  of  them  lost 
an  eye;  and  the  famoas  Latin  epig^m  was  written  upon 
them,  which  has,  I  believe,  been  either  translated  or  imi- 
tated by  Goldsmith : 

"Lamlne  Aeon  dextro,  capta  eit  LeonUla  siiiistro, 
£t  poti«  Mt  forma  vincere  oterqne  Deoi ; 

Biande  paer,  lamcn  qaod  babes  concede  lororl, 
Sic  fa  cttcu  Anor,  tie  arit  Ula  Vannt." 

Wilkes,  with  his  ugliness,  used  to  say  that  '%e  was 
but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  behind  the  handsomest  man  in 
England;"  and  this  vaunt  of  his  is  said  not  to  have  been 
disproved  by  circumstances.  Swift,  when  neither  young, 
nor  handsome,  nor  rich,  nor  even  amiable,  inspired  the 
two  most  extraordinary  passions  upon  record,  Vanessa's 
and  Stella's. 

"Vanessa,  a^ed  tcarce  a  leore, 
81(ba  for  a  gown  orftoity'fonr." 

Be  requited  them  bitterly;  for  he  seems  to  have  broken 
the  heart  of  the  one,  and  worn  out  that  of  the  other ;  and 
he  had  his  reward,  for  he  died  a  solitary  idiot  in  the  bands 
of  servants. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Pansanias, 
that  success  In  loye  depends  upon  Fortune.  **They  par- 
ticuhirly  renounce  Celestial  Venus,  into  whose  temple, 
etr.  I  remember,  too,  to  have  seen  a  building  in  ifigina 
^tn  which  there  is  a  steiue  of  Fortune,  holding  a  horn 
of  Amalthea ;  and  near  her  there  is  a  winged  Love. 
Themeaningof  this  is,  that  the  success  of  men  in  love- 
affairs  depends  more  on  the  assistance  of  Fortune  than 
the  charms  of  beauty.  I  am  persuaded,  too,  with  Pindar 
(to  whose  opinion  I  submit  in  other  particulars) ,  that 
Fortune  is  one  of  the  Fates,  and  that  in  a  certain  respect 
she  is  more  powerful  than  her  sisters.''  —  See  Pan- 
sanias, Acfaaics,  book  vii.  chap.  26,  p.  246,  Taylor's 
'♦Translation." 

Grimm  has  a  remark  of  the  same  kind  on  the  different 
destinies  of  the  younger  CreUllon  and  Rousseau.  The 


former  writes  a  licentious  noTel,  and  a  yomigr  ] 
girl  of  some  fortune  and  fiunily  (a  Miss  Strafford)  raoi 
away,  and  crosses  the  sea  tomarryhim;  while Roosseas, 
the  most  tender  and  passionate  of  lovers,  is  obligrd  Is 
espouse  his  chambermaid.  If  I  recollect  tightly,  tfaisr^ 
mark  was  also  repeated  in  the  Bdinburgh  Review  of 
Grimm's  correspondenoe,  seven  or  eight  years  agpo. 

In  regard  ♦'to  the  strange  mixture  of  indeoent,  sad 
sometimespro^e  ]evity,whiob  his  conduct  and  laagv^ 
often  exbiUted,"  and  which  so  much  shocks  Mr.  Bowlo, 
1  object  to  the  indefinite  ^or&*o/Un;"  and  in  extcnaafioa 
of  the  occasional  occurrence  of  such  language  it  i^  tote 
recollected,  that  it  was  less  the  tone  of  Psp*,  than  the 
tone  of  the  luns.  With  the  exception  of  tlie  oorrespood- 
ence  of  Pope  and  his  friends ,  not  many  private  Ictfeis  af 
the  period  have  come  down  to  us;  but  thoae^sacfa  as  they 
are— a  few  scattered  scraps  from  Farquhar  and  olhcn— 
are  more  indecent  and  ooarse  than  any  thing  in  Pope^i 
letters.  TheoomediesofCongreTe,  VaabroghyFarquhir, 
Gibber,  which  naturally  attempted  to  represent  the 
manners  and  conversation  of  private  life,  are  dedrivc^ 
upon  this  point;  as  are  also  some  of  Steele's  papets,  aad 
even  Addison's.  We  all  know  what  the  oonversalioB  of 
Sir  R  Walpole,  for  seventeen  years  the  prime  minislR 
of  the  country,  was  at  his  own  table,  and  his  excosefor 
his  licentions  laognage,  via.  **that  every  body  onderslooi 
that,  but  few  could  talk  rationally  upon  leas  oomiaoa  to- 
pics.'* The  refinement  of  latter  days,  -*  which  i^'pcrhafM 
ttie  consequence  of  vice,  which  wishes  to  mask  andaoAea 
itself,  as  much  as  of  virtuous  civilisatioo,  —  had  not  yet 
madesnifictent  progress.  Bren  Johnson,  in  his  ^Londoa," 
has  two  or  three  passages  which  cannot  be  read  aloud, 
and  Addison's  ^'Drummer"  some  inddioale  allnoaa. 

The  expression  of  Mr.  Bowles^  <Hiia  conscionswrwi  af 
physical  defect,"  is  not  very  clean  It  may  oMan  deform- 
ity or  debility.  If  it  alludes  to  Pope's  deformity,  it  has 
been  attempted  to  be  shown  that  this  was  no  inaoperahls 
objection  to  his  being  beloved.  If  it  alludes  fo  debility, 
as'^a  consequence  of  Pope's  peculiar  oonformatioB^  I  be- 
lieve that  it  is  a  physical  and  known  foot  thai 
backed  persons  are  of  strong  and  Wgorous 
Several  years  ago,  at  Mr.  Angefo's  fendog  rooiDS»  i 
I  was  a  pupil  of  him  and  of  Mr.  Jackson,  who  hadtlK 
use  of  his  rooms  in  Albany  on  the  alternate  days,  I  rtto^ 
lectagentlemannamedB— II— gh  — t,  remarkafaiefor 
his  strength,  and  the  fineness  of  his  figure.  His  akill  mi 
not  inferior,  for  he  could  stand  up  to  the  great  Caplah 
Barclay  himself,  with  the  muflles  on,  —  a  task  ariflii 
easy  nor  agreeable  to  a  pagilistie  aspirant  Aa  flieby 
standers  were  one  day  admiriog  his  athletic  proportiaaai 
he  remarked  tons,  that  he  had  fivebrotlien  as  tatt  aad 
strong  as  himself,  and  ttiat  their /atA«r  mtd  ataMer  were 
both  erookedy  and  •/'very  mm//  tUturt ;  —I  think  he  said. 
neither  of  them  five  feet  high.  It  would  not  be  digenll 
to  adduce  similar  instances;  but  I  abstain,  became  Ar 
subject  is  hardly  refined  enougli  for  this 
period,  this  moral  millenniam  of  expurgated  < 
books,  manners,  and  royal  trials  of  divoroe* 

This  laudable  delicacy  —  this  crying-out  elcgwM^  ^ 
the  day  •-  remmds  me  of  a  little  circomstaooe  wheeliofr* 
curred  when  I  was  about  dghteeo  years  of  i^ge^  Thcss 


A  SECOND  LBTTBR  ON  BOWLB8'  STBICTUB]^  ON  POPS. 


679 


was  Umo  (aad  there  may  be  still)  a  famoosFreiidi  ^eotre- 
iiieiteiuie»''  who  assisted  young  g^ntlemea  in  their 
joathful  pastimes.  We  had  been  acquainted  for  some 
time,  when  something  occurred  in  her  line  of  business 
more  than  ordinary,  and  the  refusal  was  offered  to  me 
(jukd  doubtless  to  many  others),  probably  because  I  was 
in  cash  at  the  moment,  having  taken  up  a  decent  sum 
from  the  Jews,  and  not  having  spent  much  above  half  of 
IL  The  advcDtore  on  the  tapis,  it  seems,  required  some 
cantion  and  circumspection.  Whether  my  venerable 
friend  doubted  my  politeness  I  cannot  tell,  but  she  sent 
me  a  letter  couched  in  such  English  as  a  short  residence 
of  sixteen  years  in  Eogland  had  enabled  her  to  acquire. 
A Aer  several  precepts  and  instructions,  the  letter  dosed. 
9at  there  was  a  postscript  It  contained  these  words:  — 
^'Remember,  Milor,  that  deUcaci  ensure  everi  suoc^s." 
The  deUeaejf  of  the  day  is  exactly,  in  all  its  circumstances, 
like  that  of  this  respectable  foreigner.  ''It  ensures  every 
gtttchr  and  is  not  a  whit  more  moral  than,  and  not  half 
•o  booQurable  as,  the  coarsiu:  caodour  of  our  less  po- 
iUbed  ancestors. 

To  return  to  Mr.  Bowles.  ''If  what  is  here  extracted 
eaa  excite  m  the  mind  (I  will  not  say  of  any  'layman,'  of 
fuiy  'Christian,'  but)  of  any  hvman  being,'*  etc.  Is  not 
Ifr.  Gilchrist  a  "human  being?"  Mr.  Bowles  asks  "whe- 
dier  in  aUrihuting  an  article,"  etc  "to  the  critic,  he  iiad 
mof  reatan  for  distinguishing  him  with  that  courtesy/' 
cScw  Bat  Mr.  Bowles  was  wrong  in  "attributing  the 
article'^  to  Mr.  Gilchrist  at  all ;  and  would  hot  have  been 
light  in  calling  him  a  dunce  and  a  grocer,  if  he  had  writ^ 
ten  it 

Mr.  Bowles  is  here  "peremptorily  called  upon  to  speak 
of  a  circumstance  which  gives  him  the  greatest  pain,-^ 
tlie  mention  of  a  letter  he  received  from  the  editor  of  'The 
London  Maga&ne.'"  Mr.  Bowles  seems  to  have  em- 
tabled  himself  on  all  sides,  whether  by  editing,  or 
fcpJyiogy  or  attributing,  or  quoting,  —  it  has  been  an 
awkward  affair  for  him. 

Poor  Scott  is  now  no  more.  In  the  exercise  of  his 
vocation,  be  contrived  at  last  to  make  himself  the  subject 
oC  a  coroner's  inquest  But  he  died  like  a  brave  man,  and 
be  liTed  an  able  one.  I  knew  him  personally,  though 
afightly.  Although  several  years  my  senior,  we  had  been 
adKK>llellows  together  at  the  "grammar-schulc"  (or,  as 
ihe  Aberdonians  pronounce  it,  **$queer*)  of  New  Aber- 
deen. He  did  not  behave  to  me  quite  handsomely  in  his 
capacilsr  of  editor  a  few  years  ago,  but  he  was  under  no 
obfigatioa  to  behave  otherwise.  The  moment  was  too 
tcmptifiV  for  many  friends  and  for  all  enemies.  At  a  time 
whca  all  my  relations  (save  one)  feU  from  me  like  leaves 
from  the  tree  in  autumn  winds,  and  my  few  friends  be- 
came «till  fewer,  —  when  the  whole  periodical  press  (I 
aMan  the  daily  and  weekly,  wai  the  UUrarg  press)  was 
let  loeee  against  me  in  every  shape  of  reproach,  with  the 
two  straege  exceptions  (from  their  usual  opposition)  of 
•^Jie  Courier''  and  "The  Bxaminer,"  ~  the  paper  of 
arhirk  Scott  had  the  direction  was  neither  the  \»Mt  nor  the 
feast  vituperative.  Two  years  ago  I  met  him  at  Venice, 
when  he  was  bowed  in  griefr  by  the  loss  of  his  son,  and 
had  known,  by  experience,  the  bitterness  of  domestic 
pffivationi    He  was  then  earnest  with  me  to  return  to 


England;  andon  my  telling  him,  with  a  smile,  that  he  was 
once  of  a  different  opinion,  he  replied  to  me,  'that  he  and 
others  had  been  greatly  misled;  and  that  some  pains, 
and  rather  extraordinary  means,  had  been  taken  to  excite 
them.'  Scott  is  no  more,  but  there  are  more  than  one 
living  who  were  present  at  this  dialogue.  He  was  a 
man  of  very  considerable  talents,  and  of  great  ao- 
quirements.  He  had  made  his  way,  as  a  literary  character, 
with  high  success,  and  in  a  few  years.  Poor  fellow !  I  re- 
collect his  joy  at  some  appointment  which  he  had  ob- 
tained, or  was  to  obtain,  through  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
and  which  prevented  the  further  extension  (unless  by  a 
rapid  run  to  Rome)  of  his  travels  in  Italy.  I  little  thought 
to  what  it  would  conduct  him.  Peace  be  with  him!  -—and 
may  all  such  other  faults  as  are  inevitable  to  humanity  be 
as  readily  forgiven  him,  as  the  little  injury  which  he  had 
done  to  one  who  respected  his  talents,  and  regrets  liis  loss. 

I  pass  over  Mr.  Bowles'  page  of  explanation,  upon  the 

correspondence  between  him  and  Mr.  S ,  It  is  of 

little  importance  in  regard  to  Pope,  and  contains  merely  a 
re-contradiction  of  a  oontradactionofMr.Gilchrist's.  We 
now  come  to  a  point  where  Mr.  Gilchrist  has,  certainly, 
rather  exaggerated  matters;  and,  of  course,  Mr.  Bowles 
makes  the  most  of  it  Capital  letters,  like  Kean's  name^ 
'*large  uponihe  bills,"  are  made  ufie  of  six  or  seven  times 
to  express  his  sense  of  the  outrage^  The  charge  is,iudecc|, 
very  boldly  made;  but,  like  "Ranold  of  the  Mist's" 
practical  joke  of  putting  the  bread  aad  cheese  into  a  dead 
man's  mouth,  is,  asDugald  Dalgetty  says,  '^somewhat  too 
wild  and  salvage,  besides  wasting  the  good  victuals." 

Mr.  Gilchrist  charges  Mr.  Bowles  with  "suggesting" 
that  Pope  "attempted"  to  commit  "a  rape"  upon  Lady 
M.  Wortley  Montague.  There  are  two  reasons  why  this 
could  not  be  true.  The  first  is,  that  likethechasteLetitia's 
prevention  of  the  intended  ravishment  by  Fireblood  (in 
Jonathan  Wild),  it  might  have  been  impeded  by  a  timely 
compliance.  The  second  is,  that  however  this  might  be. 
Pope  was  probably  the  less  robust  of  the  two;  and  (if  the 
Lines  on  Sappho  were  really  intended  for  this  lady)  the 
asserted  consequence  of  her  acquiescence  in  his  wishes 
would  have  been  a  sufficient  punishment.  The  passage 
which  Mr.  Bowles  quotes,  however,  insinuates  notliing 
of  the  kind :  it  merely  charges  her  with  enoouragement,and 
him  with  wishing  to  profit  by  it, — a  slight  attempt  at  se- 
duction, and  no  more.  The  phrase  is,  "a  step  beyond  do- 
oorunu"  Any  physical  violence  is  so  abhorrent  to  human 
nature,  that  it  recoils  in  cold  blood  from  the  very  idea. 
But,  the  seduction  of  a  woman's  mind  as  well  as  person 
is  not,  perhaps,  the  least  heinous  sin  of  the  two  in  mora- 
lity. J^r.  Johnson  commends  a  gentleman  who,  having 
seduced  agirl  who  said,  "lamafraid  wehave  done  wrong/' 
replied,  "Yes,  we  have  done  wrong,"  —  "for  I  would  not 
pervert  he;r  mind  also."  Othello  would  not  "kill  Desde- 
mona's  eouL"  Mr*  Bowles  exculpates  himself  from  Mr. 
Gilchrisfs  charge ;  but  it  is  by  substituting  another  charge 
against  Pope.  "A  step  beyond  decorum,"  has  a  soft  sound, 
but  whatdoes  it  express?  In  all  these  cases,  "ce  n'est  que 
le  premier  pas  qui  oodte."  Has  not  the  Scripture  some- 
thing upon  "the  lusting  after  a  woman' '  being  no  lesscrimi- 
nal  than  the  crime  ?  "A  step  beyond  decorum,"  in  short, 
any  step  beyond  the  instep,  is  a  step  from  a  precipice  to 


680 


A  SBCOND  {iBTTHR  ON  BOWLES'  STJUCTURBS  ON  POPS. 


tlie  lady  who  permits  it  For  the  gentleman  who  makes 
it,  it  is  also  rather  hazardous  if  he  does  not  succeed,  and 
still  more  so  if  he  does. 

Mr.  Bowles  appeals  to  the  ^'Christian  reader!"  upon 
this  ^'GiichrisHan  criticism/'  Is  not  this  play  upon  such 
words  '*a  step  beyond  decorum'*  in  a  clergyman?  But  I 
admit  tlie  temptation  of  a  pun  to  be  irresistible. 

But  '*a  hasty  pamphlet  was  published,  in  which  some 
personalities  respecting  Mr.  Gilchrist  were  suffered  to 
appear."  If  Mr.  Bowies  will  write  "hasty  pamphlets/' 
why  is  he  so  surprised  on  receiving  short  answers?  The 
grand  grievance  to  which  he  perpetually  returns  is  a 
charge  oi  **h^pochondnacism,"  asserted  or  insinuated  in 
the  Quarterly.  I  cannot  conceive  a  man  in  perfect  health 
being  much  affected  by  such  a  charge,  because  his  com- 
plexion and  conduct  must  amply  refute  it  But  were  it 
true,  to  what  does  it  amount?  —  to  an  impeachment  of  a 
liver  complaint  "I  will  tell  it  to  the  world,"  exclaimed  the 
learned  Smelfungus.— **you  had  better,"  said  I,  "tell  it 
to  your  physician."  There  is  nothing  dishonourable  in 
such  a  disorder,  which  is  more  peculiarly  the  malady  of 
students.  It  has  been  the  complaint  of  the  good,  and  the 
wise,  and  the  witty,  and  even  of  the  gay.  Regnard,  the 
author  of  the  last  French  comedy  after  Moli^re,  was  atra- 
bilious ;  and  Moli^re  himself,  saturnine.  t)r.  Johnson, 
Gray  and  Burns,  were  all  more  or  less  affected  by  it  occa- 
sionally. It  was  the  prelude  to  the  more  awful  malady  of 
Collins,  Cowper,  Swift,  and  Smart;  but  it  by  no  means 
follows  that  a  partial  affliction  of  this  disorder  is  to  ter- 
minate like  theirs.  But  even  were  it  so,  — 

"Nor  bef^t,  nor  wisest,  are  exempt  ft-om  thee ; 
Polly  — ■  folIy'»  only  free.'*  Pcnkosb. 

If  this  be  the  criterion  of  exemption,  Mr.  Bowles'  last 
two  pamphlets  form  a  better  certificate  of  sanity  than  a 
physician's.  Mcndehlson  and  Bayle  were  at  times  so 
overcome  with  this  depression,  as  to  be  obliged  to  recur 
to  seeiog  "puppet-shows,  and  counting  tiles  upon  tlie  op- 
posite houses,"  to  divert  tiicmsclves.  Dr.  Johnson  at  ti- 
mes "would  have  given  a  limb  to  recover  his  spirits." 
Mr.  Bo  w  les,  who  is  (strange  to  say)  fond  of  quoting  Pope, 
may  perhaps  answer,  — 

"Go  on,  obliging  creatnrei,  let  me  see 

All  which  diigraced  my  lietters  met  in  me." 

But  the  charge,  such  as  it  is,  neither  disgraces  them  nor 
him.  It  is  easily  disproved  if  false ;  and  even  if  proved 
true,  has  nothing  in  it  to  make  a  man  so  very  indignant 
Mr.  Bowles  himself  appears  to  be  a  little  ashamed  of  his 
^*hasty  pamphlet  ;"for  he  attempts  to  excuse  it  by  the"great 
provocation;"  that  is  to  say,  by  Mr.  Bowles'  supposing 
tiiat  Mr.Gildirist  was  the  writer  of  the  article  in  the  Quar- 
terly, which  he  was  not. 

''But,  in  extenuation,  not  only  the  ffreat  provocation 
should  be  remembered,  butit  ought  to  be  said,  that  orders 
were  sent  to  the  London  booksellers ,  that  the  most 
direct  personal  passages  should  be  omitted  entirely" 
This  is  what  the  proverb  calls  "breaking  a  head  and 
giving  a  plaster;  but,  in  this  instance,  the  plaster  was  not 
spread  in  time,  and  Mr.  Gilchrist  does  not  seematpres«it 
disposed  to  regard  Mr.  Bowles'  courtesies  like  the  rust 
of  the  spear  of  Achilles,  whioh  had  such  "skill  in  surgery." 


But  "Mr.  Gifchrist  has  no  r^JU  to  object,  as  Uie  I 
will  see."  I  am  a  reader,  a ''gentle  reader,"  and  I  see  no- 
thing of  the  kind.  Werplin  Mr.  Gilchrist's  place,  I  ahooM 
object  exceedingly  to  being  abused ;  firstly,  for  what  I  Hi 
write,  and,  secondly,  for  what  I  did  not  write;  merely  be^ 
cause  it  is  Mr.  Bowles'  will  and  pleasure  to  be  as  aogiy 
with  me  for  having  written  in  the  London  Magaane,  ai 
for  not  having  written  in  the  Quarterly  Review. 

"Mr.  Gilchrist  has  had  ample  revenge;  for  he  has,  inhii 
answer,  said  so  and  ao"  etc  There  is  no  great  revenge 
in  all  this;  and  I  presume  that  nobody  either  sedks  or 
wishes  it  What  revenge?  Mr.  Bowles  calls  names,  and 
he  is  answered.  But  Mr.  Gili^hrist  and  the  Quarterly  Bt* 
viewer  are  not  pOets,  nor  pretenders  to  poetry ;  tberelbre 
they  can  have  no  envy  nor  malice  against  Mr.  Bowles: 
they  have  no  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Bowles,  and  can 
have  no  personal  pique;  they  do  not  cross  his  path  of  life, 
nor  be  theirs.  There  is  no  political  fend  between  thc& 
What,  then,  can  be  the  motive  of  their  discassion  of  Us 
deserts  as  an  editor? — veneration  for  the  geniiuK^fPopcy 
love  for  his  memory,  and  regard  for  the  classic  gioiy  of 
their  country.  Why  would  Mr.  Bowles  edite?  Had  he  li- 
mited his  honest  endeavours  to  poetry,  very  little  would 
have  been  said  upon  the  subject,  and  nothing  at  all  by  hii 
present  antagonists. 

Mr.  Bowles  calls  the  pamphlet  a  "mud-cart,"  and  te 
writer  a  ''scavenger."  Afterwards  he  asks,  "Shall  be  flug 
dirt  and  receive  rose-vater  f"  This  metaphor,  by  the  waj, 
is  taken  ft-om  Marmontel's  Memoirs ;  who,  lamenting  la 
Champtort  the  shedding  of  blood  during  tiie  Freadi  re- 
volution, was  answered,  "Do  you  think  that  re\'olutkNis 
are  to  be  made  with  rvte-^outerf* 

For  my  own  part,  I  presume  that  "rose-water^'  woald 
be  infinitely  more  graceful  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Bowles  than 
the  substance  which  he  has  substituted  for  that  dt^icata 
liquid.  It  would  also  more  confound  his  adversary,  sup- 
posing him  a  "scavenger."  I  remember,  (and  do  jioa 
remember,  reader,  that  it  was  in  my  earliest  youth, ''Goa- 
sule  Planco,")  —on  the  morning  of  the  great  batHe  (the 
second)  —  between  Gulley  and  Gregson,  —  CrM^  who 
was  matched  against  Horton  for  the  second  fight,  oa  the 
same  memorable  day;  awaking  me  (a  lodger  at  the  iaa 
in  the  next  room)  by  a  loud  remonstrance  to  the  waiter 
against  the  abomination  of  his  towels,  which  had  bcea 
laid  in  lavender,  Cribb  was  a  coal -heaver  —  and  was 
much  more  discomfited  by  this  odoriferous  efienunac^af 
fine  linen,  than  by  his  adversary  Horton,  whom  be'^finiahei 
in  style,"  though  with  some  reluctance;  for  I  reooHeoC  thai 
he  said,  "he  disliked  hurting  him,  he  looked  so  pretty,''-' 
Horton  being  a  very  fine  fireshM^lonred  yoong  man. 

To  return  to  "rose  -  water"—  that  is,  to  gentle mcaas of 
rebuke.  Does  Mr.  Bowles  know  how  to  revenge  biflwlf 
upon  a  hackney  -coachman  when  he  has  overcharged  hii 
fare?  In  case  he  should  not,  I  will  tell  him«  It  is  eiWit 
use  to  call  him  "a  rascal,  a  scoundrel,  a  thief,  animpoatof^ 
a  blackguard,  a  villain,  a  ragamafBn,  a— -w hat yoa  pleaacs* 
all  that  he  is  used  to  —  it  is  his  mother-tongue,  and  pto- 
bably  his  mother's.  But  look  him  steadily  and  quirtly-ai 
tlie  face,  and  say  -  "Upon  my  word,  I  think  you  aie  Iha 
uglicit fellow  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  and  he  will  instaailf 
roll  forth  tlie  brazen  thunders  of  the  obariotcerSabBoiMW   i 


A  SECOND  LETTER  ON  BOWLES'  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


681 


mMIows:  —  "Hkpfyf  what  the  h— II  are  you?  You  a 

9€milemt9M/  Why !"  So  much  easier  it  is  to  provoke — 

ttBd  therefore  to  viodicate  —  (for  passion  panishes  him 
vrhofeeh  it  more  than  those  whom  the  passionate  would 
exemciate)  -^  by  a  few  quiet  words  the  aggressor,  than  by 
fetortii^  Tiolently.  The  '^ooals  of  fire"  of  the  Scripture 
are  kewjlu ;  —  but  they  are  not  the  less  <*ooals  ofjire," 

I  pass  OTer  a  page  of  quotation  and  reprobation-^<'Sin 
op  to  my  song"  ^  «<Oh  let  my  little  bark"— « Arcades 
UBlH/'-.«Wri«erinthe  Quarterly  Review  and  himself '-- 
*I]iMloor  aYoeationSy  indeed"  —  ''Kings  of  Brentford" — 
*H>ne  nosegay"  --  ''Perennial  nosegay"  —  "Oh  Juve- 
IMS,''  — and  the  like. 

Pago  12  produces  "more  reasons^"  >—  (the  task  ought 
not  to  have  been  diiBcutt,  for  as  yet  there  were  none)  — 
'tD  show  why  Mr.  Bowles  attributed  the  critique  in  the 
9aarteriy  to  Ootavius  Gilchrist"  All  these  "reasons" 
coaaist  of  turmtiies  of  Mr.  Bowles,  upon  the  presumed 
eterader  of  his  opponent  "He  did  not  suppose  there 
acmld  exist  a  man  in  the  kingdom  so  impudent,  except 
Octiiyius6ikdirist"~''He  did  not  think  there  was  a  man 
IB  the  kingdom  who  would  pretend  ignorance,  except  Oo- 
taYins  Gikshrist" — "He  did  not  conceive  that  olieman 
in  tihe  kingdom  would  otter  such  stupid  flippancy,  except 
Octavins  Gilchrist"— "He  did  not  think  there  was  one  man 
te  the  kingdom  who  oonid  so  utterly  show  his  ignorance, 
€0miined wiik  c&nteit,  as  Octavius  Gilchrist"-- "He  did 
■ot  believe  there  was  a  man  in  the  kingdom  so  perfect  in 
Mr.  Gikbrisf  s  'old  lanes'."  -^  "He  did  not  think  the 
wtemnmimdofwuy  one  in  the  kingdom,  "and  soon;  always 
banning  with  "any  one  in  the  kingdom,"  and  ending 
with  "betavins  Gilchrist,"  like  the  word  in  a  catch.  I  am 
not  "id  the  kingdom,"  and  have  not  been  much  in  the 
kingdom  sinoe  I  was  one  and  twenty  (about  ^yt  years 
in  the  whole,  since  I  was  of  age),  and  have  no  desire  to 
be  in  tfie  kingdom  again,  whilst  I  breathe,  nor  to  sleep 
ttere  afterwards;  and  I  regret  nothing  more  than  having 
ever  been  "in  the  kingdom"  at  all.  But  though  no  longer 
a  nan  **in  the  kingdom,"  let  me  hope  when  I  have  ceased 
to  exist,  it  may  be  said,  as  was  answerd  by  the  master 
ef  danronald's  henchman,  the  day  after  the  battle  of 
Sliefiff-^Mair,  when  he  was  found  watching  his  ehiefs 
body.  He  was  asked,  "who  that  wasf'  he  replied  ~  "it 
was  a  man  yesterday."  And  in  tliis  capacity,  "in  or  out 
ef  the  icingdom,"  I  must  own  that  1  participate  in  many 
of  tiie  objections  urged  by  Mr.  Gilchrist  I  participate 
in  bis  love  of  Pope,  and  in  his  not  understanding,  and  oo- 
anaionally  finding  fault  with,  the  last  editor  of  our  last 
tmly  great  poet 

One  of  the  reproaches  against  Mr.  Gildirist  is,  that  he 
ia  (it  is  sneeringly  said)  an  F.  S.  A.  If  it  will  give  Mr. 
Bowles  any  pleasure,  I  am  not  an  F.  S.  A.  but  a  Fellow 
of  the  Royal  Society  at  his  service,  in  case  there  should 
be  any  thing  in  that  assodiatioo  also  whidi  may  point  a 
paragraph. 

'^Theteare  some  other  reasons,"  bat"  the  author  is  now 
mmi  anicndwn."  Mr.  Bowles  has  so  totally  exhausted 
hiaMelf  upon  Octavius  Gilchrist,  that  he  has  not  a  word 
Ml  for  the  real  qnarterer  of  his  editton,  although  now 


The  Ibitowiiv  page  refers  to  a  mysterious  charge  'of 


"dnplidty,  hi  regard  to  the  publication  of  Pope's  letters." 
Till  this  charge  is  made  in  proper  form,  we  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it;  Mr.  Gilchrist  hints  it  —  Mr.  Bowles  denies 
it;  there  it  rests  for  the  present  l^Ir.  Bowles  professes 
his  dislike  to  ''Pope's  duplicity,  not  to  Pope"— a  distinc- 
tion apparently  witbo^^  a  difierence.  However,  I  believe 
that  I  understand  him.  We  have  a  great  dislike  to  Mr. 
Bowles'  edition  of  Pope,  but  not  to  Mr.  Bowles.  Never- 
theless, he  takes  up  the  subject  as  warmly  as  if  it  was 
personal  With  regard  to  the  fact  of  "Pope's  duplicity," 
it  remains  to  be  proved  —  like  Mr.  Bowles'  benevolence 
towards  his  memory. 

In  page  14,  we  have  a  large  assertion,  that  "the  'Eloisa' 
alone  is  sufficient  to  convict  him  of  gross  Hceniiousness,'* 
Thus,  out  it  comes  at  last  Mr.  Bowles  does  accuse  Pope 
of  **ffross  licentiousness,"  and  grounds  the  charge  upon 
a  poem.  The  licentiousness  is  a  "grand peut-dtre,"  accord- 
ing to  the  turn  of  the  times  being.  The  grossness  I  deny. 
On  the  contrary,  I  do  believe  that  such  a  subject  never 
was,  nor  ever  could  be,  treated  by  any  poet  with  90  much 
delicacy,  mingled  with,  at  the  same  time,  such  true  and 
Intense  passion.  Is  the  "Atys"  of  Catullus  licentious?  No, 
nor  even  gross ;  and  yet  Catullus  is  often  a  coarse  writer. 
The  subject  is  nearly  the  same,  except  that  Atys  was  the 
saidde  of  his  manhood,  and  Abelard  the  victim. 

The  "licentiousness"  of  the  story  was  not  Pope's.  — 
it  was  a  fact  All  that  it  had  of  gross,  he  has  softened ;  — 
all  that  it  had  of  indelicate,  he  has  purified;  —  all  that 
it  had  of  passionate,  he  has  beautified ;  —  all  that  it  had 
of  holy, -he  has  hallowed.  Mr.  CampbcU  has  admirably 
marked  this  in  a  few  words  (i  quote  firom  memory),  in 
drawing  the  distinction  between  Pope  and  Dryden,  and 
pointing  out  where  Dryden  was  wanting.  "I  fear,"  says 
he,  "that  had  the  subject  of 'Gloisa'  fallen  into  his  (Dry- 
den's)  hands,  that  he  would  have  given  us  but  a  coarse 
draft  of  her  passion."  Never  was  the  delicacy  of  Pope  so 
much  shown  as  in  this  poem.  With  the  facts  and  the  let- 
ters of  "Eloisa"  he  has  done  what  no  other  miod  but  that 
of  the  best  and  purest  of  poets  could  have  accomplished 
with  such  materials.  Orid,  Sappho  (in  the  Ode  called 
hers)  —  all  that  we  have  of  ancient,  all  that  we  have  of 
modern  poetry,  sinks  into  nothing  compar<Ml  with  him 
in  this  production. 

Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  trash  about  "lioentioiis- 
ncsa."  Is  not  "Anacreon"  taught  in  our  schools  ? — trans- 
lated, praised,  and  edited.^  Are  not  his  Odes  the  amatory 
praises  of  a  boy?  Is  not  Sappho's  Ode  on  a  girl?  Is  not 
this  sublime  and  (according  to  Longinus)  fierce  love  for 
one  of  her  own  sex?  And  is  not  Phillips'  translation  of 
it  in  the  mouths  of  all  your  women?  And  are  the  Bngiish 
schools  or  tiie  Bngiish  women  the  more  oormpt  for  all 
this?  When  yon  have  thrown  the  andents  into  the  fire, 
it  will  be  time  to  denounce  themodems."Ijiocntiousness  I" 
—  there  is  more  real  mischief  and  sapping  liceatioosness 
in  a  single  Freueh  prose  novel,  in  a  Moravian  hymn,  or 
a  German  comedy,  than  in  all  the  actual  poetry  tiiat  ever 
was  penned,  or  poured  forth,  since  the  rhapsodies  of 
Orpbens.  The  sentimental  anatomy  of  Ronssean  and 
MadamedeStael  arefiur  more  formidable  than  any  quan« 
tity  of  verse.  They  are  so,  because  they  sap  tiie  principles, 
by  reoiomng  npon  the|Nw«ie«#,  whereas  poetry  is  in  it 
48* 


682 


A  SECOND  liBTTER  ON  BOWLES'  STRICTURES  ON  POP& 


self  passion,  and  docs  not  systematise.  It  assails,  bat  does 
ttotarjfue;  it  may  be  wrong,  but  it  does  not  assume  pre* 
tensions  to  Optimism. 

Mr.  Bowles  now  has  the  g^oodness  **io  point  out  the 
differenoe  between  a  <r«<fcicer  and  him  who  sinoerely  states 
what  he  sincerely  believes."  He  imj^ht  have  spared  him- 
self the  trouble.  The  one  is  a  liar,  who  lies  knowingly; 
the  other  (I  speak  of  a  scandal-monger  of  course)  lies, 
charitably  believing  that  he  speaks  truth,  and  very  sorry 
to  find  himself  in  felsehood;  —  because  he 

"Woaid  rather  that  the  dean  thovld  di«^ 
Thau  bb  prediction  prove  a  lie.'* 

After  a  definition  of  a  ''traducer,"  which  was  quite 
superfluous  (though  it  is  agreeable  to  learn  that  Mr. 
Bowles  so  well  understands  the  character) ,  we  are 
assured,  that  *<he  feels  equally  indifferent,  Mr.  Gilchrist, 
forwhatyour  malice  can  invent,  oryourimpudenoeutter." 
This  is  indubitable;  for  it  rests  not  only  on  Mr.  Bowles' 
assurance,  but  on  that  of  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  and  nearly 
in  the  same  words  •—  **ttad  I  shall  treat  it  with  exactly  the 
same  calm  indifference  and  philosophical  contempt,  and 
so  your  servant'' 

^'One  thing  has  given  Mr.  Bowles  concern."  It  is  ^ 
passage  which  miglit  seem  to  reflect  on  the  patronage  a 
young  man  has  received  I"  Mioht  seem!!  The  passage 
alluded  to  expresses,  that  if  Mr.  Gilchrist  be  the  reviewer 
of  ^a  certain  poet  of  nature,"  his  praise  and  blame  are 
equaUy  contemptible.  —  Mr.  Bowles,  who  has  a  pecu- 
liarly ambiguous  style,  where  it  suits  him,  comes  off  with 
a  **not  to  ihepoet,  but  the  critic,"  etc  In  my  humble  opi- 
nion, the  passage  referred  to  both.  Had  Mr.  Bowles 
really  meant  fairly,  he  would  have  said  so  from  the  first — 
he  would  have  been  eagerly  transparent  —  **A,  certain 
poet  of  nature"  is  not  the  style  of  commendation.  It  is 
the  very  prologue  to  the  most  scandalous  paragraphs  of 
the  newspapers,  when 

"WininK  to  woand,  and  yet  afraid  to  ttrfke." 

**A  certain  high  personage,"  —  "ti  certain  peeress,"  — 
**a  certain  illustrious  foreigner,"  —  what  do  these  words 
ever  precede,  but  defamation?  Had  he  felt  a  spark  of 
kindling  kindness  for  John  Clare,  he  would  have  named 
him.  There  is  a  sneer  in  the  sentence  as  it  stands.  How 
a  fevourable  review  of  a  deserving  poet  can  '^tber  injure 
than  promote  his  cause"  is  difficult  to  comprehend  The 
article  denounced  is  able  and  amiable,  and  it  has  ^'aerved" 
the  poet,  as  far  as  poetry  can  be  served  by  judicious  and 
honest  criticism. 

With  the  two  next  paragraphs  of  Mr.  Bowles'  pam- 
phlet it  is  pleasing  to  concur.  His  mention  of  <*Pennic," 
and  bis  former  patronage  of  ''Shoel,"  do  him  honour.  I 
am  not  of  those  who  may  deny  Mr.  Baarfes  to  be  a  bene- 
volent man.  I  merely  assert,  that  he  is  not  a  candid  editor. 

Mr.  Bowles  has  been  *'a  writer  occasionally  upwards 
of  thirty  years,"  and  never  wrote  one  word  in  reply  in 
his  life  **to  criticisms,  merely  as  criticisms."  This  is  Mr. 
Lofty  in  Goldsmith's  Good-natured  Man;  ''and  I  vow 
by  9M  that's  honourable,  my  resentment  has  never  done 
the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner  of  barm,  —  that  is, 
as  mere  men, 

**The  letter  to  Ihe  ecfitor  of  the  newspaper"  Is  owned ; 


but  *^  was  not  on  account  of  the  criticisni.  It  was  hs^ 
cause  the  criticism  came  down  in  a  frank  tih^ctedtoMn, 
Bowles ! ! ! "  —  (the  italics  and  tluree  notes  of  adflurafioa 
appended  to  Mrs.  Bowles  are  copied  verbatim  from  Ihe 
quotation),  and  Mr.  Bowles  was  not  displeased  wifh  the 
criticism,  but  with  the  frank  and  the  address.  I  apee 
with  Mr*  Bowles  that  the  intention  was  to  aonqy  liim;  hm. 
I  fear  that  tills  was  answered  by  his  notice  of  the  reecpdoa 
of  the  criticism.  An  anonymous  letter-writer  has  bat  one 
means  of  knowing  the  effei^  of  his  attack.  Isthislietes 
the  superiority  over  the  viper ;  he  knows  that  his  poana 
has  taken  effect,  when  he  hears  the  victim  cry;  —  the 
adder  is  daaf.  The  best  reply  to  ananonyoMNu  Latimatioa 
IB  to  take  no  notice  directiy  nor  indirectly.  Iwish  Mr. 
Bowles  could  see  only  one  or  two  of  the  tiKrasaad  wUnh 
I  have  received  in  the  course  of  a  literary  fife ,  which, 
thovgh  begun  eariy,  has  not  yet  extended  to  a  tUid  part 
of  his  existence  as  an  author.  I  speak  of  iUtrmry  fife 
only.  Were  I  to  add  personal,  I  might  doable  the  amouat 
of  anoHj^maus  letters.  If  he  could  but  see  the  vioteaoe,  the 
threats,  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing,  he  woold  fauvgh, 
and  so  should  I,  and  thus  be  both  gainers. 

To  keep  up  theihrce,  —  within  the  last  nMnthoflUs 
present  writing  (1821),  I  have  had  my  life  threatened  m 
the  same  way  which  menaced  Mr.  Bowies'  fiune,  —  ex- 
cepting that  the  anonymoos  dennneiatioa  was  addremed 
to  the  Cardinal  Legate  of  Romagna,  instead  of  to  Mis. 
Bowles.  The  Cardinal  is,  I  believe,  the  elder  lady  of  the 
two.  I  append  tiie  menace  in  all  its  barbaric  bat  fitctal 
Italian,  that  Mr.  Bowles  may  be  convinced;  and  as  this 
is  the  only  ''promise  to  pay,"  which  the  Italians  ever  keep, 
so  my  person  has  been  at  least  as  much  exposed  toa  ^'shoC 
in  the  gloanung,"  from  "John  Heatherblutter"  (see  Wa- 
verley),  as  ever  Mr  Bowles'  glory  was  from  an  effitar. 
I  am,  nevertheless,  on  horseback  and  lonely  for  somehovn 
(oseofthem  twilight)  in  the  forest  daily;  and  tUs,  be* 
cause  it  was  my  "custom  in  the  afternoon,"  aad  that  I  b»* 
lie ve  if  the  tyrant  cannot  escape  amidst  his  guards  (sfaoold 
it  be  so  written),  so  the  humbler  individaal  wouM  find 
precautions  useless. 

Mr.  Bowles  has  here  the  humility  to  my,  that  *te  mMt 
succumb;  for  with  Lord  Byron  turned  against  fann»  be 
has  no  chance,"  -^  a  declaration  of  self-denial  not  mntk 
in  unison  with  his  "promise,"  Aye  lines  afterwards,  that 
fbr  every  twenty-four  lines  quoted  by  Mr.  Gifehrist,  or 
his  firiend,  to  greet  him  with  as  many  from  the  HSifefaria- 
tiad' ;"  but  so  muohtiw  better.  Mr.  Bowles  has  no  reason 
to  "succumb"  but  to  Mr.  Bowles.  As  a  poet,  the  anihar 
of"TheMt9sionary"may  compete  with  theforeflM^stoTya 
cotemporaries.  Let  it  be  recollected,  that  all  my  pieiiuna 
opinions  of  Mr.  Bowles'  poetry  were  written,  loBg  hetmm 
the  publication  of  his  last  and  best  poem;  and  Ibaft  n 
poet's  last  poem  should  be  his  best,  is  his  higbeat  piaiaab 
But,  however,  he  may  duly  and  honourably  tank  wiib 
his  living  rivals.  There  never  was  so  complete  a  ptoei'af 
the  superiority  of  Pope,  as  in  the  fines  with  wbieb  Jft. 
Bowles  closes  his  "to  &e  eonehuted  m  «vr  nest." 

Mr.  Bowles  is  avowedly  the  itempion  aad  tbe  ponlaf 
natwre.  Art  and  the  arts  aredragged^  some  before^  afli 
others  behind  his  chariot*  Pope,  where  he  deals  willi  ^ftm 


A  8BC0NP  UTTER  ON  BOWLBSf  STIUCT11BB6  ON  POPS. 


683 


lias,  and  witb  the  nature  of  the  vutOfBllB  of  the  day,  is 
aUowed  even  by  themaelfes  to  be  snbliiiie;  bat  they 
ooaaplaiB  that  too  soon  — 

"U«  floop'd  to  troth  and  monUlawi  bis  ■OBg,'* 

and  4kere  eren  tA«y  allow  him  to  be  onriTalled*  He  haa 
aaooeeded,  and  even  rarpaafed  th^m,  when  he  chose,  in 
their  own  pr§Uiuled  province.  Let  as  see  what  their  Co- 
lyphsBiis  effects  In  Pope's.  Bat  it  is  too  pitiable,  itis  too 
aMianoboly,  to  see  Mr.  Bowles  **MMun^'  not  *'^"  bat 
'^dmwn"  asa  poet  tohisiowest  depthasan  editor.  By  the 
mtjjiffr.  Bowks  is  always  qooting^Pope.  Igrantthat  there 
it  no  poet — not  Shakspeare  himself—  who  can  be  sooften 
%uoUdf  with  reference  to  life;  ^  hot  his  editor  is  so  like 
the  devil  qaotingScriptore,  that  I  coald  wish  ICr.  Bowles 
in  his  proper  place,  quoting-  in  the  polpit 

And  now  for  his  lines.  Bat  it  is  painfal  —  painftil  — 
to  see  such  a  saidde,  though  at  the  shrine  of  Pope.  I  can't 
copy  them  all: -^ 

"Shall  the  rank,  loathsome  miscreant  of  the  age 
Si^  like  a  night-mare  grinning  o'er  a  page  f 

''Whose  pjreOittld  ehaneter  ao  aptly  Mit 
The  two  extremei  of  Baotam  and  oTBrnta^ 
Compoond  grotesque  of  snllennesa  and  show. 
The  chattering  magpie,  and  the  croaking  crow." 

''Whose  heart  contends  with  thy  SatanilaB  head, 
A.  root  of  b«DUock»  and  a  lamp  oMead. 
QUchrisl^  proceed,"  etc,  etc. 

"And  thas  stand  forth,  spite  of  thy  venora'd  foam, 
To  give  thee  bite  for  bite,  or  lash  thee  limping  home." 

With  regard  to  the  last  line,  the  only  one  upon  which  I 
shall  venture,  for  fear  of  infection,  I  would  advise  Mr. 
Gikshriat  to  keqp  out  of  the  way  of  such  reciprocal  mor- 
—  unless  he  has  more  faith  in  the  **Orniskirk  medi- 
''  than  most  people,  or  may  wish  to  anticipate  the 
of  the  recent  German  professor  (Ifoi^geihisname, 
but  it  is  advertised  and  full  of  consonants),  who  presented 
hia  memoir  of  an  infallible  remedy  for  the  hydrophobia 
to  the  German  Diet  last  month,  coupled  with  tl^e  philan* 
Huropic  condition  of  a  lai|^e  annuity,  provided  that  his 
Cttre  cured  Let  him  b^in  with  the  editor  of  Pope,  and 
double  his  demand. 

Tour's  ever, 

BYRON. 
To  John  Hurray,  Esq. 

FtS,  Amongst  the  above-mentioned  lines  thereocrinrs 
ttie  MIowing,  applied  to  Pope— 

'^e  asiassln's  vengeanee,  and  the  coward's  He." 

And  Mr.  Bowlespersists  that  he  is  a  wcll-wbher  to  Pope  1 1 ! 
Be  has,  then,  edited  an  ^assassin"  and  a  '^coward"  wit- 
ffangly,  as  well  as  lovingly.  In  my  former  letter  I  have  re- 
marked npon  the  editor's  forgetfulness  of  Pope's  bene- 
volence. But  where  he  mentions  his  feults  it  is  *^with  sor- 
row"—  his  tears  drop,  but  they  do  not  blot  them  out  The 
^^riecordingangef  d^ers  from  the  recording  clergyman. 
A  falsomeeditor  ii  pardonable  though  tiresome,  fikea  pa- 
Aegyrkal  son  whose  pioas  sincerity  would  demi-deify  his 
BtOier.  But  a  detracting  editor  Is  a  parricide.  He  sins 
HgP^kast  the  nature  of  his  ofBoe,  and  connexion  -  he  mur- 
ders the  life  to  come  of  his  victim.  If  his  author  is  not 


worthy  to  be  mentioned,  do  not  edit  at  all:  if  he  be,  edit 
honestly,  and  even  flatteringly.  The  reader  will  forgive 
the  weakness  in  favonr  of  mortality,  and  ooriect  your 
adulation  with  a  smile.  But  to  sit  down  ^mingere  in  pa- 
trios  cineres,"  as  Mr.  Bowles  has  done,  merits  a  reproba- 
tion  so  strong,  that  I  am  as  incapable  of  expressing  as 
of  ceasing  to  feel  it 

FURTHER  ADDENDA. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that,  after  all  this  outcry  about 
*'mrdoor  nature"  and  '^artificial  images,"  Pope  was  the 
principal  inventor  of  that  boast  of  the  English,  Modem 
Gardening,  He  divides  this  honour  with  Milton.  Hear 
Warton :  ^  'It  hence  appears,  that  this  enchanting  art  of 
modem  gardening,  in  which  this  kingdom  claims  a  pre- 
ference overeverynalion  inBurope,  chiefly  owes  iUarigin 
and  its  improvements  to  two  great  poets,  Milton  and 
Paper 

Walpole  (no  friend  to  Pope)  asserts  that  Pope  formed 
Ken^e  taste»  and  that  Kent  was  the  artist  to  whom  the 
Bngiish  are  chiefly  indebted  for  diffusing  ^  taste  in  laying 
outgrounds."  Thedesign  of  the  Prince  of  Wales'  garden 
wascopiedfrom  jPc»p«'#atTwicfcenham.  Warton  applauds 
*<his  singular  effort  of  art  and  taste,  in  impressing  so  much 
variety  and  scenery  on  a  vpot  of  five  acres."  Pope  was 
the^rjl  who  ridiculed  the  ^'formal,  French,  Dntcb,  false 
and  unnatural  taste  in  gardening,"  both  in  proee  and  verse. 
(SeCy  for  the  former,  ''The  Guardian.") 

''Pope  has  given  not  only  some  ofomJSrtt  but  beet  m* 
lea  and  observations  on  Architecture  and  Gardening," 
(See  Warton's  Essay,  vol.  ii.  p.  337,  etc) 

Now,  is  it  not  a  shame,  after  this,  to  hear  our  Lakers 
in  ''Kendal  Green,"  and  our  Bucolical  Cockneys,  crying 
out  (the  latter  in  a  wilderness  of  bricks  and  mortar)  about 
"Nature,"'  and  Pope's  "artificial  in-door  habitsr'  Pope 
had  seen  all  of  nature  that  JS'ti^^^I  alone  can  supply.  He 
was  bred  In  Windsor  Forest,  and  amidst  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  Eton;  he  lived  familiarly  and  frequentiy  at  the 
country-seats  of  Bathurst,  Cobham*  Burlington,  Peter- 
borough, Digby,  and  Bolingbroke;  amongst  whose  seats 
was  to  be  numbered  Stowe,  He  made  his  own  little  '^ive 
acres"  a  model  to  princes^  and  to  the  first  of  our  artisti 
who  imitated  nature.  Warton  thinks  "that  the  mosten* 
gaging  of  Kent's  works  was  also  planned  on  the  model  of 
Pope's,  --  at  least  in  the  opening  and  retiring  shades  of 
Venus'  Vale." 

It  is  true  tliat  Pope  was  Infirm  and  deformed;  bat  he 
could  walk,  and  he  could  ride  (he  rode  to  Oxford  from 
London  at  a  stretch),  and  he  was  famous  for  an  exqui- 
site eye.  On  a  tree  at  Lord  Bathursf  s  is  carved  "Here 
Pope  sang," — he  composed  beneath  it  Bolingbroke,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  represents  tliem  both  writing  in  the  hay- 
field.  No  poet  ever  admired  Nature  more,  or  used  her 
better,  than  Pope  has  done^  as  I  will  undertake  to  prove 
firom  his  worlLS,  pr^se  and  frereey  if  not  anticipated  in-ao 
easy  and  agreeablealaboar.  I  remember  a  passage  in  Wal- 
pole, somewhere^  of  a  gentleman  who  wbhed  to  givedireo- 
tions  about  some  willows  tOHt  man  who  had  long  served 
Pope  in  his  grounds ;  **l  understand,  8ir,"he  replied:  "yoa 
won  Id  have  them  hang  down;  sir,  semewkatpoetical"  Now, 
if  nothing  existed  but  this  little  anecdote.  It  would  sufloe 


686 


RBVIEW  OF  WORDSWORTH'S  FORMS. 


REVIEW  OF  WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS, 

2  vols.  1807. 
(From  '^MoDtbly  Literary  Reereattons/'  for  Angfnst,  1807.) 


The  volumes  before  u»  are  by  the  author  of  Lyrical 
Ballads,  a  collection  which  haa  not  undeservedly  met 
witli  a  considerable  share  of  public  applause.  The  cha- 
racteristics of  Sir.  W/s  muse  are  simple  and  flowing^ 
thoujch  occasionally  inharmonious  verse;  strong  and 
sometimes  irresistible,  appeals  to  the  feelings,  with  un- 
exceptionable sentiments.  Though  the  present  work  may 
not  equal  his  former  efforts,  many  of  the  poems  possess  a 
native  elegance,  natural  and  unafiiectedy  totally  devoid  of 
the  tinsel  embellishments  and  abstract  hyperboles  of 
several  cotcmporary  sonneteers.  The  last  sonnet  in  the 
first  volume,  p.  1&2,  is  perhaps  the  best,  without  any 
novelty  in  the  sentiments,  which  we  hope  arc  common  to 
every  Briton  at  the  present  crisis;  the  force  and  expres- 
sion is  that  of  a  genuine  poet,  feeling  as  he  writes ;  — 

"AiioUa«r  ycarl  uMtbcr  dtMUy  blowt 
Another  mighty  empire  overthrown  I 
And  we  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  akme  — 
The  Uut  that  dares  to  strnmle  with  the  Ibe. 
*TIa  wellt--  from  thii  day  forward  we  iheU  kM« 
That  ki  evielTea  our  teA^  mast  be  eeeght^ 
That  by  our  own  right  hand«  it  mo«t  be  wroeghC; 
That  we  mnit  stand  anprop'd,  or  be  laid  tow. 
O  dastard!  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer  I 
We  shaU  es«lt»  If  they  who  rale  the  lead 
Be  «e«  who  boM  lu  iMny  Mewiaia  dear, 
Wlte,  aprifht,  ▼aHant,  not  a  venal  bend. 
Who  are  to  Jadge  of  danger  which  they  tar. 
And  honoar  wblch^they  do  not  understand.** 

The  song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  the  Seven 

Sisters,  the  afflic^on  of  Maigaret of ,  possess 

all  tlie  beauties,  and  few  of  the  defects,  of  this  writer:  the 
following  lines  ft-om  the  last  are  in  his  first  style:  — 

"Ah!  little  doth  the  yoang  one  dream. 
When  ftill  of  play  and  childish  cares. 
What  power  hath  e'en  bis  wildest  lerean^ 
Heard  by  Us  mother  aaawarea; 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  gaesat 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress, 
Bnt  do  not  make  her  love  the  less." 

The  pieces  least  worthy  of  the  author  are  those  entit- 
led ''Moods  of  my  own  Miod/'  We  certainly  wish  these 


''Moods"  had  been  less  frequent,  or  not  permitted  to  oc- 
cupy a  place  near  works  which  only  mal^e  their  defomitf 
more  obvious.  When  Mr.  W.  ceases  to  please,  it  iiby 
"abandoning*'  his  mind  to  the  mostcommon-plaoe  idcsi, 
at  the  same  time  clothing  them  in  laugnage  not  siavk^ 
but  puerile.  What  will  any  reader  or  auditor,  out  of  tk 
nursery,  say  to  such  namby-pamby  as  "lanes  written  at 
the  Foot  of  Brotlier's  Bridge  V 

"Tht  cock  is  erowlniB, 

The  alrcam  Is  iewia^ 

The  small  blrd«  twitter. 

The  lake  doth  f^littcr. 

The  green  field  sleeps  In  the  ran ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest. 

Are  at  work  with  the  itrnagfn; 

The  cattle  are  gmin|^ 

Their  heads  never  raising, 

Tbere  are  forty  feeding  like  one. 

Like  an  army  defeated, 

TbeiDOwhalfc  recreated, 

And  now  doth  ihreilW 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hilL* 

'^Tbe  plough-boy  is  wboopinganoa,  mwm,*'  cte.  isfa  Ac 
same  exquisite  measure.  This  appears  to  as  nolher  nwit 
nor  less  than  an  imitation  of  such  mtnstreiay  as  sooHsd 
our  cries  in  the  cradle,  with  the  shrtil  dittj  of 

"H^  diddle^  diddle.  j 

The  cat  and  the  flddle: 

The  oowjamp'd  over  the  « 

The  little  dog  biagh'd  to  sec  each  sport. 

And  the  dish  ran  away  with  the  a 


On  the  whole,  however,  with  the  exception  of  tiieaboie* 
and  other  innocent  odes  of  the  same  cast,  we  tliiak  these' 
volumes  display  a  genius  worthy  of  higher  pursuits,  is^  ( 
regret  tliatMr.  W.  confines  his  muse  to  such  trifling  n^ 
jects.  We  trust  his  motto  will  be  in  future,  "Fanio  aijoo 
canamus."  Many,  with  inferior  abilities,  have  aoqoiredt 
loftier  seat  on  Parnassus,  merely  by  attempting  straisiii 
which  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  more  qualified  to  excel 


687 


LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR 

OF 

«MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  REVIEW." 


MTDBAR  ROBERTS, 
As  a  believer  in  the  church  of  EnglaBd  —  to  say  nothing 
«f  the  Stnte^I  hare  been  an  occasional  reader  and  great 
admirer  of^  though  not  a  subscriber  to,  your  Review, 
whiefa  is  rather  expensive.  But  I  do  not  know  that  any 
pact  of  its  contents  ever  gave  me  much  surprise  dll  the 
derenth  article  of  your  twenty-seventh  number  made  its 
appearance.  You  have  there  most  vigorously  reAited  a 
ealnmnioos  accusation  of  bribery  and  corruption,  &ecre- 
deaoeofwliich  in  the  public  mind  might  not  only  have 
damaged  your  reputation  as  a  clergyman  and  an  editor, 
>  hot,  what  would  have  been  still  worse,  have  injured  the 
circnlation  of  your  journal;  which,  I  regret  to  hear,  is  not 
soextensiveas  tfae«'purity"(a8yon  well  obflerve)''of  its," 
ete.  and  thepresent  taste  for  propriety,  would  induce  us  to 
expeot  The  charge  itself  is  of  asolenm  nature,  and,  al- 
Ihoqgh  inverse,  is  couched  in  terms  of  such  cironmstan- 
fial  granty,  as  to  induce  a  belief  little  short  of  that  gene- 
rally aoeordad  to  the  thirty-nine  articles,  to  which  yon  so 
tenUysiibBoribed  on  taking  your  degrees.  Itisaohaige 
the  most  revolting  to  the  heart  of  man,  from  its  frequcbt 
oocfarrenoe ;  lo  the  mind  of  astatesman,  from  its  occasional 
troth ;  and  to  the  soul  of  an  editor,  from  its  moral  impos- 
iftbittty.  Yott  are  charged  then  in  thelastliaeof  oneoctave 
stanxa,  and  the  whole  eight  lines  of  the  next,  vis.  20eth 
and  aiOth  of  the  firstcanto  of  that  '^pestilent  poem,"  Don 
Joan,  with  reodving,aiidstiUmorefoo]ishly  acknowMg- 
iag  the  receipt  o^  certain  monies,  to  eulogise  the  unknown 
Mithor,  who  by  this  account  must  be  known  to  yon,  if  to 
nobody  else.  An  impeachment  of  this  nature,  so  seriously 
made^  there  is  but  one  way  of  reftiting;  and  it  is  my  firm 
persuasion,  that  whether  you  did  or  did  not  (and  /believe 
that  you  did  not)  receive  the  said  monies,  of  which  1 
Irish  that  he  had  specified  the  sum,  you  are  quite  right  in 
denying  all  knowledge  of  the  traosaction.  U  charges  of 
this  nefiirious  description  are  to  go  forth,  sanctioned  by 
all  the  solemnity  of  ciniumstance,  and  guaranteed  by  the 
veracity,  of  verse  (as  Counsellor  Phillips  would  say), 
what  is  to  beeome  of  readers  hitherto  implicitly  confident 
la  the  aot  less  veracious  prose  of  our  critical  journals? 
what  is  to  become  of  the  reviews  ?  And,  if  the  reviews  fiul, 
whai  is  lo  become  of  the  editors  ?  It  is  oommon 


you  have  done  well  to  sound  the  alarm.  I  myself,  in  my 
humble  sphere,  will  be  one  of  your  echoes.  In  the  words 
of  the  tragedian  Liston,  **l  love  a  row,"  and  you  seem 
justly  determined  to  make  one. 

It  is  barely  possible,  certainly  improbable,  that  the 
writer  might  have  been  in  jest;  but  this  only  aggravates 
his  crime.  A  joke,  the  proverb  says,  ^breaks  no  bones;" 
but  it  may  break  a  bookseller,  or  It  may  be  the  cause  of 
bones  being  broken.  The  jest  is  but  a  bad  one  at  the  best 
for  the  author,  and  might  have  been  a  still  worse  one  for 
you,  if  your  copious  contradiction  did  not  certify  to  all 
whom  it  may  concern  your  own  indignant  Innocence,  and 
the  immaculatepurity  of  the  British  Review.  I  donot  doubt 
your  word,  my  dear  Roberts,  yet  I  cannot  help  wishing 
that,  inacase  of  such  vital  importance,  it  had  assumed  flie 
more  substantial  shape  of  an  affidavit  sworn  befiare  the 
Lord  Mayor  Atkins,  who  readily  reodves  any  deposition ; 
and  doubtless  would  have  brought  it  in  some  way  as  evi» 
dence  of  the  designs  of  thcReformers  to  set  fire  to  London, 
at  the  same  time  that  he  himself  meditates  the  same  good 
office  towards  the  river  Thames, 

I  am  sure,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  yoo  wiU  take  these 
observations  of  mine  in  good  part;  they  are  written  in  a 
spirit  of  friendship  not  less  pure  than  your  own  editorial 
integrity.  I  have  always  admired  you;  and,  not  knowing 
any  shape  which  friendship  and  admiration  can  assume 
more  agreeable  and  useftd  than  that  of  good  advice,  I  shall 
continue  my  lucubrations,  mixed  with  here  and  there  a 
monitory  hint  as  to  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  line  you  should 
pursue,  in  case  you  should  ever  again  be  assailed  with 
bribes,  or  accused  of  taking  them.  By  the  way,  you  don't 
say  much  about  the  poem,  except  that  it  is  ''flagitious." 
This  is  a  pity —  yon  should  have  cut  it  up;  because,  to 
say  the  truth,  in  not  doing  so,  you  soaaewhat  assist  any 
notions  which  the  malignant  might  entertain  on  the  score 
of  the  anonymous  asseveration  which  has  made  you  so 
angry. 

You  say  no  bo<4ueller  ''was  willing  to  take  upon  him* 
self  the  publication,  though  most  of  them  di^graee  themi* 
selves  by  selling  it"  Now,  my  dear  firiend,  though  we  all 
know  that  those  fellows  will  do  any  tUag  for  money,  me> 
thinks  the  (fii«nae  is  mors  with  thepnvdiasen:  sfl 


688 


LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  »MY  GRANBMOTHER'S  REVIEW.' 


satHkf  doabtteMy  there  are;  for  therecan  be  no  very  exten- 
sive  selling  (as  you  will  peroeive  by  that  of  the  British 
Review)  without  buyiog.  You  then  add,  ''What  can  the 
critic  say?''  I  am  sure  I  don't  know;  at  present  he  says 
very  little,  and  that  not  much  to  the  purpose.  Then  comes, 
*'for  praise^  as  far  as  regards  the  poetry,  many  passages 
might  be  exhibited:  for  condemnation,  as  for  as  regards 
the  morality,  all."  Now,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Roberts,  I 
feel  for  you,  and  for  your  reputation :  my  heart  bleeds  for 
both ;  and  I  do  ask  you,  whether  or  not  such  language  does 
not  come  positively  under  the  description  of  "the  puff  ool< 
lusive,"  for  which  see  Sheridan's  force  of  ''The  Critic,^' 
(by  the  way,  a  little  more  facetious  than  your  own  farce 
under  the  same  title,)  towards  the  close  of  scene  second, 
act  the  first 

The  poem  is,  it  seems,  sold  as  the  work  of  Lord  Byron ; 
but  you  feel  yourself  ''at  liberty  to  suppose  it  not  Lord 
B.'s  composition."  Why  did  you  ever  suppose  that  it 
was?  I  approve  of  yourindignation— lapplaudit— I  feel 
as  angry  as  yon  can;  but  perhaps  your  virtuous  wrath 
carries  you  a  little  too  far,  when  you  say  that  "no  misde- 
meanour, not  even  that  of  sending  into  the  world  obscene 
and  blasphemous  poetry,  theproduct  of  studious  lewdness 
and  laboured  impiety,  appears  to  you  in  so  detestable  a 
light  as  the  aoceptanoe  of  a  present  by  the  editor  of  a  re- 
view, as  the  condition  of  praising  an  author."  The  devil 
it  does  n't!— Think  a  little.  This  b  being  critical  over- 
much. In  point  of  Gentile  benevolence  or  Christian  charity, 
it  were  surely  less  criminal  to  praise  for  a  bribe,  than  to 
abuse  a  fellow-creature  for  nothing ;  and  as  to  the  assertion 
of  the  comparative  innocence  of  blasphemy  and  ob- 
scenity, ooofronted  with  an  editor's  "acceptance  of  a  pre- 
sent," I  shallmerely  observe,  that  as  an  Editor  you  say  very 
well,  but,  as  a  Christian  divine,  I  would  not  recommend 
you  to  transpose  this  sentence  into  a  sermon. 

And  yet  you  say,  "the  miserable  man  (for  miserablehe 
is,  as  having  a  soul  of  which  he  cannot  get  rid)"— But 
here  I  must  pause  again,  and  enquire  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  'parenthesis?  We  have  heard  of  people  of  "little 
soul,"  or  of  "no  soul  at  all,"  but  never  till  now  of  "the 
misery  of  having  a  soul  of  which  we  cannot  get  rid;"  a 
misery  under  which  ypu  are  possibly  no  great  sufferer, 
having  gotrid  apparently  of  some  of  the  intellectual  part  of 
your  own  when  yon  penned  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence. 

But  to  continue.  You  call  upon  Lord  Byron,  always 
supposing  him  not  the  author,  to  dischum  "with  all  gentle- 
manly haste,"  etc.  I  am  told  that  Lord  B.  is  in  a  foreign 
country,  some  thousand  miles  off  it  may  be;  so  that  it  will 
be  difficult  for  him  to  hurry  to  your  wishes.  In  the  mean 
time,  perhaps  you  yourself  have  set  an  example  of  more 
haste  than  gentility ;  but  "the  more  haste  the  worse  speed." 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  charge  itself,  my  dear  Roberts, 
which  appears  to  me  to  be  in  some  degree  not  quite  ex- 
plicitly worded: 

^I  Mb«4  ny  Graadmother**  Revivw,  the  British." 

I  recollect  hearing,  soon  after  the  publication,  this  sub- 
ject discussed  at  the  tea-table  of  Mr.  Sotheby  the  poet, 
who  expressed  himself,  1  remember,  agood  deal  surprised 
that  you  had  never  reviewed  his  epic  poem  of  "8aul,"nor 
«iny  of  his  six  tragedies;  of  which,  inoneinstanoe,  thebad 
^•tle  of  the  pity  and,  in  all  the  rest,  the  barbarous  repugn 


of  theprincipal  actors,  prevented  tfie  | 
Mrs.  and  the  Misses  S.  being  in  a  corner  of  the  rooiB,per- 
using  the  proof  sheets  of  Mr.  S.'8  poems  in  Ilmfy,  or  ov 
Italy,  as  he  says,  (I  wish,  by'th^  by,  Mrs.  S.  woitld  i 
the  tea  a  little  stronger,)  the  male  part  of  the  e 
were  at  liberty  to  make  a  few  observationa  oo  the  potm 
and  passage  in  question;  and  there  was  a  difierenee  of 
opinion.  Some  thought  the  allusion  was  to  tlie  ''BrifiA 
Critic;"  others,  that  by  the  expression,  ''My  OrandiM- 
ther's  Review,"  it  was  intimated  that  "my  grandmoAer" 
was  not  the  reader  of  the  review,  but  actually  the  wrHer; 
thereby  insinuating,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  yoa  were  an 
old  woman;  because,  as  people  often  say,  "Jefi^y's  Re^ 
view,"  "Gifford's  Review,"  in  lieu  of  Edinhmgli  and 
Quarterly;  so  "my  Grandmother's  Review"  and  Robert^ 
might  be  also  synonymous.  Now,  whatever  ookmrthis 
insinuation  might  derive  from  tiie  drcumstaiiQeof  your 
wearing  a  gown,  as  well  as  from  your  time  of  life,  your 
general  style,  and  various  passages  of  your  writings, — I 
will  take  upon  myself  to  exculpate  yon  from  all  saspiaon 
of  the  kind,  and  assert,  without  calling  Mrs.  Roberts  ia 
testimony,  that  if  ever  you  should  be  chosen  Pope^  yor 
will  pass  through  all  the  previous  oerc 
much  credit  as  any  pontiff  since  the  partnritioii  of  ^ 
It  is  very  unfeir  to  judge  of  sex  from  writings,  psLtfiea- 
larly  from  those  of  the  British  Review.  We  are  all  I 
to  be  deceived;  and  it  is  an  indisputable  Act,  that  i 
of  the  best  articles  in  your  journal,  which  were  atlritoted 
to  a  veteran  female,  were  actually  written  bj  you  your* 
self;  and  yet  to  this  day  there  arepeopie  who  could  aetcr 
find  out  the  differenoe.  But  let  us  return  to  the  moreiflh 
mediate  question. 

I  agree  with  you,  that  it  Is  impoanUe  Lord  ByrM 
should  be  the  author,  not  only  because,  as  a  Btitiaii  peer 
and  a  British  poet,  it  would  be  impraisticable  for  hiuita 
have  recourse  to  such  ftnetious  fiction,  but  for  some  otlwr 
reasons  wUch  you  haveomitted  tostate.  luthefirst  plaee^ 
his  Lorddiip  has  no  grandmother.  Now,  the  author  — 
and  we  may  believe  him  in  this  ~  doth  expressly  stale 
that  the  "British"  is  his  "Grandmother's  Review;"  sod 
if,  as  I  think  I  have  distinctly  proved,  this  was  not  a  SMie 
figurative  allusion  to  your  supposed  inleliectual  agessd 
sex,  my  dear  friend,  it  follows,  whether  you  be  die  or  uo^ 
that  there  is  such  an  elderly  lady  stall  extant  And  I  ostf 
the  more  readily  credit  this,  having  a  sexagenary  aunt  off 
my  own,  who  paused  you  constantly,  tiU  nnfortunately 
foiling  asleep  over  the  ieadingarticle  of  your  last  nussbsi^ 
her  spectacles  fell  off  and  were  broken  against  the  fender, 
after  a  fiButhfol  service  of  fifteen  years,  and  she  has  never 
been  able  to  fit  her  eyes  since ;  so  that  I  have  been  forced 
to  read  you  aloud  to  her;  and  this  is  in  fiustthe  way  in 
which  I  became  acquainted  with  the  subject  of  my  pre- 
sent letter,  and  thus  determined  to  become  your  psMie 
correspondent. 

In  the  next  place.  Lord  Byron's  destiny  seems  in  some 
sort  like  that  of  Hercules  of  old,  who  became  the  aofbor 
of  all  unappropriated  prodigies.  Lord  B.  had  been  ssp- 
posed  the  author  of  the  "Vampire^"  of  a  "Piigrisai^e  lo 
Jerusalem,"  "To  the  Dead  Sea,"  of  Death  upon  the  Ptele 
Horse,"  of  odes  to  "Lavi^etle,"  to  "Saint  Hdenu,"  is 
the  "Land  of  the  Gaul,"  and  to  a  sucking  dnid.  Nov,  he 


LSTTBR  TO  TBB  BMTOB  OF  <'lfY  GRAMDMOTHBITS  RBVIBW. 


689 


out  to  have  written  none  of  tbeift  things.  B^aidos, 
foa  mj»  he  knows  in  what  s  spirit  of,  etc  yon  criticifle : — 
Hre  joa  sore  he  knows  all  this?  that  lie  has  read  yon  like 
tty  poor  dear  annt?  They  tell  me  he  is  a  queer  sort  of  a 
nan;  and  I  would  not  be  too  sore,  if  I  were  you,  either 
of  what  he  has  read  or  of  what  he  has  written.  I  thought 
Ihs  style  had  been  the  serious  and  torrible.  As  to  his  send- 
ing you  money,  this  is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard  of 
Ihs  paying  his  reviewers  in  that  com;  I  thought  it  was 
rather  in  their  own,  to  judge  irom  some  of  his  earlier 
ptodnctions.  Besides,  though  he  may  not  be  profuse  in 
his  expenditure^  I  should  coigeeture  that  his  reviewer's 
Uli  is  not  so  long  as  his  trior's. 

Shall  I  give  you  what  I  think  a  prudent  opinion?  I 
don't  mean  to  insinuate,  God  forbid!  but  if^  by  any  ao* 
eidcnt,  there  should  have  been  such  a  oonrespondence 
between  yon  and  the  unknown  author,  whoever  he  may 
bc^send  him  back  his  money :  I  dare  say  he  will  be  very 
|lad  to  hayeit  again;  it  can't  be  much,  considering  the 
vahie  of  die  article  and  the  circulation  of  the  journal ;  and 
yon  are  too  modest  to  rate  your  praise  beyond  its  real 
Hwtlu  —  Don't  be  angry,  —  I  know  you  won't,  —  at  this 
ippraisementofyonr  powers  of  eulogy;  for  on  the  other 
lMuid,mydeu'  friend,  depend  upon  it  your  abuse  is  worth, 
iOtlta  own  weight,  —  that's  a  feather,  —  but  your  weight 
bgokL  So  don't  spare  it:  if  he  has  bargained  for  tkot, 
pve  it  handsomely,  and  depend  upon  your  doing  him  a 
lk«dly  office. 

Bail  only  speak  in  case  of  possibility;  for,  as  I  said 
before,  I  cannot  believe,  in  the  fifst  instance,  that  you 
wmid  receive  a  bribe  to  praise  any  person  whatever;  and 
dill  less  can  I  believe,  that  your  praise  could  ever  produce 
■Khan  offer.  Ycmi  are  a  good  creature^  my  dear  Roberts, 
ttd  a  dever  feUow ;  else  1  could  almost  suspect  that  you 
lad  fidlen  into  the  very  trap  set  for  yon  in  verse  by  this 
laonymons  wag,  who  wiU  certainly  be  but  too  happy  to 
Me  yon  saring  him  the  trouble  of  making  you  ridiculous, 
Fke  fiust  is,  that  the  solemnity  of  your  eleventh  article 
ioes  make  yon  look  a  little  more  absurd  than  yon  ever 
fct  looked,  in  all  probability,  and  at  the  same  time^  does 
mgood ;  for  if  any  body  believed  before  in  the  octaye 
danxBS,  they  will  believe  still,  and  you  will  find  it  not  less 
llficQit  to  prove  your  negative,  than  the  learned  Partridge 
bond  it  to  demonstiale  his  not  being  dead,  to  the  satis- 
hetion  of  the  readers  of  almanacs. 

What  the  motvves  of  tliis  writer  may  haye  been  for  (as 
rov  magnificently  translate  his  quisring  yon)  **stadng. 


with  the  paitieohtfity  which  belongs  to  ftct,  the  forgery 
of  a  groundless  fiction, "  (do,  pray,  my  dear  R.,  talk  a 
little  less  ^in  Kiog  Cambyses'  vein,")  I  cannot  pretend 
to  say;  perhaps  to  laugh  at  yon,  but  that  is  no  reason  for 
your  benevolently  making  all  the  world  laugh  also.  I 
approve  of  your  being  angry ;  I  tell  you  I  am  angry  too ; 
but  you  should  not  have  shown  it  so  outrageously.  Your 
solemn  ^^fj^somebody  personating  the  Editor  of  the,  etc. 
has  received  from  Lord  B.  or  firom  any  other  person," 
reminds  me  of  Charley  Incledon's  usual  exordium  when 
people  came  into  the  tavern  to  hear  him  sing  withont 
paying  their  share  of  the  reckoning  —  <*if  a  maun,  or  any 
maun,  or  oay  other  maun,"  ete. ;  yon  have  both  the  same 
redundant  eloquence.  But  why  should  yon  think  any 
body  would  personate  you  ?  Nobody  would  dream  of  such 
a  prank  who  ever  read  your  compositions,  and  perhaps 
not  many  who  haye  heard  your  conversation.  But  I  have 
been  inoculated  with  a  little  of  your  prolixity.  The  ftct 
is,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  somebody  has  tried  to  make  a 
fool  of  yon,  and  what  he  did  not  succeed  in  doing, 
yon  have  done  for  bim  and  for  yourself. 

With  regard  to  the  poem  itself,  or  the  author,  whom 
I  cannot  find  out,  (can  yon?)  I  have  nothing  to  say ;  my 
business  is  with  you.  I  am  sure  that  yon  will,  upon  se- 
cond thoughts,  be  really  obliged  to  me  for  the  intention 
of  this  letter,  however  far  short  my  expressions  may  have 
fallen  of  the  sincere  good  will,  admiration,  and  thorough 
esteem,  with  which  I  am  ever,  my  dear  Roberts 
Most  truly  yours, 

WORTLBY  CLUTTERBUCK. 

S«pt.  4th,  ISIO, 

Little  PidUugton. 

P.  S.  My  letter  is  too  long  to  revise,  and  the  post  is 
going,  I  forget  whether  or  not  I  asked  you  the  meaning 
of  your  hist  words,  "the  forgery  of  a  groundless  fiction.'* 
Now,  as  aU  forgery  is  fiction,  and  all  fiction  a  kind  of 
forgery.  Is  not  this  tautological?  The  wnieaot  would 
have  ended  more  strongly  with  forgery;"  only  it  hath 
an  awftil  Bank  of  Bngland  sound,  and  would  have  ended 
like  an  indictment,  besides  sparing  you  several  words, 
and  conferring  some  meaning  upon  the  remainder.  But 
this  is  mere  verbal  critieism.  6ood-4>ye  —  once  more, 
yours  truly,  W.  C. 

P.  &  ad.  —  Is  it  true  tliat  the  Saints  make  up  the  loss 
of  the  Review  ?  —  It  is  very  handsome  in  them  to  be  at 
so  great  an  expense.  7W»c«  more,  yours,  W.  C. 


44 


690 


PiOtUAMBNTAflY  aPUCBM. 


PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES. 


DEBATE  ON  THE  FRAME- WORKBILL,  IN/THE  HOUSE  OP  LORDS, 

FEBRUARY,  27,  18K. 


Thk  order  of  the  day  for  the  aeoond  reading  of  thia  bill 
beiog  read, 

LORD  BYRON  roae,  and  (for  the  firat  Ume)  addresaed 
their  lordahipa,  as  follows: 

Mr  LoaM, — The  subject  now  sqhmitted  to  yonr  lord- 
ships for  the  firat  tiaM,  thoogb  new  to  the  House,  is  by  no 
I  means  new  to  the  country.  I  believe  it  had  ooeopied  the 
y      I  aerioos  thoughts  of  all  deacriptions  of  peraons,  long 
I   beforo  its  iatrodnction  to  the  notice  of  that  legislature, 
whose  interferenoe  alone  ooaid  be  of  real  service.  As  a 
person  in  some  degreeconnected  with  the  suffering  county, 
though  a  stranger  not  only  to  this  House  in  general,  but 
to  almost  every  individual  whose  attcHition  I  presume 
to  solicit,  I  must  claim  some  portion  of  your  lordships' 

I  indulgence  whilst  I  offer  a  few  observations  on  a  question 
in  which  I  confess  myself  deeply  interested. 

To  eater  into  any  details  of  the  riots  would  be  super- 
fluous: the  House  is  already  aware  that  every  outrage 
short  of  actual  bloodshed  has  been  perpetrated,  and  that 
the  proprietors  of  the  frames  obnoxious  to  the  rioterB,and 
all  persons  supposed  to  be  connected  with  them,  have 
been  liable  to  insult  and  violence.  During  the  short  time 
I  recently  passed  in  Nottinghamshire,  not  twelve  hours 
elapsed  without  some  fresh  act  of  violence;  and  on  the 
day  I  left  the  county,  I  was  informed  that  forty  frames 
\  had  been  broken  the  preceding  evening,  as  usual,  without 
resistance  and  without  detection. 

Such  was  flien  the  state  of  that  county,  and  such  I  have 
reason  to  believe  it  to  be  at  this  moment  But  whilst  these 
outrages  must  be  admitted  to  exist  to  an  alarming  extent, 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  have  arisen  from  cinmm- 
stances  of  the  most  unparalleled  distress.  The  persc- 
veranoeof  these  miserable  men  in  their  proceedings,  tends 
to  prove  that  nothing  but  absolute  want  could  have  driven 
a  large,  and  once  honest  and  industrious,  body  of  the 
people,  into  the  commission  of  excesses  so  hazardous  to 
themselves,  their  families,  and  the  community.  At  the 
(  time  to  which  I  allude,  the  town  and  county  were  bur- 
^  thened  with  large  detachments  of  the  military ;  the  police 
was  in  motion ,  the  magistrates  assembled ;  yet  all  the 
movements,civil  and  military,  had  led  to —nothing.  Not  a 
single  instance  had  occurred  of  the  apprehension  of  aoy 
real  delinquent  actually  taken  in  the  fact,  against  whom 
there  existed  legal  evidence  sufficient  for  convrotion.  But 


{' 


tiie  police,  however  oaeleBa,  vrcre  by  bo  BMani  idle: » 
veral  notorious  delinqueiits  had  beam  dctectdi;  aa, 
liable  toconviction,  on  the  clearest  evidence^  of  IheeipibI 
crime  of  poverty;  oMn  who  had  been  ncfiurioaily  fdtf 
of  lawfully  begetting  seveial  chiidreB,  whom,  thuhili 
the  timesl  they  weie  unable  to  oaaintaio.  Coankakk 
ii^ury  has  been  done  to  the  proprietors  of  ihemfto^ 
frames.  These  machines  were  to  them  an  ■diiiBli|ii 
inasmuch  as  they  aoperaeded  the  neoessity  of  empitpiV 
a  number  of  workmen ,  who  wese  kft  in  coasiqaeittii 
starve.  By  the  adoption  of  one  species  of  frasM  ia  ^ 
tieular,  one  man  performed  the  work  of  sMay,  aod  the 
superfluous  labourers  were  thrown  out  of  es^riojaMt 
Yet  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  work  thus  ezecatnl  mi 
inferior  in  quality ;  not  marketable  at  home,  aad  bm94 
hurried  over  with  a  view  to  exportation.  It  wis  oM 
in  tlie  cant  of  the  trade,  by  the  Muae  of '*spidef^«aifc>' 
jThe  rejected  workmen,  in  the  blindneaa  of  thdr  igoonm, 
instead  of  rejoicing  at  these  improveasents  ia  a]1ss9li| 
aeficial  to  mankind, ooneeived  tbenaelvcs  to  bcJiiiiM^ 
\lo  improvements  in  meohaaism.  In  the  foofislMM# 
their  hearts  they  ima8^ed,tliat  the  aMintenaace  ui  «d^ 
dping  of  the  industrious  poor  were  objects  of  gn^ 
conaequenoe  than  the  enrichment  of  a  lew  udividiisli^ 
any  ia^irovement,  in  the  implements  of  trade,  whicktlav 
the  workmen  out  of  empioyment,nBd  rendered  thehbsn^ 
er  unworthy  of  his  biie.  And  it  asBatbeeoaCeaMiM 
although  the  adoption  of  the  enlaiged  aiachiaeiyiiM 
state  of  our  conuneroe  whidi  theeoontry  oneebeyNi 
might  have  been  beneficial  to  the  master  witboot  biiv 
detrimental  to  the  servant;  yet,  in  the  present  aMte 
of  our  manuftustures,  rotting  in  warehouses,  frHMt 
prospect  of  exportation,  with  the  demand  for  work  Ml 
workmen  equally  diminished,  frames  of  this  descripi*  j 
tend  materially  to  aggravate  the  distress  aad  diseo^ 
of  the  disappointed  sufferers.  But  the  real  canse  of  i^  | 
distresses  and  consequent  disturbances  lies  dc4>^  I 
When  we  are  told  that  these  men  are  leagued  togt^ 
not  only  for  the  destruction  of  their  own  comfort,  M" 
their  very  means  of  subsistance,  can  we  foiget  thst** 
the  bitter  policy,  the  destructive  warfare  of  thclait  op 
teen  years,  which  has  destroyed  flieir  comfort^  yosri^ 
fort,  all  men's  comf<nt?  That  pollcj  which,  oripa«*f 
with  '•great  statesmen  bow  no  more,''  has  sarviwd^ 


PAKUAHBNTARY  SPOKXaS, 


691 


lead  tobeoooie  •  oarfe  on  the  ttving,  wito  the  third  and^ 
biirthgeiieimtkMilTheseiiieiiiieverdefltroyedtheirlooiiis  \ 
iH  they  wm  beoome  useless,  worse  than  useless ;  till  they  } 
lere  beoome  actual  unpedimeBts  to  their  exertions  Ioj 
ihtunin;  their  daily  bread.  €an  yon,  then,  wonder  that  in 
laies  like  theae^  when  bankmptoy,  oonvicted  frand,  and 
tapnted  felony  are  found  in  a  station  not  for  beneath  that 
if  yoor  lordships,  the  lowest,  though  once  most  useful 
portion  of  the  people,  should  forget  their  duty  in  thehr 
iitresses,  and  become  only  less  guilty  than  one  of  their 
representatives  ?  But  while  the  esuilted  offender  can  fi^ 
wans  to  baffle  the  law,  new  capital  punishments  must  be  ^ 
lerijed,  new  snares  of  death  must  he  spread  for  the  / 
sretched  mechanir,whois  fomished  into  guilt.  These  meuy 
sere  wilfing  to  dig,  but  the  spade  was  in  other  hands :  they^ 
sere  not  ashamed  to  b^,  but  there  was  none  to  relieve 
feem:  their  own  means  of  subsistence  were  out  off,  all 
liber  employments  pre-occupied,  and  their  excesses, 
iMnverer  to  be  deplored  and  oondemned,  can  hardly  be 
nhjeet  of  surprise. 

I  fthasbeenstatedythattbepersonsfaidietemporarypos- 
Mrion  of  frames  connive  at  their  destruction ;  if  this  be 
proved  upon  inquiry,  it  were  necessary  that  such  material 
inMSories  to  the  crime  should  be  principals  in  the  punlsh- 
Mmt  But  I  did  hope,  that  any  measure  proposed  by  his 
iMjcsty's  government,  for  your  lordships'  decision,  would 
laie  had  conciliation  for  its  basis ;  or,  if  that  were  hope- 
hn,  that  some  previous  inquiry,  some  deliberation  would 
Inve  been  deemed  reqobite;  not  that  we  should  have 
bea  called  at  once  without  examination,  and  witliout 
■fflse,  to  pass  sentences  by  wholesale,  and  sign  death- 
aanants  blindfold.  But  admitting  that  these  men  had  no 
caose  of  complaint;  that  the  grievances  of  tliem  and  their 
teployers  were  aTike  groundless;  that  they  deserved  the 
vcrst ;  what  inefficiency ,  what  imbecility  has  been 
in  the  method  chosen  to  reduce  them !  Why  wer^ 
military  called  out  to  be  made  a  mockery  of,  if  they 
to  be  called  out  at  all?  As  far  as  the  difference  of/ 
would  permit,  diey  have  merely  parodied  the 
campaign  of  Major  Sturgeon;  and,  indeed,  die 
vhole  proccedings,civilandmilitary,seemedonthemodel 
If  those  of  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Garratt  - 
inch  marchings  and  counter-marchings!  from  Notting* 
bam  to  BoUwell,  from  Bollwell  to  Banford,  from  Banford 
tsMansficM !  and  whenat  length  the  detachments  arrived 
ttflieir  destinations,  in  all  ^*the  pride,  pomp,  aoddr- 
Hmstaoce  of  glorious  war,"  they  came  just  in  time  to 
iPhaess  the  misdiief  which  had  been  done,  and  ascertain 
Ibe  escape  of  the  perpetratora,  to  collect  the  *^9poHa 
9fmt^'  iu  the  fragments  of  broken  frames,  and  return  to 
iletr  quarters  ami^^t  the  derision  of  old  women,  and  the 
bDotingff  of  children.  Now,  though  in  a  free  country,  it 
Were  to  be  wished,  that  our  military  should  never  be  too 
fermidable,  at  least  to  ourselves,  X  cannot  see  the  policy 
vCphM^  them  in  situations  where  they  can  only  be  made 
ikhcaloos.  As  the  sword  is  the  worst  argument  that  can 
leased,  so  sliould  it  be  the  last  In  this  instance  it  has 
been  the  first ;  but  providentially  as  yet  only  in  the  scab- 
bird.  The  present  measure  will,  indeed,  pluck  it  from  the 
Aeath;  yet  had  proper  meetings  been  held  in  the  earlier 
Magfs  of  these  riots, «-  liad  the  grievances  of  these  men 


and  thdr  masters  (for  they  also  had  their  grievanees)  been 
fairly  weighed  and  justly  examined,  I  do  think  that  means 
might  have  been  devised  to  restore  these  workmen  to 
their  avocations,  and  tranquillity  to  the  county.  At  pre- 
sent the  county  suffers  from  the  double  infliction  of  an 
idle  military  and  a  starving  population.  In  what  state  of 
apathy  have  we  been  plunged  so  long,  that  now  for  the 
first  time  the  House  has  been  officially  apprised  of  these 
disturbances!  Ail  this  has  been  transacting  within  ISO 
miles  of  London,  and  yet  we,  ^'good  easy  men ,  have 
deemed  full  sure  our  greatness  wasa-ripening,"  and  have 
sat  down  to  enjoy  our  foreign  triumphs  in  the  midst  of 
domestic  calamity.  But  all  the  cities  you  have  taken,  aft 
the  armies  which  have  retreated  before  your  leaders,  are 
but  paltry  spbjeets  of  self- congratulation,  If  your  land 
divides  against  itself,  and  your  dragoons  and  your  exe* 
cutionersmust  be  let  looseagainst  your  feUow-citisens. — 
You  call  these  men  a  mob,  desperate,  dangerous,  and 
ignorant;  and  seem  to  think  that  the  only  way  to  quiet 
the  **BBUua  mnit0rum  eapUum"  is  to  lop  off  a  few  of  its 
superfluous  heads.  But  even  a  mob  may  be  better  reduced 
to  reason  by  a  mixture  of  oonoiliation  and  firmness,  than 
by  additional  irritation  and  retloubled  penalties.  Are  we 
aware  of  our  obligatioiis  to  a  mob  I  It  is  the  mob  that  Ish 
hour  in  your  fields,  and  serve  tn  yoor  houses,  —  that  man 
your  navy,  and  recruit  your  army,  —  that  have  enabled 
you  to  defy  all  the  world,  and  can  also  defy  you  when 
neglect  and  calamity  have  driven  them  to  despair.  You 
may  call  the  people  a  mob;  but  do  not  foiget,  that  a  mob 
too  often  speaks  the  sentiments  of  the  people.  And  here 
I  must  remark,  with  what  alacrity  you  are  accustomed  to 
fly  to  the  succour  of  your  distressed  allies ,  leaving  the 
distressed  of  your  own  country  to  the  care  of  Providence 
or  —  the  parish.  When  the  Portuguese  suffered  under 
the  retreat  of  the  French,  every  arm  was  stretched  out, 
every  hand  was  opened,  from  the  rich  man's  largess  to 
the  widow's  mite,  all  was  bestowed  to  enable  them  to  re- 
build their  villages  and  replenish  their  granaries.  And  at 
this  moment,  when  thousands  of  misguided  but  most  un- 
fortimate  fellow-countrymen  are  struggling  with  the 
extremes  of  hardships  and  hunger,  as  your  charity  be- 
gan abroad  it  ^ould  end  at  home.  A  much  less  sum,  a 
tithe  of  the  bounty  bestowed  on  PortHgal,  even  if  those 
men  (wliich  I  cannot  admit  witiiout  inquiry)  could  not 
have  been  restored  to  their  employments,  would  have 
rendered  unnecessary  the  tender  mercies  of  the  bayonet 
and  the  gibbet  But  doubtless  our  friends  have  too  many 
foreign  claims  to  admit  a  prospect  of  domestic  relief; 
though  never  did  such  objects  demand  it  I  have  tra- 
versed the  seat  of  war  in  thePeninsula,!  have  been  in  some 
of  the  most  oppressed  provinces  of  Turkey ,  but  never 
under  the  most  despotic  of  infidel  governments  did  I  be- 
hold such  squalid  wretchedness  as  I  have  seen  since  my 
return  in  tlie  very  heart  of  a  Christian  country.  And  what 
are  your  remedies?  After  months  of  inaction,  and  months 
of  action  worse  than  inactivity,  at  length  comes  forth  the 
grand  specific,  the  never-failing  nostrum  of  all  state- 
physiaans,  from  the  days  of  I>raeo  to  the  present  time. 
After  feeling  the  pulse  and  shaking  the  head  over  the 
patient,  prescribing  the  usual  couite  of  warm  water  and 
bleedng,  the  wacm  water  of  yov mawkish  police,  and 


692 


PAKUAHKNTARY  gPSBOBB& 


Ike  ianceti  of  your  militaiyy  these  oonviiltioiia 
termioate  in  death,  the  sure  consommatioo  of  the  pre- 
•criptions  of  alt  political  Sangrados.  Setting  aside  the 
palpable  injusticey  and  the  certain  ioeffiiaeiicy  of  the  bill, 
are  there  not  capital  puoisbinents  sufficient  in  your  sta- 
tates?  Is  there  not  blood  enough  upon  your  penal  code, 
that  more  must  be  poured  fortli  to  ascend  to  heaven  and 
testify  against  you  ?  How  will  yon  carry  the  bill  into  effect? 
Can  yon  commit  a  whole  county  to  their  own*^prison? 
Will  you  erect  a  gibbet  in  eyery  field,  and  bang  up  men 
like  scarecrows?  Or  will  you  proceed  (as  you  must,  to 
bring  this  measure  into  effect)  by  decimation?  place  the 
eountry  under  martial  law  ?  depopulate  and  lay  waste  all 
around  you?  and  restore  Sherwood  Forest  as  an  accept- 
able gift  to  the  crown,  in  its  former  condition  of  a  royal 
chase  and  an  asylum  for  outlaws?  Are  these  the  remedies 
for  a  starving  and  desperate  populace?  Will  the  femished 
wretch  who  has  braved  your  bayonets  be  appalled  by 
your  gibbets  ?  When  death  is  a  relief,  and  the  only  relief 
it  appears  that  you  will  afford  him,  will  he  be  dragooned 
into  tranquillity?  Will  that  which  could  not  be  effected 
by  your  grenadiers  be  accomplished  by  your  execution- 
ers? If  you  proceed  by  the  forms  of  law,  where  is  your 
evidence?  Those  who  have  refused  to  impeach  their  ao- 
oompiioes,  when  transportation  only  was  the  punishment, 
will  hardly  be  tempted  to  witness  against  them  when  death 
is  the  penalty.  With  all  due  deference  to  the  noble  lords 
opposite,  I  think  a  little  investigation,  some  previous  in- 
quiry,  would  ijidttoe.evea  them  to  change  their  purpose. 


ThatBMStflivoiifltei 
eacious  in  many  and  reeeDtinstaaoea,teaHM>nsi^,  waril  I 
not  be  without  its  advantages  in  this.  When  a  prapsfll ' 
is  made  to  emancipate  or  relieve ,  yon  hcasCMe,  |w 
deliberate  for  years,  yon  tenporin  and  tamper  wiihtti ' 
minds  of  men ;  but  a  death-hill  must  be  paaaed  off  Ih^ 
withouta  thought  of  the  eOBseqneBoe8.SareI  aasfrom  win 
I  have  heard,  and  firom  what  I  have  seeD,  timt  to  paM  As 
Billunderallthe  existing  circamstanoea  witlinul  inqimy, 
without  deliberation,woald  only  be  toadd  lojiiatioe  t»  m^ 
tation,and  barimrity  to  negiectThe  framers  of  auch  aifil 
must  beconteut  to  inherit  the  honours  of  thatAtheuMtaa^ 
giver  whose  edicts  were  said  to  be  written  not  iaad^hal 
in  blood.  Butsuppose  itpasaed;  suppose  one  of  tfaeae  me% 
as  I  have  seen  them,  —  meagre  with  fiunine,  suHai  wtk 
despair,  careless  of  a  life  whi«^  your  lordships  are  fio^ 
haps  abut  to  value  at  something  less  than  the  prise  sf  a 
stooking^frame  —  suppose  this  nun  sunouDded  by  the 
ehildren  for  whom  he  is  unable  to  procure  bread  atlhs 
hasard of  his  existence,  abonttobe  torn  foreiverfiaiaa 
family  which  he  lately  supported  in  peaoeM  indaitiy, 
and  which  it  is  not  his  fimlt  that  becan  no  lo^iersosi^ 
port  —  suppose  this  man,  and  there  are  ten 
such  from  whom  yon  may  select  your  viotinss  < 
into  court,  to  be  tried  for  this  new  offence  by  this  nea 
law;  still,  there  are  two  things  wanting  to  convists^ 
^condemn  him;  and  these  are,  in  my  ophuon,  —  tmht 
Butchers  for  a  Jury,  and  a  Jefiinies  for  a  Judge! 


DEBATE  ON  THE  EARL  OF  DONOUGHMORPS  MOTION  FOR  A  CX)MMITTEB 
ON  THE  ROMAN  CATHOLIC  CLAIMS,  APRIL  21,  1812. 

My  Lords,  •  The  question  before  the  House  has  been 
so  frequently,  folly,  and  ably  discussed,  and  never  per- 
haps more  ably  than  on  this  night,  that  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  adduce  new  arguments  for  or  against  it  But  with 
each  discussion  difficulties  have  been  removed,  objections 
have  been  canvassed  and  refoted,  and  some  of  the  former 
opponents  of  Catholic  Emancipation  have  at  length  con- 
ceded to  the  expediency  of  relieving  the  petitioners.  In 
conceding  thus  much,  however,  a  new  objection  is  started; 
it  is  not  the  time,  sa^  they,  or  it  is  an  improper  time,  or 
there  is  time  enough  yet  In  some  degree  I  concur  with 
those  who  say  it  is  not  the  time  exactly;  that  time  is 
passed ;  better  had  itbeeD.fortheoountry,thattheCatholics 
possessed  at  this  moment  their  proportion  of  our  privile- 
ges, that  tbdr  nobles  held  their  due  weight  in  our  coun- 
<»]s,  than  that  we  should  be  assembled  to  discuss  their 
claims.  It  had  indeed  been  better 


•  Mob  tempore  taH 


Cogere  eoDcUiuD  com  anvoi  oMdet  bosCU, 

The  enemy  is  without,  and  distress  within.  It  is  too  late 
to  cavil  on  doctrinal  points,  when  we  must  unite  in  de- 
fence of  things  more  important  than  the  mere  ceremonies 
of  religion.  It  is  indeed  singular,  that  we  are  called  to- 
gether to  deliberate,  not  on  the  God  we  adore,  for  in  that 
we  are  agreed;  not  about  the  king  we  obey,  for  to  him  we 


are  loyal;  but  how  for  a  difference  in  the 
worship,  how  farbeFieviognot  too  little,b«t  too  B«ch(thf 
worst  that  can  be  imputed  to  the  Catholics),  how  §u  tm 
much  devotion  to  their  God,  may  incapacitato  ourfirilMK 
subjects  from  eflectually  serving  fteir  king. 

Much  has  been  said,  within  and  without  dooi%  tf 
Church  and  State*  sad  although  tiMMe  yencrable  worfi 
have  been  too  often  prostituted  to  the  most  despicsbfesf  '■ 
party  purposes,  we  cannot  hear  them  too  ofleniaii,ip»  ; 
same,  are  the  advocates  of  Church  and  State,  the  ChmA  I 
of  Christ,  and  the  State  of  Great  Britain;  bat  notaiisli  j 
of  exclusion  and  despotisas,  not  an  intolerant  chuid^Ml 
a  church  militant,  which  readers  itaelf  iiahfo  to  themi 
objection  urged  against  the  Romish  communion,  aniiat 
greater  degree,  for  the  Catholic  merely  withholds  Hi  4^ 
ritual  benediction  (and  even  that  is  doubtftil);  batsar 
church,  or  rather  our  churchmen)  not  only  refuse  4a  ikt 
Catholic  their  spiritual  giaoe,  but  all  temporal  Ueaafl 
whatsoever.  It  was  an  observation  of  the  great  Lsidff^ 
terborough,  made  within  these  walls,  or  within  the  wdk 
where  the  Lords  then  assembled,  that  he  was  for  a  1^ 
liamentary  king  and  aparliamentary  constitution,  WaH 
a  parliamentary  God  and  a  parliaaseatary  religion."  Hi 
int^val  of  a  centary  has  not  weakened  the  force  ofdwi^ 
BBarkJt  is  indeed  time  ttat  we  ahonld  leave  off  Awaepdl 


PAKUAICENTARY  SPBBCHBa 


693 


#ryi<Mi<nT0loii8  pc^nts^  ^et^  Lttiiinitian  sophistries, 
tohstficr  our  **egg»  are  best  brokenat  the  broad  or  narrow 

■  The  opponents  of  the  Catholics  nwy  be  divided  into 
Ipo  ehisses;  those  who  assert  that  the  Catbolios  have  too 
iMdi  already,  and  those  who  allege  tliat  the  lower  orders, 
il  least,  have  nothing  more  to  require.  We  are  told  by 
the  former,  that  the  Catholics  never  will  be  contented :  by 
%m  latter,  that  they  are  already  too  happy.  The  last  pa- 
mdox  is  sniBciently  refuted  by  the  present,  as  by  all  past 
petitions;  it  might  as  well  be  said,  that  the  negroes  did 
■ot  desire  to  be  emancipated;  bat  this  is  an  unfortunate 
sompanson,  for  you  have  already  delivered  them  out  of 
the  hoQse  of  bondage  without  any  petition  on  their  part, 
lat  many  from  their  task-masters  to  a  contrary  effect;  and 
ftMr  myself,  when  I  consider  this,  I  pity  the  Catholic  pea- 
iuitry  for  not  having  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  black. 
Bat  the  Catholics  are  contented,  or  at  least  ought  to  be, 
si  we  are  told :  I  shall  therefore  proceed  to  touch  on  a  few 
ef  those  circumstances  which  so  marvellously  contribute 
to  their  exceeding  contentment  They  are  not  allowed  the 
ftce  exercise  of  their  religion  in  the  regular  army ;  theCa- 
ittfie  soldier  cannot  absenthimself  from  the  servioeof  the 
jhpotestent  clergyman,  and,  unless  he  is  quartered  in  Ire- 
lokl,  or  in  Spain,  where  can  be  find  eligible  opportunities 
«f  attending  his  own  ?  The  permission  of  Catholic  chap- 
hdns  tathe  Irish  militia  regiments  was  conceded  as  a  spe- 
cial fitvour,  and  not  till  after  years  of  remonstrance,  al- 
tfM>Qgh  an  act,  passed  in  1793,  established  it  as  a  right 
Bat  are  theCathoIics  properly  protected  in  Ireland?  Can 
tlw  Churoh  purchase  a  rood  of  land  whereon  to  erect  a 
chapel?  No:  all  the  places  of  worship  are  built  on  leases 
of  trust  or  sufferance  from  the  laity,  easily  broken  and 
ittea  betrayed.  The  moment  any  irregular  wish,  any  ca- 
aoal  caprice  of  the  benevolent  landlord  meets  with  oppo- 
sifioa,  the  doors  are  barred  against  the  congregation.  This 
Im  happened  continually;  but  in  no  instance  more  glar- 
ingly, than  at  the  town  of  Newtown-Barry,  in  tiie  county 
•f  Wexford.  The  Catholics,  enjoying  no  regular  chapel, 
tt  a  temporary  expedient,  hired  two  barns,  which,  being 
thrown  into  one,  served  for  publie  worship.  At  this  time, 
there  was  quartered  opposite  to  the  spot  an  officer,  whose 
■Indappears  to  have  been  deeply  imbued  with  thosepre^ 
ludiees  which  the  Protestant  petitions,  now  on  the  table, 
prove  to  have  been  fortunately  eradicated  from  the  more 
latiooal  portion  of  the  people;  and  when  the  Catholics 
were  assembled  on  the  Sabbath  as  usual,  in  peace  and 
pood-will  towards  men,  for  the  worship  of  their  God  and 
pours,  they  found  the  chapel-  door  dosed,  and  were  told 
feat  if  they  did  not  immediately  retire  (and  they  were  told 
Ab  by  a  yeoman  oCBoer  and  a  magistrate),  the  riot-  act 
teuidbe  read,  and  the  assembly  dispersed  at  the  point  of 
ftebayonet !  This  was  complained  of  to  the  middle-man  of 
pOTorament  the  secretary  at  the  Castle  in  1806,  ^uid  the 
■aower  was  (in  lieu  of  redress),  that  he  would  causea  let- 
tor  to  be  written  to  the  colonel,  to  prevent,  if  possible^  the 
ncnrrenoe  of  similar  disturbances.  Upon  this  fiustnovery 
Sreat  stress  need  be  laidi  but  it  tends  to  prove  that  while 
Ibe  Catholic  church  has  not  power  to  purchase  land  for 
its  chapels  to  stand  upon,  the  laws  for  its  protection  are 
tf  no  avioL  la  the  meantime,  the  Catiiofica  are  at  tiw- 


mercy  of  every  ''pelting  petty  officer/'  who  may  chose  to 
play  his  '^fontastio  trkks  before  high  heaven,"  to  insult 
his  €k>d,  and  injure  his  fellow-creatures. 

Every  school-boy,  any  foot-boy  (such  have  held  com- 
missions in  our  service),  any  foot-boy  who  can  exdiange 
hisshoulder-knotforan  epaulet,  may  perform  all  this  and 
more  against  the  Catholic,  by  virtue  of  that  very  authority 
delegated  to  him  by  his  sovereign,  for  the  express  purpose 
of  defending  his  fellow  -subjects  to  the  last  drop  of  his 
blood,  without  discrimination  or  distinction  between  Ca- 
tholic and  Protestant' 

Have  the  Irish  Catholics  the  foil  benefit  of  trial  by 
jury?  They  have  not;  they  never  can  have,  until  they  are 
permitted  to  share  the  privilege  of  serving  as  sheriffs  and 
under-sheriffs.  Of  this  a  striking  example  occurred  at  the 
last  Enniskillen  assizes.  A  yeoman  was  arraigned  for  the 
murder  of  a  Catholic  named  Macvoornagh :  three  respect- 
able uncontradicted  witnesses  deposed  that  they  saw 
the  prisoner  load,  take  aim,  fire  at,  and  kill  the  said 
Macvoumagh.  This  was  properly  commented  on  by  the 
judge ;  but,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  bar,  and  indignation 
of  the  court,  the  Protestant  jury  acquitted  the  accused. 
So  glaring  was  the  partiality,  that  Mr.  Justice  Osborne 
felHt  his  duty  to  bind  over  the  acquitted,  but  not  absolved 
assassin,  in  large  reoogniaances;  thus  for  a  time  taking 
away  his  license  to  kill  Catholics. 

Are  tile  very  laws  passed  in  their  fiaivour  observed? 
They  are  rendered  nugatory,  in  trivial  as  in  serious  cases. 
By  a  late  act.  Catholic  chaplains  are  permitted  in  jails, 
but  in  Fermanagh  county  the  grand  jury  lately  persisted 
inpresentinga  suspended  clergyman  for  the  office,  tiiereby 
evading  the  statute,  notwithstanding  the  most  pressing 
remonstrances  of  a  most  respectabe  magistrate,  named 
Fletcher,  to  tlie  contrary.  Such  is  law,  such  is  justice,  for 
tiie  happy,  free,  contented  Catholic! 

It  has  been  asked  in  anotiier  place,  why  do  not  the  rich 
Catholics  endow  foundations  for  the  education  of  tho 
priesthood?  Why  do  you  not  permit  them  to  do  so?  Why 
are  all  such  bequests  subject  to  the  interference,  the  vexa- 
tious, arbitrary,  peculating  interference  of  the  Orange 
commissioners  for  charitable  donations  ? 

As  to  Maynooth  College,  in  no  instance,  except  at  the 
time  of  its  foundation,  when  a  noble  Lord  (Camden),  at 
the  head  of  the  Irish  administration,  did  appear  to  interest 
himselfin  its  advancement;  and  during  the  government 
of  a  noble  Duke  (Bedford),  who,  like  his  ancestors,  has 
ever  been  the  friend  of  freedom  andmankind,  and  who  has 
not  so  for  adopted  the  selfish  policy  of  the  day  as  to  ex- 
clude the  Catholics  from  the  number  of  his  fellow -crea- 
tures ;  with  these  exceptions,  in  no  instance  has  that  insti- 
tution been  properly  encouraged.  There  was  indeed  a 
time  when  the  Catholic  clergy  were  condliated,  while  th^ 
Union  was  pending,  that  union  which  coq}d  |iot|>cca4rried 
without  them,  while  their  assistance  was  requisite  inpro* 
curing  addresses  from  the  Catholic  counties;  then  they 
were  cajoled  and  caressed,  feared  and  flattered,  and  given 
to  understand  that  ''the  Union  would  do  every  tiiing;<<  but, 
the  moment  it  was  passed,  thej  were  driven  back  with 
contempt  into  their  former  obscurity, 

In  the  conduct  pursued  towards  Maynootii  College, 
every  thing  is  done  to  iqriti^tc  9i»d  pcrple?^  -  every  thing 


6^ 


PARLUICENTARY  SPEBOHBa 


U  done  to  eSmot  the  sHghtest  impression  of  grmtitade  from 
tile  Catbolic  mind ;  tlie  very  hay  made  upon  the  lawn,  the 
fat  and  tallow  of  the  i>eef  and  mutton  allowed,  mast  be 
paid  for  andaoeoanted  upon  oath.  It  is  true,  this  economy 
in  miniatare  cannot  l>e  snlBoiently  oommended,  particn- 
larly  at  a  time  wlien  only  the  insect  dcfoulters  of  the  Trea- 
finry,  yonr  Hunts  and  your  Chinnerys,  when  only  these 
^Ided  bogs"  can  escape  the  microscopic  eye  of  ministers. 
But  when  yon  come  forwvd  session  after  session,  as  your 
paltry  pittance  is  wrung'  from  you  with  wrangling  and 
reluctance,  to  boast  of  your  liberaiUy,  well  might  the  Ca« 
thofic  exclmm,  in  the  words  of  Prior,  -^ 

To  John  I  owe  some  obligation, 

Bnt  Jofan  nulncklly  cblnki  fit 
To  pttblith  it  to  all  tbe  aatloii. 

So  John  and  1  are  more  tbtn  qalu 

Some  persons  hare  compared  the  Catholics  to  the  beg< 
gar  in  Gil  Bias.  Wo  made  them  beggars?  Who  are  en- 
riched with  the  spoils  of  their  ancestors?  And  cannot  you 
relicYe  the  beggar  when  your  &thers  have  made  him  such? 
If  you  are  disposed  to  reliere  him  at  all,  cannot  you  do  it 
without  flinging  your  ihrthings  in  his  face  ?  As  a  contrast, 
howerer,  to  this  beggarly  benevolence,  let  us  look  at  the 
Protestant  Charter -Schools;  to  them  you  have  lately 
granted  41,000  L.:  thus  are  they  supported,  and  how  are 
they  recruited?  Montesquieu  observes,  on  the  English 
constitution,  that  the  model  may  be  found  in  Tadtns, 
wliere  the  historian  describes  the  policy  of  the  Germans, 
and  adds,  'this  beautiful  system  was  taken  from  the 
woods ;"  so  in  speaking  of  the  charter-schools,  it  may  be 
observed,  that  this  beautifiil  system  was  taken  from  the 
gypsies.  These  schools  are  recruited  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  Janisaries  at  tlie  time  of  tlieir  enrolment  under 
Amurath,  and  tbe  gypsies  of  the  present  day  with  stolen 
children,  with  children  decoyed  and  kidnapped  from 
their  Catholic  connexions  by  their  rich  and  powerful  Pro- 
testant neighbours :  this  is  notorious,  and  one  instance 
nay  suffiee  to  show  in  what  manner.  The  sister  of  a  Mr. 
Carthy  (a  Catholic  gentleman  of  very  considerable  pro- 
perty) died,  leaving  two  girls,  who  were  immediately 
marked  out  as  proselytes,  and  conveyed  to  the  charter- 
sdiool  ofCoolgreny.  Their  uncle,  on  being  apprised  of 
the  fact,  which  took  place  during  his  absence,  applied  for 
flie  restitution  of  bis  nieces,  offering  to  settle  an  independ- 
ence on  these  relations;  his  request  was  refused,  and  not 
till  after  five  years'  struggle,  and  tbe  interference  of  very 
high  authority,  could  thisCatiiolic  gentleman  obtain  back 
his  nearest  of  kindred  fttMn  a  charity-charter-school.  In 
this  manner  are  proselytes  obtained,  and  mingled  with  the 
offspring  of  such  Protestants  as  may  avail  themselves  of 
the  institution.  And  how  are  they  taught  T  A  catechism 
is  put  into  their  hands  consisting  of,  I  believe,  forty-five 
pages,  in  which  are  three  questions  relative  to  the  Protes- 
tant rdigion ;  one  of  these  queries  is :  ''Where  was  the 
Protestant  religion  before  Luther  V  Answer :  "In  the  Gos- 
pel.'' The  remaining  forty -four  pages  and  a  half  regard 
the  damnable  idolatry  of  Papists  I 

Allow  me  to  ask  our  spiritual  pastors  and  masters,  is  this 
training-  up  a  child  in  the  way  which  he  should  go?  Is  this 
diereligion  of  the  gospel  before  the  timeof Lntlier  ?  that  reli. 
gion  which  preachea  '"Peace  on  earthy  and  glory  to  Godf 


faitbringingnpinibntstobemenordevili?  Bettor  wonMII 
be  to  send  them  any  where  than  teach  ttem  anch  doetriniif 
better  send  them  to  tihose  islands  in  the  South  Seas,  whtt* 
they  might  more  humanely  Iduv  to  become  canniMs;! 
would  be  less  disgusting  tfaattfaey  were  brooglit  op  to  d»> 
vour  the  dead,  than  persecute  the  Uvii^  Schools  doyoueril 
them!  call  them  rather  dunghills,  where  thcTiper  of  inhh 
lerance  deposits  her  young,  that,  when  their  teeth  mt 
cut  and  their  poison  is  mature,  they  may  issue  Ibrth,  filthy 
and  venomous  to  sting  the  Catholic.  Butare  these  Ihedoe- 
trines  of  the  Church  of  England,  or  of  ohurohmen?  No;  the 
most  enlightened  churchmen  are  of  a  different  opiaioB. 
What  says  Paley  ?"!  perceive  no  reason  why  men  of  tfifle^ 
rent  religious  persuasions,  should  not  At  upon  tbe : 
bench,  deliberate  in  the  same  council,  or  fight  in  fbe 
ranks,  as  well  as  men  of  various  reiigious  opinions, 
any  controverted  topic  of  natural  history,  philosophy,  er 
ethics.''  It  may  be  answered  that  Paley  was  not  strktfy 
orthodox;  I  know  nothing  of  his  orthodoxy,  but  whowiO 
deny  that  he  was  an  ornament  to  tfaechuicfa,  to  human  na* 
tore,  to  chfistianity  r 

I  shall  not  dwell  upon  the  grievance  of  tithes,  sosevere* 
ly  felt  by  the  peasantry,  but  it  may  be  proper  to  ohacrre 
that  there  is  an  addition  to  the  burthen,  a  perDentagelD 
the  gatheret,  whose  interest  it  thus  beoomes  to  nte  fbem 
as  highly  as  possible,  and  we  know  that  in  many  hige 
livings  in  Ireland,  the  only  resident  Protestants  arete 
tithe-proctor  and  his  family. 

Among  many  causes  of  irritation,  too  numerous  for  re> 
capitulation,  there  is  one  in  the  militia  not  to  be  pasMd 
over,  I  mean  the  existence  of  Orange  lodges  amongst  the 
privates;  can  the  officers  deny  this  ?  And  if  such  lodgesdo 
exist,  do  they,  can  they  tend  to  promote  harmony  amoi^ 
the  men,  who  are  thus  individually  separated  in  socwly» 
although  mingled  in  the  ranks?  And  is  this  general  sjsfcB 
of  persecution  to  be  permitted,  or  is  it  to  be  believed  tet 
with  such  a  system  the  Catholics  can  or  ought  to  be  eon* 
tented?  If  they  are;  they  belie  human  nature;  theyaie 
then,  indeed,  unworthy  to  be  any  thing  but  theslaves^ 
have  made  them.  The  facts  stated  are  from  most  reaped- 
able  authority,  or  I  should  not  have  dared  in  thti  plicr, 
or  any  place,  to  hasard  this  avowal.  If  exaggenited,lhcic 
are  plenty,  as  willing  as  I  believe  them  to  be  uaUe^  ts 
disprove  them.  Should  it  be  objected  that  I  never  was  la 
Ireland,  I  beg  leave  to  observe,  that  it  is  as  easy  to  kaow 
something  of  Ireland  without  having  been  there,  as  it  sp- 
pears  witli  some  to  have  been  bom,  bred,  and  cheriahcd 
there,  and  yet  remain  ignorant  of  its  best  interestii 

Butthereare,  who  assert  that  the  Catholicshavealica^ 
been  too  much  indulged:  see  (cry  they)  what  has  htm 
done:  we  have  given  them  one  entire  college,  weaUsw 
them  food  and  raiment,  tlieftill  enjoyment  of  tfaeelemcA 
and  leave  to  fight  for  ns  as  long  as  they  have  limbs  ssd 
lives  to  offer;  and  yet  they  are  never  to  be  satisfied!  Ge- 
nerous and  just  declaimcrsl  To  this,  and  to  this  oah; 
amount  the  whole  of  your  arguments,  when  striptof  thdr 
sophistry.  These  personages  remind  me  of  tiie  story  sfs 
certain  drummer,  who  being  called  upon  in  the  eoasst  if 
daty  to  administer  punishment  toa  friend  tied  to  the  hi^ 
berts,  was  requested  to  flog  high;  he  did  —  to  flog  io*, 
he  did --toflog  in  the  middle^  he  did  -  high,  low, dD«a 


PABUAIIBNTAKT  SP£ECHB& 


605 


Hk  middley  «Bd  ap  again,  but  all  in  ▼ain,  Uie  patient  con- 
^ued  his  complamts  with  the  most  provoking  pertioa- 
dijy  until  tlic  dnimmer,  exhausted  anda^gry,  flung  down 
•hb  scoui^  exclaiming^  **the  devil  burn  you,  there  '8  no 
pleasiog  youy  flog  where  one  will!"  Thus  it  is,  you  have 
flogged  the  Catholic,  high,  low,  here,  there^  and  every 
where,  and  then  you  wonder  he  is  not  pleased.  It  is  true, 
that  time,  experience,  and  that  weariness  which  attends 
even  the  exercise  of  barbarity,  have  taught  you  to  flog  a 
littlemore  gently,  but  still  you  continue  to  lay  on  the  lash, 
and  will  so  continue,  till  perhaps  the  rod  may  be  wrested 
from  your  hands,  and  applied  to  the  backs  of  yourselves 
and  your  posterity. 

It  was  said  by  somebody  in  a  former  debate  (I  forget 
by  whom,  and  am  not  very  anxious  to  remember),  if  the 
Catholics  are  emancipated,  why  not  the  Jews?  If  thissen- 
timent  was  dictated  by  compassion  for  the  Jews,  it  might 
deserve  attention,  but  as  a  sneer  against  the  Catholic,  what 
is  it  but  the  language  of  Shylock  transferred  from  bis 
daughter's  marriage  to  Catholic  emancipation  — 

Would  any  of  the  tribe  of  BaraMias 
Skoald  have  it  rather  than  a  Cbriadaib 

.  I  presume  a  Catholic  is  a  Christian,  even  in  the  opinion 
of  him  whose  taste  only  can  be  called  in  question  for  his 
preference  of  the  Jews. 

It  is  a  remark  often  quoted  of  Dr.  Johnson  (whom  I 
take  to  be  almost  as  good  authority  as  the  gentle  apostle 
of  intolerance,  Br.  Duigenan),  that  he  who  could  enter- 
tsdn  serious  apprehensions  of  danger  to  the  Church  in 
these  times,  would  have  ''cried  fire  in  the  deluge.''  This 
is  more  than  a  metaphor,  for  a  remnant  of  these  antedilu- 
vians appear  actually  to  have  come  down  to  us,  with  fire 
in  their  months  and  water  in  their  brains ,  to  disturb  and 
perplex  mankind  with  their  whimsical  outcries.  And  as 
it  is  an  infallible  symptom  of  that  distressing  malady  with 
which  I  conceive  them  to  be  aCBicted  (so  any  doctor  will 
inforni  your  Lordships)  for  the  unhappy  invalids  to  per- 
erive  a  flame  perpetually  flashing  before  their  eyes,  par- 
tkalarly  when  their  eyes  are  shut  (as  those  of  thepersons 
to  whom  I  allude  have  long  been),  it  is  impossible  tocon- 
ilnoe  these  poor  creatures,  that  the  fire  against  which  they 
are  perpetually  warning  us  and  themselves,  is  nothing  but 
an  ipds/atmu  of  their  own  drivelling  imaginations.  What 
rhubarb,  senna,  or  *'what  purgative  drug  can  scour  that 
imcy  thence?"  —  It  is  impossible,  they  are  given  over, 
theirs  is  the  true 

'K^aput  insanabile  tribus  Anticyris." 
These  are  your  true  Protestants.  Like  Bayle,  who  pro- 
tested against  all  sects  whatsoever,  so  do  they  protest 
igaina  Catholic  petitions,  Protestant  petitions,  all  redress, 
aU  that  reason,  humanity,  policy,  justice,  and  common 
•ense,can  urge  against  the  delusions  of  their  absurd  deli- 
tiom.  These  are  the  persons  who  reverse  the  foble  of  the 
mountain  that  brought  forth  a  mouse;  they  are  the  mice 
who  oonoeive  themselves  in  labour  with  mountains. 

To  return  to  the  Catholics,  suppose  the  Irish  were  ao- 
taally  contented  under  their  disabilities,  suppose  them 
capable  of  such  a  bull  as  not  to  desire  deliverance,  ought 
we  not  to  wish  it  for  ourselves?  Have  we  nothing  to  gain 
by  their  emandpation  ?  What  resources  have  been  wasted  I 
What  taleBts  have  been  lost  by  the  selfish  system  of  ex- 


dosiont  You  already  know  the  vahie  of  Irish  aid;  at  this 
moment  the  defence  of  Bnghmd  is  intrusted  to  the  Irish 
militia;  at  this  moment,  while  the  starving  people  arc  ris«, 
ing  in  the  fierceness  of  despair,  the  Irish  arefaithAil  to 
their  trust  But  till  equal  eneigy  is  imparted  throughout 
by  the  extension  of  freedom,  you  cannot  ei^joy  the  full 
benefit  of  the  strength  which  you  are  glad  to  interpose 
between  you  and  destruction.  Ireland  has  done  much,  but 
will  do  more.  At  this  moment  the  only  triumph  obtained 
through  long  years  of  continental  disaster  has  been 
achieved  by  an  Irish  general:  it  is  true  he  is  not  a  Catholic; 
had  he  been  80y  we  should  have  been  deprived  <^his  exer- 
tions; but  I  presume  no  one  will  assert  that  his  religion 
would  have  impaired  his  talents  or  diminished  his  pa-* 
triotism,  though  in  that  case  he  must  have  conquered  in 
the  ranks,  for  he  never  could  have  commanded  an  army. 

But  while  he  is  fighting  the  battles  of  the  Catholics  ab- 
road, his  noble  brother  has  this  night  advocated  their 
cause,  with  an  eloquence  which  I  shall  not  depreciate  by 
the  humble  tribute  of  my  panegyric,  whilst  a  third  of  his 
kindred,  as  unlike  as  unequal,  has  been  combating  against 
his  catholic  brethren  in  Dublin,  with  circular  letters,  edicts, 
proclamations,  arrests,  and  dispersions  —  all  the  vexa- 
tious implements  of  petty  warfhre  that  could  be  wielded 
by  the  mercenary  guerillas  of  govemment,clad  in  the  rusty 
armour  of  their  obsolete  statutes.  Your  Lordships  will, 
doubtless,  divide  new  honours  between  thesaviourof  Por-* 
tugal,  and  the  dispenser  of  delegates.  It  is  singular,  indeed, 
to  observe  the  difference  between  our  foreign  and  domestic 
policy;  if  Catholic  Spain,  faithfUi  Portugal,  or  the  no  less 
Catliolicand  faithful  king  of  the  one  Sicily  (of  which,  by 
theby,you  have  ktely  deprived  him),  stand  in  need  of  suc- 
cour, away  goes  a  fleet  and  an  army,  an  ambassador  and 
a  subsidy,  sometimes  to  fight  pretty  hardly,  generally  to 
negotiate  very  badly,  and  always  to  pay  very  dearly  for 
our  Popish  allies.  But  let  four  millions  of  fellow-subjects 
pray  for  relief,  who  figlit  and  pay  and  labour  in  your  be* 
lialf,  they  must  be  treated  as  aliens,  and  aithoogh  tlieir 
''fother's  house  has  many  mansions,"  there  is  no  resting- 
place  for  tlicm.  Allow  me  to  ask,  are  you  not  fighting  for 
the  emancipation  of  Ferdinand  tlieseventh,  whoccrtaiuly 
is  a  fool,  and  consequently,  iu  all  probability,  a  bigot; 
and  have  yon  more  regard  for  a  fordgn  sovereign  than 
your  own  fellow-subjects,  who  are  not  fools,  for  they  know 
your  interest  better  than  you  know  your  own;  who  are 
not  bigots,  for  they  return  you  good  for  evO;  but  who  are 
in  worse  durance  than  the  prison  of  an  usurper,  inasmuch 
as  die  fetters  of  the  mind  are  more  galling  than  those  of 
the  body. 

Upon  the  consequences  of  your  not  acceding  to  the 
claims  of  the  petitioners,  I  shall  not  expatiate;  you  know 
tliem,  you  will  feel  them,  and  your  children's  children 
when  you  are  passed  away.  Adieu  to  that  Union  so  called, 
as  **Imcus  u  iMii  huendo,"  a  Union  from  never  uniting, 
which,  in  its  first  operation,  gave  a  deathblow  to  tlie  in- 
dependence  of  Ireland,  and  in  its  last  may  be  the  cause  of 
her  eternal  separation  from  this  country.  Ifit  must  becailed 
a  Union,  it  is  the  union  of  the  shvk  with  his. prey ;  the 
spoiler  swallows  up  his  victim,  and  thus  they  become  one 
and  indivisible.  Thus  lias  Great  Britain  swallowed  up 
the  parliament,  the  constitution,  the  independeneo  of  Ire- 


696 


PARUAMBHTART  SmSGOBB. 


land,  and  refuses  ^to  dugotge  ewen  a  mngh  privilege,  al- 
iliou^  for  tlie  relief  of  her  swollen  and  distempered  body 
politic 

A  nd  now,  my  Lords,  before  Isit  down,  will  bis  majesty's 
ministers  permit  me  to  say  a  few  words,  not  on  their  me- 
rits, for  that  would  be  superfluous,  but  on  the  degree  of 
estimation  in  which  they  are  held  by  the  people  of  these 
realms.  The  esteem  in  which  they  are  held  has  been 
boasted  of  in  a  triumphant  tone  on  a  late  occasion  within 
these  waHs,  and  a  comparison  instituted  between  their 
conduct,  and  that  of  noble  lords  on  this  side  of  the  house. 

What  portion  of  popularity  may  have  fallen  to  the  share 
of  my  noble  friends  (if  sudi  I  may  presume  to  call  them), 
I  shall  not  pretend  to  ascertain;  but  that  of  his  majesty's 
ministers  it  were  vain  to  deny.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  a  little 
like  the  wind,  no  one  knows  whence  it  cometh  or  whither 
It  goeth,"  but  they  feel  it,  they  enjoy  it,  they  boast  of  it 
Indeed,  modest  and  unostentatious  as  they  are,  to  what 
part  of  the  kingdom,  even  the  most  remote,  can  they  flee 
to  avoid  the  triumph  which  pursues  them?  If  they  plunge 
into  the  midland  counties,  there  they  will  be  greeted  by 
the  manufacturers,  with  spurned  petitions  in  their  bands, 
and  those  halters  round  their  necks  recently  voted  in  their 
behalf,  imploring  blessings  on  the  heads  of  those  who  so 
simply,  yet  ingeniously  contrived  to  remove  them  from 
their  miseries  in  this  to  a  better  world.  If  they  journey 
on  to  Scotland,  from  Glasgow  to  Johnny  Groaf  s,  every 
where  will  they  receive  similar  marks  of  approbation.  If 
they  take  a  trip  from  Portpatrick  to  Donaghadee,  there 
will  they  rush  at  once  into  the  embraces  of  four  Catholic 
millions,  to  whom  their  vote  of  this  night  is  about  to  en- 
dear them  for  ever.  When  they  return  to  the  metropolis, 
if  they  can  pass  under  Temple  Bar  without  unpleasant 
sensations  at  the  sight  of  the  greedy  nlchesover  that  omi- 
nous gateway,  they  cannot  escape  the  acclamations  of 
the  livery,  and  the  more  tremulous,  but  not  less  sincere, 
applause,  the  blessings  "not  loud  but  deep"  of  bankrupt 
merchants  and  doubting  stock -holders.  If  they  look  to 
the  army,  what  wreaths,  not  of  laurel,  but  of  night-shade, 
are  preparing  for  the  heroes  of  Walcheren.  It  is  true 
there  are  few  living  deponents  left  to  testify  to  their  merits 
on  that  occasion ;  but  a  ''cloud  of  witnesses"  are  gone 
above  from  that  gallant  army  which  they  so  generously 


and  piously  dispatehed,  to  recruit  tlie'^MUeaniy  if 

martyrs." 

What  if,  in  tlM  course  of  this  triueipiiu]  cflrecr  (k 
which  they  will  gather  as  many  pebbles  as  CaQgolu'sarHy 
did  on  a  similar  triumph,  the  prototype  ofthcirowB),  Iky 
do  not  perceive  any  of  those  memortab  whidi  a  gratcfil 
people  erect  in  honour  of  their  bencfiK^rs ;  w  hut  sJthoqgfc 
not  even  a  sign-post  will  oondeaoend  to  depose  tiw  Saiu> 
oen's  head  in  favour  of  the  conquerors  ofWalcbcreB,they 
will  not  want  a  picture  who  can  always  haveucuricatBR; 
or  regret  the  omission  of  a  statue  who  will  no  often  see 
themselves  exalted  in  effigy.  But  their  popolujiiy  is  no< 
limited  to  the  narrow  bounds  of  an  island ;  tiMreareothcr 
countries  where  their  measures,  and  above  all,  their  con- 
duct to  the  Catholics,  mast  render  them  pre-eBunati|f 
popular.  If  they  are  beloved  here,  in  France  they  nasi 
be  adored.  There  is  no  measure  more  repugnant  to  the 
designs  and  feelings  of  Bonaparte  than  Catholieemancipa- 
tion ;  no  line  of  conduct  more  propitious  to  bis  pn>jecl% 
than  that  which  has  been  pursued,  is  pursuing^, and,  Ifiear, 
will  be  pursued,  towards  Ireland.  What  is  England  with- 
out Ireland,  and  what  is  Ireland  without  the  Cathofics? 
It  is  on  the  basis  of  your  tyranny  Napoleon  hopes  tobaiii 
his  own.  So  grateful  must  oppression  of  the  Gafliolies  be 
to  his  mind,  that  doubtless  (as  he  has  latalj  permitled 
some  renewal  of  intercourse)  the  next  cartel  willeonvcy 
to  this  country  cargos  of  Sevres  cJiina  and  bine  ribaadi 
(things  in  great  request,  and  of  equal  value  at  this  bm)- 
ment),  blue  ribands  of  the  legion  ofhonourforDr.Dulga' 
nan  and  his  ministerial  disciples.  Such  is  Uiat  well-eamed 
popularity,  the  result  of  those  extraordinary  expeifitioas, 
so  expensive  to  ourselves,  and  so  useless  to  our  allies;  eff 
those  singular  inquiries,  so  exculpatory  to  the  accused, 
and  so  dissatisfactory  to  the  people;  of  those  paradoueal 
victories,  so  iionourable,  as  we  are  told,  to  the  British 
name,  and  so  destructive  to  the  best  interests  of  the  Bri- 
tish nation:  above  all,  such  is  the  reward  ofaoondaot 
pursued  by  ministers  towards  the  Catholics. 

I  have  to  apologise  to  the  House,  who  will,  I  trust,  par- 
don one,  not  often  in  the  habit  of  intruding  upon  their  in- 
dulgence, for  so  long  attempting  to  engage  their  attentjoa. 
My  most  decided  opinion  is,  as  my  vote  will  be,  in  favoar 
of  the  motion. 


DEBATE  ON  MAJOR  CARTWMGHT'S  PETITION,  JUNE  1,  18ia 


Lord  Byhon  rose  and  said: 
My  Lords,  the  Petition  which  I  now  hold  for  the  pur- 
pose of  presenting  to  the  House,  is  one  which  I  humbly 
conceive  requires  the  particuhir  attention  of  your  lord- 
ships, inasmuch  as,  though  signed  but  by  a  single  indivi- 
dual, it  contains  statements  which  (if  not  disproved) 
demand  most  serious  investigation.  The  grievance  of 
which  the  petitioner  complains  is  neither  selfish  nor  ima- 
ginary. It  is  not  his  own  only,  for  it  has  been,  and  is  stiU 
felt  by  numbers.  No  one  without  these  walls,  nor  indeed 
withiuybut  may  to-morrow  be  made  liable  to  the  same  in- 
sult and  obstruction  y  in  the  discharge  of  an  imperious 


duty  for  the  restoration  of  the  true  oonstitutioo  of  these 
realms  by  petitioning  for  reform  in  parliament  The  pe- 
titioner, my  Lords,  is  a  man  whose  long  life  has  bcca 
spent  in  one  unceasing  struggle  .for  the  liberty  of  <he 
subject,  against  that  undue  influence  which  has  incrcasd, 
is  increasing,  and  ought  to  be  diminished ;  and,  whateicr 
difference  of  opinion  may  exist  as  to  his  political  taKH^ 
few  will  be  found  to  question  the  integri^  of  his  iatenfioas. 
Even  nowyOppressed  with  years,and  not  exempt  Itob  the 
infirmities  attendant  on  his  age,  but  still  unimpaired  ia 
talent,  and  unshaken  in  spirit  —  ^fran§4u  nomjUtin"  — 
he  has  received  many  a  wound  in  the  combat  against  e(N^ 


PARUAMKNTAEY  SPBSCHB& 


697 


VP^n;  and  the  new  grieranoe,  the  finesh  insult  of  whiob 
he  oomplaiiUy  may  inflict  another  scar^  but  no  dishonour. 
The  petition  ia  signed  by  John  Cartwright,  and  it  was  in 
befaaif  of  the  people  and  parliament^  in  the  lawful  pursuit 
of  that  reform  in  the  representation,  which  is  the  best 
senrioe  to  be  rendered  both  to  parliament  and  people,  that 
he  encountered  the  wanton  outrage  which  forms  the  sub- 
ject matter  of  his  petition  to  your  lordships.  It  is  couched 
in  firm,  yet  respectful  language  —  in  the  language  of  a 
man,  not  regardless  of  what  is  due  to  himself,  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  trust,  equally  mindful  of  the  deference  to  be 
paid  to  this  House.  The  petitioner  states,  amongst  other 
natter  of  equal,  if  not  greater  importance,  to  all  who  are 
British  in  their  feelings ,  as  well  as  blood  and  birth ,  that 
on  the  21st  January,  1813,  at  Huddersfield,  himself  and 
six  other  persons,  who,  on  hearing  of  his  arrival,  had 
waited  on  him  merely  as  a  testimony  of  respect,  were 
seized  by  a  military  and  civil  force,  and  k^t  in  close 
castody  for  several  hours,  subjected  to  gross  and  abusive 
insinaations  from  the  commanding  officer  relative  to  the 
character  of  the  petitioner;  that  he  (the  petitioner)  was 
finally  canried  before  a  magistrate;  and  not  released  till 
an  examination  of  his  papers  proved  that  there  was  not 
only  DO  just,  but  not  even  statutable  charge  against  him; 
and  that,  notwithstanding  the  promise  and  order  from 
(he  presiding  magistrates  of  a  copy  of  the  warrant  against 
your  petitioner^t  was  afterwards  withheld  on  divers  pre- 
texts, and  has  never  until  this  hour  been  granted.  The 
names  and  condition  of  the  parties  will  be  found  in  the 
petition.  To  the  other  topics  touched  upon  in  the  petition, 
I  shall  not  now  advert,  from  a  wish  not  to  encroach  upon 
the  time  of  the  House;  but  I  do  most  sincerely  call  the 
attention  of  your  Lordships  to  its  general  contents  —  it 
it  in  the  cause  of  the  parliament  and  people  that  the  rights 
of  this  venerable  freeman  have  been  violated,  and  it  is,  in 
nor  opinion,  the  highest  mark  of  respect  that  could  be 


paid  to  tiie  House,  that  to  your  justice,  rather  than  by 
appeal  to  any  inferior  court,  he  now  commits  himself. 
Whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  his  remonstrance,  it  is  some 
satisfaction  to  me,  though  mixed  with  regret  for  the  oc- 
casion, that  I  have  this  opportunity  of  publicly  stating 
the  obstruction  to  which  the  subject  is  liable,  in  the  pro- 
secution  of  the  most  lawful  and  imperious  of  his  duties, 
the  obtaining  by  petition  reform  in  parliament  I  have 
shortiy  stated  his  complaint;  the  petitioner  has  more 
fully  expressed  it  Your  Lordships  will,  1  hope,  adopt 
some  measure  fully  to  protect  and  redress  him,  and  not 
him  alone,  but  the  whole  body  of  the  people  iusulted  and 
aggrieved  in  his  person  by  the  interposition  of  an  abused 
civil,  and  unlawful  military  force  between  them  and  their 
right  of  petition  to  their  own  representatives. 

His  lordship  then  presented  the  petition  from  Major 
Cartwright,  which  was  read,  complaining  of  the  circum- 
stances at  Huddersfield,  and  of  interruptions  given  to  the 
right  of  petitioning,  in  several  places  in  the  northern  parts 
of  the  kingdom,  and  which  his  lordship  moved  should  be 
laid  on  the  table. 
Several  Lords  having  spoken  on  tiie  question,  < 

LORD  BYRON  replied,  that  he  had,  from  motives  of 
duty,  presented  this  petition  to  their  lordships'  consi- 
deration. The  noble  Barl  had  contended  that  it  was  not  a 
petition  but  a  speech ;  and  that,  as  it  contuned  no  prayer, 
it  should  not  be  received.  What  was  the  necessity  of  a 
prayer?  If  that  word  were  to  be  used  in  its  proper  sense, 
their  lordships  could  not  expect  that  any  num  should 
pray  to  others.  He  had  only  to  say  that  the  petition, 
though  in  some  parts  expressed  strongly  perhaps,  did 
not  contain  any  improper  mode  of  address,  but  was 
couched  in  respectful  language  towards  their  lordships; 
he  should  therefore  trust  their  lordsliips  would  allow 
the  petition  to  be  received. 


44* 


698 


EXTRACT  OF  MOORE'S  NOTICES  OF  BTRON'S  LIFE. 


EXTRACT 

OF 

TH.  MOORE'S  NOTICES 

OF 

LORD  BYRON'S  LIFE. 


,^  It  would  have  been,  no  doabt,  the  ambition  of  Lord 
^^^  Byron  to  acquire  dLstinotion  as  well  in  oratory  as  in 
poesy;  but  Nature  seems  to  set  herself  ag^nst  pluralities 
in  fame.  He  bad  prepared  himself  for  this  debate,  —  as 
most  of  the  best  orators  have  doneyin  their  first  essays, — 
not  only  by  composin^^  but  writing:  down,  the  whole  of 
his  speech  beforehand.  The  reception  he  met  witii  was 
flattering;  some  of  the  noble  speakers  on  his  own  side 
complimented  him  very  warmly;  and  that  he  was  himself 
"highly  pleased  with  his  success  appears  from  the  annexed 
account  of  3iir.  Dallas,  which  gi\ea  a  lively  notion  of  his 
boyish  elation  on  the  occasion. 

"When  he  left  the  greai  chamber,  I  went  and  met  him 
in  the  passage;  he  was  glowing  with  success,  and  much 
agitated.  I  had  an  umbrella  in  my  right  hand,  not  ex- 
pecting that  he  would  put  out  his  hand  to  me ;  —  in  my 
haste  to  take  it  when  offered,  I  had  advanced  my  Irft 
hand  —  "What,"  said  he,  "give  your  friend  your  left 
hand  upon  such  an  occasion?*'  I  showed  the  cause,  and 
inunediately  changing  the  umbrella  to  the  other  hand,  I 
gave  him  my  right  hand,  wliich  he  shook  and  pressed 
warmly.  He  was  greatly  elated,  and  repeated  some  of  the 
compliments  which  had  been  paid  him ,  and  mentioned 
one  or  two  of  the  peers  who  had  desired  to  be  introduced 
to  liim.%He  concluded  with  saying,  that  he  had,  by  his 
speech,  given  me  the  best  advertisement  for  Childe  Ha- 
rold's Pilgrimage.*' 

The  speech  itself,  as  given  by  Mr.  Dallas  from  the 
noble  speaker's  own  manuscript,  is  pointed  and  vigorous; 
and  the  same  sort  of  interest  that  is  felt  in  reading  tbe 


poetry  of  a  Burke,  may  be  gratified^  perhaps,  by  a  few 
specimens  of  the  oratory  of  a  Byron. 

In  reference  to  bis  own  parliamentary  displays,  and 
to  this  maiden  speech  in  partioalar,wc  have  the  foUoirijig 
remarks  in  one  of  his  Journals. 

"Sheridan's  liking  for  me  (whether  he  was  not  mysfi- 
fyiug  me,  I  do  not  know,  but  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  and 
others  told  me  that  he  said  the  same  both  before  and  afler 
he  knew  me)  was  founded  upon  'Bnglish  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers.'  He  told  me  that  he  did  not  care  about 
poetry  (or  about  mine  —  at  least,  any  but  tkat  poem  of 
mine),  but  he  was  sure^  trom  that  and  other  symptoms, 
I  should  make  an  orator,  if  I  would  but  take  to  speaking 
and  grow  a  parliament-man.  He  never  ceased  barpiii^ 
upon  this  to  me  to  tlie  last;  and  I  remember  my  old  tutor, 
Dr.  Drury,  had  the  same  notion  when  I  was  a  boy;  but  it 
never  was  my  turn  of  inclination  to  try.  I  spoke  once  or 
twice,  as  all  young  peers  do,  as  a  kind  of  introductioe 
into  public  life;  but  dissipation,  shyness,  baughty  and 
reserved  opinions,  together  with  tlie  short  time  I  Cved  ia 
Bngiand  afler  my  majority  (only  about  five  years  in  all), 
prevented  me  from  resuming  the  experiment  As  for  as 
it  went,  it  was  not  discouraging,  particularly  myfim 
speech  (I  spoke  three  or  four  times  in  all),  but  just  after 
it,  my  poem  of  Childe  Harold  was  published,  and  nobody 
ever  thought  about  my  pro»e  afterwards,  nor  indeed  £d 
I;  it  became  to  me  a  secondary  and  neglected  object  . 
thougfi  I  sometimes  wonder  to  myself  if  I  should  have 
succeeded." 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  I. 


Yei!  iighed  o'er  DeipkCs  lang^deserted  shrine. 

[pag.  3.  Stanza  1. 
The  little  Yillag^e  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of 
Delphi.  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso, 
are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock: 
•*One,"  said  the  guide,  "of  a  king  who  broke  his  neck 
hanting."  His  Majesty  had  certainly  chosen  the  fittest 
spot  for  such  an  achievement  A  litUc  above  Castri  is  a 
cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth;  the  up- 
per part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cowhouse.  On  the  other 
aide  of  Castri  stands,  a  Greek  monastery;  some  way  above 
which  is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a  range  of  caverns  difQ- 
colt  of  ascent,  and  apparently  leading  to  the  interior  of 
themountain ;  probably  to  the  CorycianCavern  mentioned 
by  Paosanias.  From  this  part  descend  the  fountain  and 
the  <«I>ew8  of  Castalie." 

If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry,  [p.  4. 

Mere  follows  in  the  original  MS.:  — 

My  Mother  is  a  high-born  dame, 

And  much  misliketh  me; 
She  said  my  riot  bringeth  shame 

On  all  my  ancestry : 
I  had  a  sister  once  I  ween, 

Whose  tears  perhaps  will  flow ; 
But  her  fair  face  I  have  not  seen 

For  three  long  years  and  moe. 

But  long  ere  I  come  hack  again^ 
He  'd  tear  me  where  he  stands^  [p.  4. 

Here  follows  in  the  original  MS. :  — - 
Methinks  it  would  my  bosom  glad, 

To  change  my  proud  estate, 
And  be  again  a  laughing  lad 

With  one  beloved  playmate. 
Since  youth,  I  scarce  have  pass'd  an  hour 

Without  disgust  or  pain. 
Except  sometimes  in  lady's  bower. 
Or  when  the  bowl  I  drain. 

Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves  ! 
My  native  Land —  Good  Night!  [p.  4. 

Originally,  the  "little  page"  and  the  "yeoman"  were 
introduced  in  the  following  stanzas :  — 
And  of  his  train  there  was  a  henchman  page, 
A  peasant  boy,  who  served  his  master  well ; 
And  often  would  his  pranksome  prate  engage 
Childe  Harold's  ear,  when  his  proud  heart  did  swell 
With  sable  thoughts  that  he  disdain'd  to  tell. 
Then  would  he  smile  on  him,  and  A I  win  smiled, 
When  aught  that  from  his  young  lips  archly  fell 
The  gloomy  film  from  Harold's  eye  beguiled; 
And  pleased  for  a  glimpse  appeared  the  woeful  Childe. 

Him  and  one  yeoman  only  did  he  take 
To  travel  eastward  to  a  far  couutric; 


Aiid,  though  the  boy  was  grieved  to  leave  the  lake 
On  whose  fair  banks  he  grew  from  infancy, 
£ftsoons  his  little  heart  beat  merrily 
With  hope  of  foreign  nations  to  behold. 
And  many  things  right  marvellous  to  see. 
Of  which  our  vaunting  voyagers  oft  have  told, 
In  many  a  tome  as  true  as  Mandevillc's  of  old. 

And  rest  ye  at  our  ^^Lady*s  house  of  woe/* 

[p.  6.  St.  20. 
The  convent  of  "Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  Nossa 
Senora  de  Pena  *),  on  the  summit  of  tlie  rock.  Below,  at 
some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St  Honorius 
dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills, 
the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  tlie  view. 

Throughout  this  purple  land^  where  law  secures  not  life, 

[p.  6.  St  21. 
It  is  a  well  known  fact,  that,  in  the  year  1809,  the  assas- 
sinations in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity  were  not 
confined  by  the  Portuguese  to  their  countrymen;  but  that 
Englishmen  were  daily  butchered:  and  so  far  from  re- 
dress being  obtained,  we  were  requested  not  to  interfere  if 
we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending  himself  against 
his  allies.  I  was  once  stopped  in  the  way  to  the  theatre  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  were  not 
more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that  hour,  opposite 
to  an  open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage  with  a  friend;  had  we 
not  fortunately  been  armed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt 
that  we  should  have  adorned  a  tale  instead  of  telling  one. 
The  crime  of  assassination  is  not  confined  to  Portugal : 
in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  at  a 
handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese 
is  ever  punished! 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened! 

I  p«  A.  St  24. 
The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of 
the  Marchesc  Marialva.  The  late  exploits  of  Lord  Wel- 
lington have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra.  He  has,  indeed, 
done  wonders :  he  has  perhaps  changed  the  character  of 
a  nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions,  and  baffled  an 
enemy  who  never  retreated  before  his  predecessors. 


*)  Since  the  publication  of  this  Poem,  I  have  been 
informed  of  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  Nossa 
Seaora  dePena,  It  was  owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde, 
or  mark  over  then, which  alters'^the  signification  of  the 
word :  with  it,  Pena  signifies  a  rock ;  without  it,  Pena 
has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  do  not  think  it  necessary 
to  alter  the  passage,as  though  the  common  acceptation 
affixed  to  it  is  "our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  may  well 
assume  the  other  sense  from  the  severities  practised 
there. 


700 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Whereat  ike  Urehm  painte  and  Umghi  with  all  his  soul, 

[p.  6.  SU  24. 

The  passage  stood  differently  in  the  original  MS.  Some 
verses  which  the  poet  omitted  at  theentreaty  of  his  friends 
can  now  offend  no  one,  and  may  perhaps  amose  many : — 

In  golden  characters  right  well  designed. 
First  on  the  list  appeareth  one  "Junot;" 
Then  certain  other  glorious  names  we  find. 
Which  rhyme  compelleth  me  to  place  below : 
Ball  victors !  baffled  by  a  vanqinah*d  foe, 
Wheedled  by  oonynge  tongaes  of  laurels  due. 
Stand,  worthy  of  each  other,  in  a  row  — 
Sir  Arthur,  Harry,  and  the  dizzard  Hew 
Dalrymple,  seely  wigh^  sore  dupe  of  t'other  tew. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foii'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled. 
And  turnM  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
For  well  I  wot,  when  first  the  news  did  oome. 
That  Yimiera's  field  by  Gaul  was  lost. 
For  paragraph  ne  paper  scarce  had  room. 
Such  Pseans  teemed  for  our  triumphant  host. 
In  Courier,  Chronicle,  and  eke  in  Morning  Post: 

But  when  Convention  sent  his  handy-work, 

Pens,  tongues,  feet,  hands,  combined  in  wild  uproar; 

Mayor,  aldermen,  laid  down  the  uplifted  fork; 

The  Bench  of  Bishops  half  forgot  to  snore; 

Stern  Cobbett,  who  for  one  whole  week  forbore 

To  question  aught,  once  more  with  transport  leapt. 

And  bit  his  devilish  quill  agen,  and  swore 

With  foe  such  treaty  never  should  be  kept ;        [slept! 

Then  burst  the  blatant  bea8t,and  roar'd,and  raged,and~ 

Thus  unto  Heaven  appeal'd  the  people:  Heaven, 
Which  loves  the  lieges  of  our  gracious  King, 
Decreed,  that,  ere  our  generals  were  forgiven, 
Inquiry  should  be  held  about  the  thing. 
But  Mercy  cloak'd  the  babes  beneath  her  wing; 
And  as  they  spared  our  foes,  so  spared  we  them; 
(Where  was  the  pity  of  our  sires  for  Byug?) 
Yet  knaves,  jiot  idiots,  should  the  law  condemn ; 
Then  live,  ye  gallant  knights !  and  bless  your  judges' 
phlegm  I 

Yet  Ma/ra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 

[p.  6.  St  29. 
The  extent  ofMafra  is  prodigious;  it  contains  a  palace, 
convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the 
most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld  in  point  of  decoration;  we 
did  not  hear  them,  but  were  told  that  their  tones  were 
correspondent  to  their  splendour.  Mafira  is  termed  the 
EsGurial  of  Portugal. 

Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 
*I\inxt  him  and  Lusian  siave,  the  lowest  of  the  low, 

'    [p.  6.  St  38. 
As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterized 
them.  That  they  are  since  improved,  at  least  in  courage, 
is  evident 

When  Cavets  traitor-sire  Jirst  called  the  hand 
T%at  dtfed  thy  nuntntain'Streanu  with  Gothic  yore? 

|>.  6.  St  35. 
Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pclagius 
preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  (he  Astu- 
rias,  and  the  descendants  of  his  followers,  after  some 
centuries,  completed  their  struggle  by  the  conquest  of 
Grenada. 

No!  as  he  speeds,  he  chaunis  :  "  Viva  el  Rey! 


rp.7.St4«. 
ingrerdi 


•*Viva  el  Rey  Fernando !"— Long  liveKingTerdinand ! 
Is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs:  they 
are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the  old  kingCharles,  theQueen, 
and  the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  have  heard  many  of  them; 
aome  of  the  airs  are  bcautifuL  Godoy^  the  Principe  da  la 


Paz,  was  born  at  Badajos,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portnpl, 
and  was  originally  in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish  Gruards, 
till  his  person  attracted  the  queen's  ^es,  and  raised  hisi 
to  the  dukedom  of  Alcudia.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the 
Spaniards  universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their  eoontrj. 

Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  Aim, 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet, 

[p.  8.  St  50. 
The  red  cockade  with  ''Fernando  Septimo"  in  the 
centre. 

ne  hall-piled  pyramid^  the  eoer-hleuing  wtatdi 

[p.  a  St.  61 

All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  reooUecC  the  pjn- 

midal  form  in  which  shot  and  shelte  are  piled.  The  Sierra 

Morena  was  fortified  in  every  defile  through  which  I 

passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 

Foitd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  bettier^d  wall? 

[p.8.StM. 

Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoxa.  When 

the  author  was  at  Seville  she  walked  daily  on  the  Pndo, 

decorated  with  medals  and  orders ,  by  comnnnd  of  the 

Junta. 

7%e  seal  Love's  dimpUMJinger  hath  immressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chm  wHek  bears  kit  touch. 

[p.&Std6. 
Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitolo 
Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem. 

AuL.  Geu. 
OhI  thou  Parnassus!  [p. 3.  St  60. 

These  stansas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delplios),  at  the 
foot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  Auaeu^  Liakura. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville;  let  her  eomUry  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days, 

[p.9.StG& 
Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

Ash  ye,  Bctotian  shades!  the  reason  why? 

[p^astm 

This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  tbe 
best  situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a  questioo; 
not  as  the  birth-plaoe  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital  of 
BoBotia ,  where  the  first  riddle  was  propoundied  asd 
solved. 

Some  bitter  o'er  thejlowers,  its  bubbling  venom  Ja^ 

[p.iaSL8i 
Medio  de  fonte  leporum 
Suigit  amari  aliqnid  quod  in  ipsis  floribns  angat 

Luca. 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  HeU  tkmts  there, 

{p.  II. 
In  place  of  this  song,  which  was  written  at  Atheot. 
January  25,  1810,  and  which  contains,  as  Moore  njs. 
''some  of  the  dreariest  touches  of  sadness  that  em 
Byron's  pen  let  fhll,"  we  find,  in  the  first  draught  of  ftt 
Canto,  the  following :  — 

Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see. 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadis. 
Although  her  eye  be  not  of  bhie. 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  Buglish  lasses'. 
How  fhr  its  own  expressive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses ! 

Prometheoa-like,  firom  heaven  abe  stole  i 

The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashes  I 

In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  kide  their  teslMs: 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow  her  raven  tresses. 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  ooukl  feel, 

And  ourl'd  tq^give  her  nedc  caresses. 


NOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PIL6RI3f  AGE. 


7^ 


Oar  Bullish  maids  are  loDg  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession: 
But,  bom  beneath  a  brighter  sun. 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is 
And  who,  -^  when  fondly,  fairly  won,  — 

Bnchants  you  like  the  girl  of  Cadiz  ? 

The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette. 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble. 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate. 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold  -^ 

Ho  we'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'T  will  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial, 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger ; 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain. 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 

And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero, 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band. 

To  cbaunt  the  sweet  and  hallo w'd  vesper;  — 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her: 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder. 
Through  many  a  clime 't  is  inine  to  roam. 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is. 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  girl  of  Cadiz. 

A  traitar  only  fell  beneath  the  feud* 

[p.  11.  St  86. 
Alluding  to  tlie  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  Go- 
vernor of  Cadiz. 

«  War  even  to  the  knife r      [p.  1 1.  St  86. 
"War  to  the  knife.''  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French 
General  at  the  sirge  of  Saragoza. 

So  may  euehfoee  deserve  the  most  rewtoreelese  deed! 

[p.  11.  St  87. 
Thecanto^n  the  original  MS.,  closes  with  thefollowing 
stanzas:  — 


Te,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 

Sights,  Saints,  Antiques,  Arts,  Anecdotes,  and  War, 

Go  I  hie  ye  hence  to  Paternoster-row  — 

Are  they  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Carr, 

Green  Erin's  knight  and  Europe's  wandering  star? 

Then  listen.  Reader,  to  the  Man  of  Ink, 

Hear  what  he  did,  and  sought,  and  wrote  afar; 

All  these  are  coop'd  within  one  quarto's  brink,  [think 

This  borrow, steal—  don't  buy, —and  tell  us  what  you 

There  *may  yon  read,  with  spectacles  on  eyet. 
How  manjr  Wellesleys  did  embark  for  Spain, 
As  if  therein  they  meant  to  colonize ; 
How  many  troops  y-cross'd  the  laughing  main. 
That  ne^er  beheld  the  said  return  again : 
How  many  buildings  are  in  such  a  place. 
How  many  leagues  from  this  to  yonder  plain. 
How  many  relics  each  cathedral  grace. 
And  where  Giralda  stands  on  her  gigantic  base. 

There  may  you  read  (Oh,  Phoebus,  save  Sir  John, 

That  these  my  words  prophetic  may  not  err,) 

All  that  was  said,  or  sung,  or  lost,  or  won. 

By  vaunting  Wellesley  or  by  blundering  Frere, 

He  that  wrote  half  the  <'Needy  Knifc-Grinder.'' 

Thus  poesy  the  way  to  grandeur  paves  — 

Who  would  not  such  diplomatists  prefer? 

But  cease,  my  "ULuse,  thy  speed  some  respite  craves, 

Leave  legates  to  their  house,  and  armies  to.their  graves. 

Yet  here  of mention  may  be  made, 

Who  for  the  Junta  modell'd  sapient  laws. 
Taught  them  to  govern  ere  they  were  obey'd: 
Certes,  fit  teacher  to  command,  because 
His  soul  Socratio  no  Xantippe  awes; 
Blest  with  a  dame  in  Virtue's  bosom  nurst,  — 
With  her  let  silent  admiration  pause!  — 
True  to  her  second  husband  and  her  first: 
On  such  unshaken  fame  let  Satire  do  its  worst 

And  thou,  my  friend!         [p.  1 1 .  St  91 . 

The  Honourable  J  *  W  *  *  of  the  Guards,  who  died  of  a 
fever  at  Coimbra.  I  had  known  him  ten  years,  the  better 
half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine. 

In  the  short  space  of  one  month  I  have  lost  her  who 
gave  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  had  made  that 
being  tolerable.  To  me  tlie  lines  of  Young  are  no  fiction : 

Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain. 

And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fiU'd.her  horn. 

I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the 
late  Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise 
of  mine.  His  powers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment  of 
greater  honours,  against  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those 
of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge,  have  suffi- 
ciently established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  was 
acquired;  while  his  softer  qualities  live  in  the  recollection 
of  firiends  who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy  his  superiority. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  II. 


Deipite  of  war  and  waiting  fre. 

[p.  12.  St  1. 
Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion 
of  a  magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege. 

But  worse  than.$teelf  andfiame,  and  ages  slow, 
Jm  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  satredghno 
jfnat  thofughts  of  thee  and  thme  en  poUsh'd  breasts  bestow, 

fp.  12.  St  1. 

We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  the 

ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  are  beheld; 

the  reflections  suggested  by  snoh  objects  are  too  trite  to 


require  recapitulation.  But  never  did  the  littleness  of 
man,  and  the  vanity  of  his  very  best  virtues,  ofpatriotism 
to  exalt,  and  of  valour  to  defend  his  country,  appear 
more  conspicuous  tlian  in  the  reoordof  what  Atfiens  was, 
and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This  theatre  of 
contention  between  mighty  factions,  of  the  struggles  of 
orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposition  of  tyrants,  the 
triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is  now  become  a 
scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturbance  between 
the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British  nobility  and  gentry. 
'^The  wild  foxes,  tlie  owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Ba- 
bylon," were  surely  less  degrading  than  such  inhabitants. 
The  Turks  have  the  plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny. 


702 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


and  Ac  Greeks  have  only  saffered  the  fortune  of  war,  in> 
cidental  to  tlic  bravest;  but  how  arc  the  mighty  fallen, 
when  two  painters  contest  tlic  privileg^e  of  plundering  the 
Parthenon,  and  triumph  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor 
of  each  succeeding  firman!  Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip 
subdue,  and  Xerxes  burn  Athens;  but  it  remained  for 
the  paltry  antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to  rea- 
der her  contemptible  as  himself  and  his  pursuits. 

The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fire 
during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a  church, 
and  a  mosque.  In  each  poLut  of  view  it  is  an  object  of 
regard:  it  changed  its  worshippers;  but  still  it  was  a 
place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion:  its  violation 
IS  a  triple  sacrilege.  But 

Man,  vain  man, 

Drcst  in  a  little  brief  authority, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 

As  make  the  angels  weep. 

Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps. 

N  [p.  12.  St  5. 

It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn 
tlieir  dead;  the  greater  Ajax  in  particular  was  interred 
entire.  Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after  their  de- 
cease, and  he  was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not  annual 
games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honour  of  his  me- 
mory by  his  countrymen,as  Achilles,Brasidas,and  at  last 
even  Autinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life  was 
infamous. 

Here,  son  of  Saturn!  was  thy  fav' rite  throne, 

[p.  12.  5t  10. 
The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  sixteen  co- 
lumns, entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive:  originally  there 
were  150.  These  columns,  however,  are  by  many  sup- 
posed to  have  belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-rehictant  brine, 

[p.  I3.StlL 
The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Dirh,  and  Time  hath  spared, 

[p  13.  St.  12. 

At  this  moment  (January  3, 1809),  besides  what  has 
been  already  deposited  in  London,  an  Hydriot  vessel  is 
in  the  Pirnus  to  receive  every  portable  relic.  Thus ,  as 
I  heard  a  young  Gree\  observe  in  common  with  m€my  of 
his  countrymen  —  for,  lost  as  they  are,  they  yet  feel  on 
this  occasion  —  thus  may  Lord  Elgin  boast  of  having; 
ruined  Athens.  An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence, 
named  Lusteri,  is  the  agent  of  devastation;  and  like  the 
OreekT&irfer  of  Verres  in  Sicily,  who  followed  the  same 
profession,  he  has  proved  the  able  instrument  of  plunder. 
Between  this  artist  and  the  French  Consul  Fauvcl ,  who 
wishes  to  rescue  the  remains  for  his  own  government, 
there  is  now  a  violent  dispute  concerning  a  car  employed 
in  their  conveyance,  the  wheel  of  which  —  I  wish  they 
were  both  broken  upon  it  —  has  been  locked  up  by  the 
Consul,  and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  complaint  before  the 
Way  wode.  Lord  Elgin  has  been  extremely  happy  in  his 
choice  of  Signor  Lusieri.  During  a  residence  of  ten  years 
in  Athens  he  never  had  the  curiosity  to  proceed  as  far  as 
Sunium*),  till  he  accompanied  us  in  our  second  excur- 


•)  Now  Cape  Colonna.  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except 
Athens  itself  and  Marathon,  tlicre  is  no  scene  more  in- 
teresting than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and 
artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
observation  and  design ;  to  the  philosopher,  the  sup- 
posed scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversations  will  not 
be  unwelcome;  and  the  traveller  will  he  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  tlie  prospect  over*'*Isles  that  crown  the 
JEgean  deep:*'  but  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has 
yet  an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falco- 
ner's Shipwreck,  Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten  in 
the  recollection  of  Falconer  and  Campbell: 


sion.  However,  his  works,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  i 
beautiful;  but  they  are  almost  all  unfinished.  While  he 
and  his  patrons  confine  themselves  to  tasting  medals,!^ 
predating  cameos,  sketching  columns,  and  cJieapenim 
gems,  their  little  absurdities  are  as  harmless  as  insect- or  < 
fox-hunting,  maiden-speechifying,  barouche- driving, or 
any  such  pastime:  but  when  they  carry  away  three  or  foor 
shiploads  of  the  most  valuable  and  massy  relics  that  tine 
and  barbarism  have  left  to  the  moat  injured  and  moat  oele> 
brated  of  cities ;  w  hen  they  destroy,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  tev 
down,those  works  which  have  been  the  admiration  ofagei, 
I  know  no  motive  which  can  excuse,  no  name  which ciB 
designate,  the  perpetrators  of  this  dastardly  deTastatka. 
It  was  not  the  least  of  the  crimes  laid  to  the  charge  of  Ver- 
res,  that  he  had  plundered  Sicily,  in  the  manner  since  imi- 
tated at  Athens.  The  most  unblushing  impudence  cooM 
hardly  go  farther  than  to  affix  the  name  of  its  plundcscr 
to  the  walls  of  the  Acropolis ;  while  the  wanton  aadotdesi 
defocement  of  the  whole  range  of  thebassorelievoa,  Sa  one 
compartment  of  the  temple,  will  never  permit  that  naat 
to  be  pronounced  by  an  observer  without  exe<»atioii. 

On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially :  I  am  not  a  col- 
lector or  admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival; 
but  I  have  some  early  prepossession  in  &vour  of  Greece, 
and  do  not  think  the  honour  of  England  advanced  by  plun- 
der, whether  of  India  or  Attica. 

Another  noble  Lord  has  done  better,  because  be  has 
done  less:  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet*^ 
honourable  men,^  have  done  best,  because,  after  a  deal  of 
excavation  and  execration,  bribery  to  the  Way  wode,  min- 
ing and  countermining,  they  have  done  nothing  at  alt  We 
had  such  ink -shed,  and  wine-shed,  which  almost  ended 
in  bloodshed !  Lord  B's  '*prig,"— see  Jonathan  Wy  Ide  for 
the  definition  of  **priggism," — qnanrelied  with  aaothcr, 
Gropius  *)  by  name  {jbl  very  good  luune  too  for  his  busi- 


Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep. 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep. 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a 
great  distance.  In  two  journeys,  which  I  made,  and 
one  voyage  to  Cape  Colonna,  the  view  from  either  side, 
by  land,  was  less  striking  than  the  approach  from  the 
isles.  In  our  second  land -excursion  we  had  a  narrow 
escape  from  a  party  of  Mainotes,  concealed  in  the  ca- 
verns beneath.  We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of 
their  prisoners  subsequentiy  ransomed,  that  fhej  voa 
deterred  from  attacking  us  by  the  appears ncse  of  ny 
two  Albanians:  conjecturing  very  sagaciously,  bat 
falsely,  that  we  had  a  complete  guard  of  tiiese  Araauts 
at  hand,  they  remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  oai 
party,  which  was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any  effect- 
ual resistance.  Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  paint- 
ers tlian  of  pirates ;  there 

The  hireling  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk. 
And  makes  degraded  Nature  picturesque. 
But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done  thai 
for  herself.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a  vciy 
superior  German  artist;  and  hope  to  renew  my  s^ 
qnaintance  with  this  and  many  other  Levantine  soeaef 
by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 

*)  This  Sr.  Gropius  was  employed  by  a  noble Lorf 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  which  heesedls 
but  I  am  sorry  to  say.  that  he  has,  through  the  ahaft^ 
sanction  of  that  most  respectable  name,  been  treadof 
at  humble  distance  in  the  steps  of  Sr.  Lusieri.  A  ship- 
ful  of  his  trophies  was  detained^  and  I  believe  confi*- 
cated,  at  Constantinople  in  1810.  I  am  most  happy  tft 
be  now  enabled  to  state,  that  *Hhis  was  not  in  his  hoadf 
tiiat  he  was  employed  solely  as  a  painter,  and  that  til 
noble  patron  disavows  all  connexion  with  him,  except 
as  an  artist  If  the  error  in  the  first  and  second  cdHiM 
of  this  Poem  has  given  the  noble  Lord  a  raomenf sfMy 
I  amvery  sorry  for  it  ;6r.GrotHU8  hasasBumedlbryfUS 


NOTES  TO  GHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAOB. 


703 


Bess),  and  nottered  aomdMng  abovt  satisfoctioii,  in  a 
wbikl  answer  to  a  note  of  the  poor  Prussian:  this  was 
staitod  at  table  to  Gropius,  who  laogbed,  but  could  eat  no 
<ttiiiier  afterwards.  The  rivals  were  not  reconciled  when 
I  lull  Greece.  I  have  reason  to  remember  their  squabble, 
Ibr  tbcy  wanted  to  make  me  their  arbitrator. 

Her  ions,  too  weak  iko  sacred  shrine  to  gvard. 
Yet  f  eh  some  portion  ef  their  mother^ s pains. 

[p.  13.  St  12. 

1  oaonot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of  my 
friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires  no  comment  with 
the  pabiicy  but  whose  sanction  will  add  tenfold  weig^ht  to 
my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  eiitract  from  a  very 
obliging  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a  note  to  the  above  lines : 

•*When  the  last  of  the  Metopes  was  taken  from  the  Par- 
thenon, and,  in  moving  of  it,  greatpart  of  thesuperstruc-* 
tore  with  one  of  the  triglyphs  was  thrown  down  by  the 
workmen  whom  Lord  KIgin  employed,  the  Disdar,  who 
beheld  the  mischief  done  to  the  building,  took  bis  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and,  in  a  supplii  Ating  tone 
of  voice,  said  to  Losieri :  TiXoq ! — I  was  preisent." 

The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  fatlier  of  the  present 
IHsdar. 

Where  was  thine  JPyis,  Pallas!  that  appalVd 
Stem  AUarie  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ? 

[p.  la  St  14. 
According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened 
Alario  from  the  Acropolis;  but  others  relate  that  the  Go- 
thic king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer. 
~  See  Chandlui. 

The  netted  canopy,         [p.  13.  St  18. 
The  netting  to  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  foiling 
on  deck  during  action. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles. 

[P- 
Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  Island  of  Calypso, 

Land  of  Albania!  let  me  lend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 

[p.  15.  St  38. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Chaonia, 
and  Epirus.  Iskandcr  is  the  Turkish  word  for  Alexander; 
and  the  celebrated  Scanderbog  (Lord  Alexander)  is  allu- 
ded to  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  thirty-eighth 
stansa.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  correct  in  making 
Seanderbeg  the  countryman  of  Alexander,  who  was  bom 
at  Pel  la  in  Macedon,  but  Mr.  Gibbon  terms  him  so,  and 
adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in  speaking  of  his  exploits. 

Of  Albania  Gibbon  remarks,  that  a  country  <<withiu 
sight  of  Italy  is  less  known  than  the  interior  of  America". 
Circumstances,  of  little  consequence  to  mention,  led  Mr. 
Hobhouse  and  myself  into  that  country  before  we  visited 
any  other  part  of  the  Ottoman  dominions;  and  with  the 
exception  of  Major  Leake,  then  officially  resident  at  Ya- 
nina,  no  other  Englishmen  have  everadvanced  beyond  the 
capital  into  the  interior,  as  that  gentleman  very  lately  as- 
smred  me.  Ali  Pacha  was  at  that  time  (October,  1809) 
carrying  on  war  against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  dri- 
ven to  Eerat,  a  strong  fortress  which  he  was  then  besieg- 
ing: on  our  arrival  at  Yanina  we  were  invited  to  Tepa- 
teni,  his  Highness's  birth-place,  and  favourite  Serai,  only 
one  day's  distance  from  Berat ;  at  this  juncture  the  Vizier 
bad  made  it  bis  head-quarters. 

After  some  stay  inthecapital,  we  accordingly  followed; 
but  tiiough  furnished  with  every  accommodation  and  es- 
corted by  one  of  the  Visier's  secretaries^  we  were  nine 


[p.  14.  St  29. 
ilypso. 


the  name  of  his  agent;  and  though  I  cannot  much  con- 
demn myself  for  sharing  in  the  mistake  of  so  many,  I 
am  happy  in  being  one  of  tlie  first  to  be  undeceived. 
Indeed,  I  have  as  much  pleasure  in  contradicting  this 
as  I  fvit  regret  in  stating  it 


days  (on  aocomit  of  the  rains)hi  aocomplisbfaig  a  journey 
which,  on  our  return,  barely  occupied  four. 

On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocastro  and 
Idbochabo,  apparently  tittle  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size; 
and  no  pencil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery  in 
the  vicmity  of  Zitza  andDelvinachijthefrontier-viilageof 
Epirus  and  Albania  proper. 

On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants  I  am  unwilling  to  des- 
cant, because  this  will  be  done  w  much  better  by  my  fel- 
low-tiaveller,  in  a  work  which  may  probably  precede  this 
in  pnbUcaUon,  that  I  as  little  wish  to  follow  as  I  would  to 
anticipale  him.  Bat  some  few  observations  are  necessary 
to  the  text 

The  Amauts,  or  Albanese,  struck  me  foreiUy  by  their 
resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  in  dress,  fi- 
gure, and  manner  of  living.  Their  very  mountains  seemed 
Caledonian  with  a  kinder  cUmate.  The  kilt,  though  white; 
the  spare,  active  form;  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound, 
and  their  hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  to  Morven. 
No  nation  are  so  detestedaad  dreaded  by  theirneighbonra 
as  tlie  Albanese:  the  Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Chris- 
tians, or  the  Turks  as  Moslems;  and  in  feet  they  are  n 
mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes  neither.  Their  habits  are 
predatory:  all  are  armed;  and  the  red  -shawled  Arnauts, 
the  Montenegrins,  Chimariots,  and  Gcgdes  are  treacher- 
ous; the  others  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially 
in  character.  As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I  can 
speak  favourably.  I  was  attended  by  two,  an  Infidel  and 
a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and  every  other  part  of 
Turkey  which  came  within  my  observation;  and  more 
faithful  in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in  service,  are  rarely  to 
be  found.  The  Infidel  was  named  Basiliua,  the  Moslem, 
Dervish  Tahiri;  the  former  a  man  of  middle  age,  and  the 
latter  about  my  own.  Basiri  was  strictly  charged  by  Ali 
Pacha  in  person  to  attend  us;  and  Dervish  was  one  of 
fifty  who  accompanied  us  through  the  forests  of  A  carnania 
to  the  banks  of  Achelons,  and  onward  to  Messolungbi  in 
>£tolia.  There  I  took  him  into  my  own  service,  and  never 
liad  occasion  to  repent  it  till  the  moment  of  my  departure. 

Wlicn  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend  Mr.  H. 
for  England,  1  was  seized  withaseverefeverintheMorea, 
these  men  saved  my  life  by  frightening  away  my  physician, 
whose  throat  they  threatened  to  cut  if  X  was  not  cured  within 
a  given  time.  To  this  consolatory  assurance  of  posthu- 
mous retribution,  and  a  resolute  refusal  of  Dr.  Roma- 
ncHi's  prescriptions,  I  attributed  my  recovery.  I  had  left 
my  last  remaining  English  servant  at  Athens;  my  drago- 
man was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my  poor  Arnauts  nursed  me 
with  an  attention  which  would  have  done  honour  to  civi- 
lization. 

They  had  a  variety  of  adventures;  for  the  Moslem,  Der- 
vish, being  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  was  always 
squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Atliens;  insomuch  that 
four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a  visit  of  remonstrance 
at  the  Convent  on  the  subject  of  his  having  taken  a  wo- 
man from  the  bath — whom  he  bad  lawfully  bought,  how- 
ever —  a  thing  quite  contrary  to  etiquette. 

Basili  also  was  extremely  gallant  amongst  his  own 
persuasion,  and  had  thegreatest  veneration  for  the  church, 
mixed  with  the  highest  contempt  of  churchmen,  whom  he 
cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a  most  heterodox  manner.  Yet 
he  never  passed  a  cirarch  without  crossing  himself;  and  I 
remember  the  risk  he  ran  in  entering  St  Sophia,  in  Stam- 
bol,  because  it  had  once  been  a  place  of  his  worship.  On 
remonstrating  with  him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedings, 
he  invariably  answered,  "our  church  is  holy,  our  priests 
are  tliieves:"  and  then  be  crossed  himself  as  usual,  and 
boxed  the  ears  of  the  first  papa  who  refused  to  assist  in 
any  required  operation,  as  was  always  found  to  be  neces- 
sary where  apriest  had  any  influence  with  the  Co^iaBashi 
of  his  village.  Indeed  a  more  abandoned  race  of  nuscreants 
cannot  exist  than  the  lower  orders  of  the  Greek  clergy.    . 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my  Al- 
banians were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  Basili  took 
his  with  an  awkward  sliow  of  regret  at  my  intended  depart- 


704 


NOTBS  TO  CmU>B  UABOUyB  PIL6RDfAG|L 


urcy  and  mardied  away  to  his  quarters  with  his  haig  of 
piasters.  I  sent  for  Dervish,  but  for  some  time  he  was  not 
to  be  found;  at  last  he  entered,  just  as  Si^or  Logotheti, 
fother  to  the  ci-devant  Anglo-oonsul  of  A&ens,  and  some 
other  of  my  Greek  acquaintances,  paid  me  a  visit  Dervish 
took  tlie  money,  but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it  to  the  ground; 
and  clasping  his  bands,  which  he  raised  to  his  forehead, 
rushed  out  ofthe  room  weeping  bitterly.  From  that  mo- 
ment to  the  hour  of  my  embarkation  he  continued  his  lar 
mentations,  and  all  our  eflbrts  to  console  him  only  pro- 
duced this  answer :  *^Mu  qsttvti,"  "He  leaves  me."  Signor 
Logotheti,  who  never  wept  before  for  any  tiling  less  than 
the  loss  of  a  para,  meltpd ;  the  padre  of  Uie  convent,  my 
attendants,  my  visitors— audi  verily  believe  that  even 
<<Steme's  foolish  fat  scullion''  would  have  left  her  ^^fish- 
kettle,'' to  sympathize  with  the  unall'ectedand unexpected 
sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  that,  a  short  time 
before  my  departure  from  England,  a  noble  and  most  in- 
timate associate  had  excused  himself  from  taking  leave  of 
me  because  he  had  to  attend  a  relation  ''to  a  milliner's," 
I  felt  no  less  surprised  than  humiliated  by  the  present  oo- 
cnrrence  and  the  past  recollection. 

That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret  was  to 
be  expected :  when  master  and  man  have  been  scrambling 
over  tlie  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  together,  they 
are  unwilling  to  separate;  but  his  present  feelings,  con- 
trasted with  his  native  ferocity,  improved  my  opinion  of 
the  human  heart.  I  believe  this  almost  feudal  fidelity  is 
frequent  amongst  them.  One  day,  on  our  jorney  over  Par- 
nassus, an  Bnglishman  in  my  service  gave  him  a  push  in 
some  dispute  about  the  baggage,  which  he  unluckily  mis- 
took for  a  blow ;  he  spoke  not,  but  sat  down  leaning  his 
head  upon  his  hands.  Foreseeing  the  consequences,  we 
endeavoured  to  explain  away  the  afiront,  which  produced 
the  following  answer :  —  ''I  have  been  a  robber,  I  am  a  sol- 
dier :  nocaptainever  struck  me;  yovare  my  master,  I  have 
eaten  your  bread,  but  by  that  bread  I  (a  usual  oath)  had 
it  been  otherwise,  I  would  have  stabbed  the  dog,  your  ser- 
vant, and  gone  to  the  mountains."  So  the  afiair  ended, 
but  from  tliat  day  forward  he  never  tlioroughly  forgave 
the  thoughtless  fellow  who  insulted  him. 

Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,ooiy  ectured 
to  be  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Pyrrhic:  be  that  as  it  may,  it 
is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agilitv.  It  is  very 
distinct  from  the  stupid  Romaika,  tlie  dull  round-about 
of  the  Greeks,  of  which  our  Athenian  party  bad  so  many 
specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  ooltiva- 
tors  of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also  that  ap* 
pcUation,but  the  mountaineers)  have  a  fine  castof  oounte* 
nanoe;  and  the  most  beautiful  women  I  ever  beheld,  in 
stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  le^tUmg  tke  road  broken 
down  by  the  torrents  between  Deivinachi  andLibochaba 
Their  manner  of  walking  is  truly  theatrical ;  but  this  stmt 
is  probably  the  effect  of  the  capote,  or  cloak,  depending 
from  one  shoulder.  Their  long  hair  reminds  you  of  tlie 
Spartans,  and  their  courage  in  desultory  wartoe  is  un- 
Qucstionable.  Though  they  have  some  cavahry  amongst 
tlieGcgdes,  I  never  saw  a  good  Arnaut  horseman;  my 
own  preferred  the  Englbh  saddles,  which,  however,  they 
could  never  keep.  But  on  loot  they  are  not  to  be  subdued 
by  fhtiguc. 

— -^  Andpasi'd  the  barren  spot, 
Where  tad  Penelope  o*erlook*d  the  wave. 

[p.  16.  St  39. 
Ithaca. 

Actium^  Lepanio,  fatal  Trafalgar. 

[p.  16.  St  40. 

Actium  and  Trafklgar  need  no  further  mention.  The 

battle  of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but 

less  known,  was  fought  in  the  gulpli  of  Patras;  here  the 

author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  his  kfl  hand. 


[p.  I&St47. 
Yanina;  bit 


AUkairdtkeUutroioHiffrmaamltme. 

[p.  16.  St  41. 

Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  tlie  pcomoatay 

(theLover's  Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have  tlirown  hendt 

—  Many  a  Roman  chief  and  Aiian  king. 

[p.  16.  St  45. 
It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of 
Actium  Anthony  liad  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

Looh  where  the  second  Cetsar^t  irophieg  rose! 

[p.  l&St4& 
Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some 
distance  from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hif^KxlroBK 
survives  in  a  few  fragments. 

—  Acheruna*i  lake. 
According  to  Pouqueville  the  Lake  of 
Pouquevilie  is  always  out 

7b  greet  Albania's  chief.      [p.  16.  St  47. 
The  celebrated  All  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  maa 
there  is  an  incorrect  aoeount  in  Pouqneville's  Travels. 

Yet  here  and  there  some  darina  mountain-hand 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rochg  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unUu  to  gold, 

[p.  16.  St  47. 
Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 
castle  of  Suli,  withstood  30,000  Albanians  for  eighteen 
years :  the  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this  con- 
test tliere  were  several  acts  performed  not  unworthy  of 
the  better  days  of  Greece. 

Monastic  ZUza  !  [p.  16.  St  tt 

The  convent  and  village  of  Zitsa  are  four  hours' joai^ 
ney  from  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  thecapital  of  thePaelnfidE. 
In  the  valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows, 
and  not  far  from  Zitza  forms  a  fine  cataract  Thentnatioa 
is  perhaps  the  finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach  to 
Deivinachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and  ^tolia  may  coa- 
test  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and,  in  Attica,  even 
Cape  Colonna  and  Port  Raphd,are  very  inferior ;  as  also 
every  scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad.  I  am  almost  inclined 
to  add  the  approach  to  Constantinople;  bat  from  the 
different  features  of  the  last,  a  comparison  can  hardly 
be  made. 

Here  dwells  the  caloger,       [p.I6.St4a 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre.     [16.  St  51. 
TheChimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  vokaidb 
—  Behold  black  Acheron  I    [p.  la  St  61. 
Now  called  Kalamas. 

InhiiwhiUcapoU--      [p.l6.St2a. 


Albanese  doak. 

The  §un  had  swA  hekmd  vsut  ThnsoHt 

Andently  Mount  Tomans. 

And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  kg. 

[p.l&St5& 
The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  paaed 
it;  and,  immediately  above  Tepaleni,  was  to  the  eye  ai 
wide  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster ;  at  least  in  is 
opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow  -traveller,  Mr.  Hob* 
house.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  narrower.  Iteo^ 
tainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant;  neither  Achdoai^ 
Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander  nor  Cayster,  approacM 
it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

Andfellow^causUrvman  kaoa  stood  mhof. 

[p.t7.St« 
Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  CornwalL 

-*-  7%e  red  wine  circling  fast. 

[piaStTL 
The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from 
and  indeed  very  few  of  the  others. 


I 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLDS  PILCOUHAGB. 


705 


Each  PafHUtr  his  ittbre  from  kirn  casL 

[p.  l8iSt.71. 

Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person, 

from  i7ttl«xa4>i.  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the 

Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic  —  it  means 

properly  "a  lad." 

Tambourgi!  Tambaurgil  thy*larumafar, 

[p.  18.  Song,  Stanza  1. 
These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese 
zongSy  as  far  as  l-was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  ex- 
position of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

Remember  the  momeni  when  PrevisafelL 

[p.  18.  Song,  St  8. 
It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

Fear  Greece!  sadreHeef  departed  worth, 

[p,18.SL78. 
Some  thoughts  on  this  subject  will  be  found  in  the 
subjoined  papers. 

^pirit  of  freedom  I  when  on  Phyle'e  brow 
Thou  eoJ^st  with  Thraaybviui  and  his  train, 

[p.  18.  St  74. 
Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens, 
has  still  considerable  remains  ;  it  was  seized  by  Tbrasy- 
bulus  previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

Receive  the  fiery  Franky  her  former  guest, 

[p.  19.  St  77. 
When  taken  by  theLatins,and  retained  for  several  years. 

Theprophefs  tomb  of  aU  its  pious  spoil 

[p.  19.  St  77. 
Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

Thy  voles  of  ever-yreeuy  thy  hills  of  snow  — 

[p.  19.  St  85. 

On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura ,  the 

snow  never  is  entirely  melted,notwithstanding  the  intense 

heat  of  the  summer;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains 

even  in  winter. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave, 

[p.  19.  St  86. 

Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug 

that  constructed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  modern 

name  is  Mount  Mendeli.  An  immense  cave  formed  by  the 

quarries  still  remains,  and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

When  Marathon  became  a  mayie  word  — 

[p.  20.  St  89. 
"Siste  Viator  —  heroa  calcas!''  was  the  epitaph  on 
the  famous  Count  Merci;  —  what  then  must  be  our  feel- 
ings vrhen  standing  on  tlie  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred 
(Greeks)  who  fell  on  Maraflion?  The  principal  barrow 
has  recently  been  opened  by  Fanvel;  few,  or  no  relics,  as 
vases ,  etc.  were  found  by  the  excavator.  The  plain  of 
Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen 
thousand  piastres,  about  nine  hundred  pounds!  Alas!  — 
'^Bxpende  —  quot  librae  in  duce  summo  —  invenies!" 
was  the  dust  ofMiltiadcs  worth  no  more  ?  it  could  scarce- 
fy  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight, 

•PAPERS  REFERRED  TO  BY  THE  NOTE  TO 
STANZA  73. 


Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which  every  body, 
traveller  or  not,  has  tliought  it  necessary  to  say  something, 
I  will  request  Miss  Owenson,  when  she  next  borrows  an 
Athenian  heroine  for  her  four  volumes,  to  have  the  good- 
ness to  marry  her  to  somebody  more  of  a  gentleman  than 
a  '^isdar  Aga"  (who  by  the  by  is  not  an  Aga),  the  most 
impolite  of  petty  officers,  the  greatest  patron  of  larceny 
Athens  ever  saw  (except  Lord  £.)y  ^^^  ^<^  unworthy 


occupant  of  the  Acropolis,  on  a  handsome  annual  stipend 
of  160  piastres  (eight  pounds  sterling),  out  of  which  he 
has  only  to  pay  his  garrison,  the  most  ill-regulated  corps 
in  the  ill-regulated  Ottoman  Empire.  1  speak  it  tenderly, 
seeing  I  was  once  the  cause  of  the  husband  of  "Ida  of 
Athens"  nearly  suftering  the  bastinado;  and  because  the 
said  "Bisdar"  is  a  turbulent  husband,  and  beats  his  wife, 
so  that  I  exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson  to  sue  for  a 
separate  maintenance  in  behalf  of  «Ida."  Having  premised 
thus  much,  on  a  matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers  of 
romances^  I  may  now  leave  Ida,  to  mention  her  birth- 
place. 

Setting  aside  the  magic  of  the  name  and  all  those  as- 
sociations which  it  would  be  pedantic  and  superfluous  to 
recapitulate,  the  very  situation  of  Athens  would  render  it 
the  favourite  of  all  who  have  eyes  for  art  or  nature.  The 
climate,  to  me  at  least,  appeared  a  perpetual  spring; 
during  eight  months  I  never  passed  a  day  witliout  being 
as  many  hours  on  horseback:  rain  is  extremely  rare, 
snow  never  lies  in  the  phuns,  and  a  cloudy  day  is  an 
agreeable  rarity.  Im  Spain,  Portugal,  and  every  part  of 
the  east  which  I  visited,  except  Ionia  and  Attica,  I  per- 
ceived no  such  superiority  of  climate  to  our  own ;  and  at 
Constantinople,  where  I  passed  May,  June,  and  part  of 
July  (1810),  you  might  "damn  tiie  climate,  and  complain 
of  spleen,''  five  days  out  of  seven. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  but  ♦ 
the  moment  you  pass  the  isthmus  in  the  direction  of 
Megara,  the  change  b  strikingly  perceptible.  But  I  fear 
Hesiod  will  still  be  found  correct  in  his  description  of  a 
Boeotian  winter. 

We  found  at  Livadia  an"espritfort"  in  aOreek bishop, 
of  all  free-thinkers!  This  worthy  hypocrite  rallied  his 
own  religion  with  great  intrepidity  (but  not  before  his 
flock),  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a  "Coglioneria."  It  was  ' 
impossible  to  think  better  of  him  for  this:  but,  for  a 
Boeotian,  he  was  brisk  with  all  his  absurdity.  This  phe- 
nomenon (with  the  exception  indeed  of  Thebes,  the 
remains  of  Chasronea,  the  plain  of  Platea,  Orchomenns, 
Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of  Trophonius)  was  the 
only  remarkable  thing  we  saw  before  we  passed  Mount 
Citha)ron« 

The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill :  at  least  my  com- 
panion (who,  resolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly  and  classical, 
bathed  in  it)  pronounced  it  to  be  the  fountain  of  Dirce, 
and  any  body  who  thinks  it  worth  while  may  contradict 
him.  At  Castri  we  drank  of  half  a  dozen  streamlets,  some 
not  of  the  purest,  before  we  decided  to  our  satisfaction 
which  was  the  true  Castalian,  and  even  that  had  a  villann 
ous  twang,  probably  from  the  snow ,  though  it  did  not 
throw  us  into  an  epic  fever,  like  poor  Dr.  Chandler. 

From  Fort  Phyle,  of  which  large  remains  still  exist, 
the  Plain  of  Athens,  Pentelicus,  Hymettus,  the  i£gean, 
and  the  Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once;  in  my 
opinion,  a  more  glorious  prospect  than  even^Cintra  or 
IstamboL  Not  the  view  from  the  Troad,  with  Ida,  the 
Hellespont,  and  the  more  distant  Mount  Athos,  can  equal 
it,  thougti  so  superior  in  extent 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but  excepting 
the  view  from  the  monastery  of  M^^pelion  (which  is 
inferior  to  Zitsa  in  a  command  of  country),  and  the  des- 
oent  from  tlie  mountains  on  the  way  from  Tripolitsa  to 
Argos,  Arcadia  has  little  to  recommend  it  beyond  Uie 
name 

"Stemitur,  et  dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Arifos." 
Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  but  an 
Argive ;  and  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  it  does  not 
deserve  the  epithet  Aad  if  the  Polynices  of  Statins,  "In 
mediis  audit  duo  litora  campis,"  did  actually  hear  both 
shores  in  crossing  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  he  had  better 
ears  than  have  ever  been  worn  in  such  a  journey  since. 

<<Athens/'saysaceiebrated  topographer,  **is  sfill  the 
most  polished  city  of  Greece."  Perhaps  it  may  oiQreece^ 
but  not  of  the  Greeks;  for  Joannina,  in  Epirus,  is  univer- 
sally allowed,  i^mopgst  themselv^,  to  he  superior  in  the 

45 


706 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILCSBDCAGB. 


weaItU,  refinement,  learning,  and  dialect  of  its  iDhabitants. 
The  Athenians  are  remarlcable  for  their  cunning:;  and  the 
lower  orders  are  not  improperly  characterized  in  that 
proverb,  which  classes  them  with  ''the  Jews  of  Salonioa, 
and  the  Turks  of  the  Nefpropont" 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens, 
French,  Italians,  Germans,  Ragnsans,  there  was  never  a 
difference  of  opinion  in  their  estimate  of  the  Greek  cha- 
racter, though  on  ail  other  topics  they  disputed  with  great 
acrimony. 

Mr.  Fauvel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty 
years  principally  at  Athens ,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an 
artist,and  manners  as  a  gentleman  none  who  have  known 
him  can  refuse  their  testimony,  has  frequently  declared 
in  my  hearing,  that  theGrceks  do  not  deserve  to  be  eman- 
cipated; reasoning  on  the  grounds  of  their  "national  and 
individual  depravity,"  while  he  forgot  thatsuch  depravity 
is  to  be  attributed  to  causes  which  can  only  be  removed  by 
the  measure  he  reprobates. 

Mr.  Roque,  a  French  merdiant  of  respectability  long 
settled  in  Atliens,  asserted  with  the  m^st  amusing  gravity: 
''Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaUie  thatexisted  in  the  dayi  of 
Tkemittocles  !*'  an  alarming  remark  to  the  "Laudator  tern- 
porisacti."  Tlie  ancients  banished  Themistodes;  the  mo- 
dems cheat  Monsieur  Roque:  thus  great  men  have  ever 
been  treated ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most  of 
the  Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  ofpassage,  came  over 
by  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on  much  the  same  grounds 
that  a  Turk  in  England  would  condemn  the  nation  by 
wholesale,  because  he  was  wronged  by  his  lacquey,  and 
overcharged  by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a  little  staggering  when  the  Sieurs 
Fauvel  and  Lusicri,  the  two  greatest  demagogues  of  the 
day,  who  divide  between  them  the  power  of  Pericles  and 
the  popularity  of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  the  poor  Way  wode 
with  perpetual  difference,  agreed  in  the  utter  condemna- 
tion,''nulla  virtute  redemptum,"of  the  Greeks  in  general, 
and  of  the  Athenians  in  particular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  loth  to  hazard  it, 
knowing,  as  I  do,  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less  than 
five  tours  of  the  first  magnitude  and  of  the  most  tlireaten- 
ing  aspect,  all  in  typographical  array,  by  persons  of  wit, 
and  honour,  and  regular  common-place  books:  but,  if  I 
may  say  this  without  offence,it  seems  to  me  rather  hard  to 
declare  so  positively  and  pertinaciously,  as  almost  every 
body  has  declared,  that  the  Greeks,  because  they  are  very 
bad,  will  never  be  better. 

^  Eton  and  Sonnii^  have  led  us  astray  by  their  panegy- 
rics and  projects ;  btit,  on  the  other  hand,  Dc  Pauw  and 
Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their  demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent;  they  will  never 
be  sovereigns  as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid  they  ever 
should!  but  they  may  be  subjects  without  being  slaves. 
Our  colonies  are  not  ind^>endent,  but  they  are  free  and 
industrions,  and  such  may  Greece  be  hereafter. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  Jews 
throughout  the  world,  and  such  Other  cudgelled  and  he- 
terodox people,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and  physical  ills 
that  can  afflict  humanity.  Their  life  is  a  struggle  against 
tnitli ;  tliey  are  vicious  in  their  own  defence.  They  are  so 
unused  to  kindness,  that  when  they  occasionally  meet  with 
it  they  look  upon  it  with  suspicion,  as  a  dog  olten  beaten 
snaps  at  your  fingers  if  you  attempt  to  caress  him.  *'Thcy 
are  ungrateful,  notoriously,  abominably  ungrateful!*'  — 
this  is  the  general  cry.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Nemesis  I  for 
what  are  they  to  be  grateful?  Where  is  the  human  being 
that  ever  conferred  a  benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks?  They 
are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks  fbr  their  fetters,  and  to  the 
Franks  fbr  their  broken  promises  and  lying  counsels.  They 
are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  engraves  their  ruins, 
and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries  them  away :  to  the  tra- 
Teller  whose  janissary  flogs  them,  and  to  the  scribbler 
whose  journal  abuses  them  I  This  is  the  amount  of  their 
obligation  to  foreigners. 


IL 

JPrtfncucan  Onwtmt,  Aik^M,  JanuMr^  23, 18n. 

Amongst  the  renmants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of  fte 
earlier  ages  are  the  traces  of  bondage  which  yet  exist  ii 
different  countries,  whose  inhabitants,  however  divided 
in  religion  and  manners,  almost  all  agree  in  oppresstofl. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their  Negroes  j 
and  under  a  less  bigoted  government,  may  probably  ojj 
day  release  their  Catholic  brethren :  bnUbe  interpontiM 
of  foreigners  alone  can  emancipate  tne  Gredu^  vhs^* 
otherwise,  appear  to  have  as  small  a  chan<se  of  redenp- 
tion  from  the  Turks,  as  the  Jews  have  from  manldAdin 
general. 

Of  the  an<»ent  Greeks  we  know  more  tban  enoogih;  at 
least  the  younger  men  of  Europe  devote  umch  of  their 
time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  writers  and  history,  whidi 
would  be  much  more  usefully  spent  in  mastering  their  omu 
Of  tlie  moderns  we  are  perhaps  more  neglectful  than  tfae| 
deserve;  and  while  every  man  of  any  pretension  to  learn- 
ing is  tiring  out  his  youth,  and  often  his  age,  in  the  staidj 
of  tlic  language  and  of  the  harangues  of  the  Athenian  de- 
magogues in  favour  of  freedom,  the  real  or  supposed  dd- 
cendants  of  these  sturdy  republicans  are  kfk  to  the  actoal 
tyranny  of  their  masters,  although  a  very  slight  elfort  IS 
required  to  strike  off  their  chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  tbeir  riaiiv 
again  to  their  pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridicukMis; 
as  the  rest  of  the  world  must  resume  its  barbarism,  alter 
re^asserting  the  sovereignty  of  Greece:  but  there  seeai 
to  be  no  very  great  obstai^le,  except  in  tbe  apathy  of  the 
Franks,  to  their  becoming  an  useful  dependency,  or  ereo 
a  free  state  with  a  proper  guarantee ;  --under  correcdoD, 
however,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well>informed  men 
doubt  the  practicability  even  of  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  they  arc 
now  more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subjecst  of  their  pro- 
bable deliverers.  Religion  reconunends  the  Rnssiaas; 
but  they  have  twice  been  deceived  and  abandoned  by  that 
power,  and  the  dreadful  lesson  they  received  afttf  As 
Muscovite  desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never  been  forgot- 
ten. The  French  they  dislike;  although  the  subjugatioB 
ofthe  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably,  be  attended  bj  the 
deliverance  of  continental  Greece.  The  islanders  look  Id 
the  English  for  succour,  as  they  have  very  lately  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  the  Ionian  republic,  Corfu  excepted 
But  whoever  appear  witli  arms  in  their  hands  will  beird- 
come;  and  when  that  day  arrives,  Heaven  have  mercy  oa 
the  Ottomans,  tliey  cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been,  and 
speculating  on  what  tliey  may  be,  let  us  look  at  then  as 
they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  conlraiietf 
of  opinions:  some,  particularly  the  mercliants,  deorjiag 
the  Greeks  in  the  strongest  language;  others, geocnJIy 
travellers,  turning  periods  in  their  eulc^y,  and  pvb&shia; 
very  curious  speculations  grafted  on  iiidr  former  state, 
which  can  have  no  more  effect  on  their  present  lot,thw 
the  existence  ofthe  Incas  on  the  future  fbrtaoes  of  Pna. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "natural  li- 
lies" of  Englishmen;  another,  no  less  ingenious,  viDast 
allow  them  to  be  the  allies  of  any  body,  and  denici  Ihgt 
very  descent  from  the  ancients ;  a  third,  ^oreingCttM 
than  either,  builds  a  Greekempire  on  a  RoasianfoiMM 
tion,  and  realizes  (on  paper)  all  the  chimeras  of  Cathe- 
rine II.  As  to  the  question  of  their  descent,  what  caa  it 
import  whether  the  Mainotes  are  tlie  lineal  Laooniaosor 
not?  or  the  present  Athenians  as  indigenoo^  as  the  beet 
of  Hymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoppers,  to  which  they  ones 
likened  themselves?  What  Englishman  cam  if  he  beef 
a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman^  or  Trojan  blood?  or  who, ex- 
cept a  Welchman,  is  afflicted  with  a  denre  of  being  <k** 
cended  from  Caraetaous? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  aboond  in  the  good 
thiogs  of  this  worid,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to  an* 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


707 


fiqinty  an  object  of  envy ;  itUyeryonielthea  in  Mr.  Thorn* 
ton»  to  disturb  them  in  the  possession  of  all  that  time  has 
left  them ;  vis.  their  pedigree,  of  which  tliey  are  the  more 
knacions,  at  it  is  all  they  can  call  their  own.  It  woald  be 
worth  while  to  publish  together,  and  compare,  the  works 
of  Messrs.  Thornton  and  De  Pauw,  Eton  andSonnini; 
Mradox  on  one  sid^  and  prejudice  on  the  other.  Mr. 
iChorntOQ  conceives  himself  to  have  claims  to  public  con- 
ttraoe  from  a  fourteen  years'  residence  atPera;  perhaps 
^may,  on  the  subject  of  the  Turks,  but  this  can  give  him 
WO  more  insight  into  the  real  state  of  Greece  and  her  inha- 
bitants, than  as  many  years  spent  in  Wapping  into  that 
of  the  Western  Highlands* 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  the  Fanal;  and 
if  Mr.  Thornton  did  not  oflener  cross  the  Golden  Horn 
than  his  brother-merchants  are  accustomed  to  do,  I  should 
place  no  great  reliance  on  his  information.  Z  actually 
heard  one  of  these  gentlemen  boast  of  their  little  general 
intercourse  with  the  city,  and  assert  of  himself  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  that  he  had  been  but  four  times  at  Con- 
stantinople in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  the  Black  Sea  with 
Greek  vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  Greece  as 
a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of  Johnny 
Grot's  house.  Upon  what  grounds  then  does  he  arrogate 
the  right  of  condemning  by  wholesale  a  body  of  men,  of 
whom  he  can  know  little?  It  is  rather  a  curious  circum- 
stance  that  Mr.  Thornton,  who  so  lavishly  dispraises 
Ponqueville  on  every  occasion  of  mentioning  the  Turks, 
has  yet  recourse  to  him  as  authority  on  the  Greeks,  and 
terras  him  an  impartial  observer.  Now  Dr.  Pouqueville 
is  as  little  entitled  to  that  appellation,  as  Mr.  Thornton  to 
confer  it  on  him. 

The  fiict  is,  we  are  deplorably  in  want  of  information 
on  the  subject  of  the  Greeks,  and  in  particnlar  their  lite- 
rature, nor  is  tliere  any  probability  of  our  being  better  ac- 
quainted, till  our  intercourse  becomes  more  intimate  or 
their  indq[>endence  confirmed ;  the  relations  of  passingtra- 
vellers  are  as  little  to  be  depended  on  as  the  invectives  of 
angry  factors;  but  till  something  more  can  be  attained, 
we  must  be  content  with  the  little  to  be  acquired  from  si- 
milar sources,*) 


*)  A  word,  tnptusatU,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr. 
Pouqueville;  who  have  been  gailty  between  them  of 
sadly  clipping  the  Sultan's  Turkish. 

Dr.  Pouqueville  tells  a  loqgiMory  of  a  Moslem,  who 
swallowed  corrosive  sublimate  innch  quantities  that 
he  acquired  the  name  of  "Suleiman  Yeyen,"  i.  e. 
quoth  the  Doctor,  ** Saleiffuan,  tht^  eater  o/  corrosive 
sublimate,"  *'Aha,"  thinks  Mr.  Thornton  (angry  with 
tha  Doctpr  for  the  fiftieth  time)  *'have  I  caught 
yo«?"  —  %hcn,  in  a  note  twice  the  thickness  of  tlie 
Doc4oi^sadecdote,he  questions  tlieDoctor's  proficiency 
in  the  Tumsh  tongue,  and  his  veracity  in  his  own.— 
*'For,"  obs^es  Mr.  Thornton  (after  inflicting  on  us 
the  tough  particiole  of  a  Turkish  verb), ''it  means  no- 
thing more  than  aktle^man  the  eater,*'  and  quite  cash- 
iers the  supplementary  *'iubiimate,*'  Now  both  are 
right  and  both  are  wrong.  If  Mr.  Thornton,  when  he 
f^  fkesil resides  ''fourteen  years  in  the  factory  ,'^will  con- 
tj^n^'f  htsTurkish  dictionary ,or  ask  any  of  h|^  Stambol- 
ine  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that  '^SuUj^an 
yeueni*  put  together  discreetly,  mean  the^Sk^aZ/oK^er 
ofmhiimate*'  without  any  Suleyman"  in  the  case; 
"Suleyma"  signifying  "eorrt^e  tfihlimate,"  and  not 
being  a  proper  name  oil  this  o(;casioiL  although  it  be 
an  orthodox  name  enough  with  theadaition  ofn.  After 
Mr.  Thornton*s  frequent  hints  of  profound  Orienta- 
lism, he  miglit  have  founl  this  out  before  he  sang 
such  paeans  over  Dr.  Pouqu^ille. 

After  this,  I  think  "Travellers  pernriFactors"  shall 
be  our  motto,  though  the  above  Mr.  Thornton  has 
condemned**  hoc  genus  omne,''  for  mistfte  and  misre- 


However  defective  thesemay  be,  they  are  preferable  to 
the  paradoxes  of  men  who  have  read  superficially  of  tlie 
ancients, and  seen  nothing  of  the  moderns,  such  as  De 
Pauiv;  who,  when  he  asserts  that  the  British  breed  of  hor- 
ses is  ruined  by  Newmarket,  and  that  the  Spartans  were 
cowards  in  the  field,  beti-ays  an  equal  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish horses  and  Spartan  men.  His'*phiIosophical  observa- 
tions" have  a  much  better  claim  to  the  title  of  "poetical." 
It  could  not  beexpected  that  he  who  so  liberally  condemns 
some  of  the  most  celebrated  institutions  of  the  ancient, 
should  have  mercy  on  the  modern  Greeks;  and  it  fortu- 
nately happens,  that  the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis  on 
their  forefathers  refutes  his  sentence  on  themselves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that  in  spite  of  the  prophecies  of  De 
Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a  reason- 
able hope  of  the  redemption  of  a  race  of  men,  who,  what- 
ever may  be  the  errors  of  their  religion  and  policy,  have 
been  amply  punished  by  three  centuries  and  ahalf of  cap- 
tivity. 

m. 

Athene,  Franeisean  Convent,  March  17, 1811. 
''I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Thcban.^' 
Some  time  after  my  return  fromCTohstantinopIe.to  this 
city  I  received  the  thirty  -  first  number  of  the  Edinburgh- 
Review  as  a  great  fovour,  and  certainly  at  this  distance 
an  acceptable  one,  from  the  Captain  of  an  English  frigate 
off  Salamis.  In  that  number.  Art.  3  containing  the  review 
of  a  French  translation  of  Strabo,  ih&re  are  introduc^ 
some  remarks  on  the  modern  Greeks  and  tlieir  literature, 
with  a  short  account  of  Coray,  a  co-translator  in  the  French 
version.  On  those  remarks  I  mean  to  ground  a  few  obser- 
vations, and  the  spot  where  I  now  write  will,  I  hope,  be  ' 
Sttfficieut  excuse  for  introducing  them  in  a  work  in  sdfaie 
degree  connected  with  the  subject  Coray,  the  most  cele- 
brated of  living  Greeks,  at  least  among  the  Franks,  was 
born  at  Scio  (in  the  Review,  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have  rea- 
son to  think,  incorrectly) ,  and,  besides  the  translation  of 
lk;ccaria  and  other  works  mentioned  by  the  reviewer,  has 
published  a  lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I  may  trust 
the  assi!irance  of  some  Danish  travellers  lately  arrived 
from  Paris;  but  the  latest  we  have  seen  here  in  French 
and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory  Zulikogloou.*)  Coray  has 
recently  been  involved  in  an  unpleasant  controversy  with 
Mr.  Gail  **),  a  Parisian  commentator  and  editor  of  some 
translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in  consequence  of  the 
institute  having  awarded  him  the  prize -version  of  Hip- 
pocrates ^n((fl  v^ctTw'r,"  to  the  disparagement,  and  con- 
sequently displeasure,  of  the  said  Gail.  To  his  exertions, 
literary  and  patriotic,  great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due,  but 
a  part  of  that  praise  ought  not  to  be  withheld  from  the 
two  brothers  Zosimado  (merchants  settled  in  Leghorn) 
who  sent  him  to  Paris,  and  maintained  him,  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  elucidating  the  ancient,  and  adding  to  the 
modern,  researches  of  his  countrymen.  Coray,  however. 


presentation.  "Ne  Sutor  ultra  crepidam."  "No  mer- 
chant beyond  his  bales."  N.  B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr. 
Thornton,  *'Sutor"  is  not  a  proper  name. 

*)  I  have  in  my  possession  an  excellent  Lcifton 
*^TqtyXnoaoi^'  which  I  received  in  exchange  from  S.^— , 
Bsq.  for  a  small  gem:  my  antiquarian  friends  have 
Aer  forgotten  it,  or  foigiven  me. 

**)  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray  he  talks  of 
*Hhrowing  the  insolent  Hellenist  out  of  the  window." 
On  this  a  French  critic  exclaims,  "Ah,  my  God !  throw 
an  Hellenist  out  of  the  window  I  what  sacrilege !"  It 
certainly  wouflbea  serious  business  for  those  authors 
who  dwell  in  the  attics :  but  I  have  quoted  the  passage 
merely  to  prove  the  similarity  of  style  among  the  con- 
troversialists of  all  polished  countries;  London  or 
Edinburgh  could  hardly  parallel  this  Parisian  ebul- 
lition. 


708 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


is  not  considered  by  his  countrymen  equal  to  some  who 
lived  in  the  two  last  centuries;  mote  particularly  Doro- 
theas of  Mitylcne,  whose  Hellenic  writia|^  arc  so  much 
esteemed  by  the  Greeks,  that  Miletius  terms  him  '*M^a 

Panag^iotes  Kodrikas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle,  and 
Kamarases,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanns  on  the 
Universe  into  French,  Christodoulos,  and  more  particu- 
larly Psalida,  whom  I  have  conversed  with  in  Yanina, 
are  also  in  liigrh  repute  among  their  literati.  The  last- 
mentioned  has  published  in  Romaic  and  Latin  a  work  on 
'•True  Happiness,"  dedicated  to  Catlierine  U.  But  Po- 
lyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  Reviewer  to  be  the  only  mo- 
dern except  Ooray  who  has  distingrnished  himself  by  a 
knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Polyzois  Lampa- 
nitziotes  of  Yanina,  who  has  published  a  number  of 
editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor  less  tlian  an 
itinerant  vender  of  books;  with  the  contents  of  which  he 
had  no  concern  beyond  his  name  on  the  title-page,  placed 
there  to  secure  his  property  in  the  publication,  and  he 
was,  moreover,  a  man  utterly  destitute  of  scholastic  ac- 
quirements. As  tlie  name,  however,  is  not  uncommon, 
some  other  Polyzois  may  have  edited  the  Epistles  of 
Aristaenetiis. 

It  is  to  ba%  regretted  that  the  system  of  contmental 
blockade  has  elosed  the  few  channels  through  which  the 
Greeks  received  their  publications,  particnlary  Venice 
and  Trieste.  Even  the  common  grammars  for  children 
arc  bcebme  too  dear  for  the  lower  orders.  Amongst  their 
original  works  the  Geography  of  Meletius,  Archbishop 
of  Atbens,  and  a  multitude  of  theological  quartos  and 
poetical  pamphlets  arc  to  be  met  with:  their  grammars 
and  lexicons  of  two,  three,  and  four  languages  are  numer- 
'  ous  and  excellent  Their  poetry  is  in  rhyme.  The  most 
singular  piece  I  have  lately  seen  is  a  satire  in  dialogue 
between  a  Russian,  English,  and  French  traveller,  and 
the  Waywodeof  Wallachia  for  Blackbey,  as  they  term 
him),  an  archbishpp,  a  merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  (or 
primate),  in  succession;  to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks 
the  writer  attributes  their  present  degeneracy.  Their 
songs  are  sometimes  pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes 
generally  unpleasing  to  the  ear  of  a  Frank:  tlie  best  is 
the  famous  **Jtvr{  nulStq  r&v  '£lXiiv»v  by  the  unfor- 
tunate Riga.  But  fVorn  a  catalogue  of  more  tJian  sixty 
authors,  now  before  me,  only  fifteen  can  be  found  who 
have  touched  on  any  theme  except  theology. 

I  am  entrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of  Athens 
named  Marmarotouri  to  make  arrangements,  if  possible, 
for  printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Barthelemi's 
Anarcharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other  opportunity, 
unless  he  despatches  the  MS.  to  Vienna  by  the  Black  Sea 
and  Danube. 

The  reviewer  mentions  a  school  established  at  He- 
catoncsi,  and  suppressed  at  the  instigation  of  Sebastian!: 
he  means  Cidonics,  or,  in  Turkish,  Haivali;  a  town  on 
the  continent  where  that  institution  for  a  hundred  stu- 
dents and  three  professors  still  exists.  It  is  true  that  this 
establishment  was  disturbed  by  the  Porte,  under  the 
ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks  were  constructing  a 
fortress  instead  of  a  college;  but  on  investigation,  and  the 
parent  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it  baa  been  per- 
rni^/cd  to  continue.  The  principal  professor,  named  Ven- 
iamin  (i.  e.  Benjamin) ,  is  stated  to  be  a  man  of  talent, 
but  a  free-thinker.  He  was  bom  in  Lesbos,  stodbd  in 
Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic,  Latin,  and  some  Frank 
languages ;  besides  a  smattering  of  the  sciences. 

Thougli  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  further  on  this 
topic  tlian  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question.  I  cannot 
but  observe  that  the  reviewer's  lamentation  over  the  fall 
of  tlic  Greeks  appears  singular,  wh^Bhe  closes  it  with 
these  words :  **tke  ehunge  is  to  he  mUributed  to  their  mis- 
fortune t  rather  than  to  any  physical  degradation**  It  may 
be  true  tliat  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  degenerated, 
and  that  Constantinople  contained  on  the  day  when  it 
changed  masters  as  many  men  of  six  feet  and  upwards 


as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity;  but  aneleiit  hialoiy  tmh 
modern  politics  instruct  ns  that  something'  more  thai 
physical  perfection  is  necessary  to  preserve  a  state  is 
vigour  and  independence;  and  the  Greeks,  in  paHicalVy 
are  a  melancholy  example  of  the  near  connection  betwen 
moral  degradation  and  national  decay. 

The  reviewer  mentions  a  plan  ^we  beliews^*  byPotemfcte 
for  the  purification  of  the  Romaic,  and  I  haveendeaToaretf 
in  vain  to  procure  any  tidings  or  traces  of  its  e3usleMf 
There  was  an  academy  in  StPetersburgfa  for  theGreeDf 
but  it  Was  suppressed  by  Paul,  and  has  not  been  revived 
by  his  successor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  it  can  only  be  a  slip  of 
the  pen,  in  p. 58,  No»8I,  of  the  Edinbuigli  Review,  wheie 
these  words  occur}—  "Vl^e  are  told  that  when  tlie  capital 
of  the  Bast  yielded  to  Soiyman.'*  —  It  may  be  presuMd 
that  this  last  word  will,  in  a  future  edition,  be  altered  to 
Mahomet  IL  *)  The'iadies  of  Constantinople,"  ttseems, 
at  that  period  spoke  a  dialect,"  which  would  not  haie 
disgraced  the  lips  of  an  Athenian."  —  I  do  not  know  how 
that  might  be,  but  am  sorry  to  say  the  ladies  in  genenli 
and  the  Athenians  in  particular,  are  much  altered ;  bdpg 
far  from  choice  either  in  tlieir  dialect  or  expresnoos,  as 
the  whole  Attic  race  are  barbarous  to  a  proverb: 
"Jl  AO'ijpa  nfftni  /«^ 
Tt  jrui  duqovq  r^ktiptt^  xmqu/* 
In  Gibbon,  vol.  X.  p.  161 ,  is  the  following  sentence:  — 
'*The  vulgar  dialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barbaroos, 
though  the  compositions  of  the  church  and  palace  some- 
times affected  to  copy  the  pitfity  of  the  Attic  models.*' 
Whatever  may  be  asserted  on  the  subject,  it  is  diificidl 
to  conceive  that  the  ^'ladies  of  Ck>nstantinople/'  in  Ike 
reign  of  the  last  Cassar,  spoke  a  pnrcr  dialect  tluui  Aaoa 
Comiiena  wrote  three  coaturies  before:  and  those  royal 
pages  are  not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  compositioiv 
aldiough  the  princess  yXtxtuv  nxtv  jiKllliSLZ  Antr 
ni^ovotsp.  In  the  Fanai,  and  in  Yanina,  the  best  Greek  is 
spoken:  in  the  latter  there  is  a  flourishing  school  under 
the  direction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psalida's,  who  is 
making  a  tour  of  observation  through  Greece:  hi^  is  in- 
telligent, and  better  educated  than  a  fellow-commoner  of 
most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a  proof  that  the  spirit 
of  inquiry  is  not  dormant  amongst  the  Greeks. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author  of  the 
beautiful  poem  ''Horas  lonicae,"  as  qualified  to  give 
details  of  these  nominal  Romans  and  degenerate  Greeks, 
and  also  of  tlieir  language:  but  Mr.  Wright,  thoagh  t 
good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has  made  a  mistake  where  he 
states  the  Albaniat  dialect  of  the  Romaic  to  approximate 


*)  In  a  Ibrmer  number  of  the  Edinbm^gli  Review, 
1806,  it  is  observed,  ''Lord  Byron  pas^wjagmc  of  Ui 
early  years  in  Scotland,  where  he  midltteve  leaned 
thatp/^r0cA  does  not  mean  a  bagpipafimy  more  fina 
duet  means  a  fiddle,"  Query,  —  Was  it  in  Scotbad 
that  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Bdinbnrgh  Renew 
learned  that  Solyman  Okeans  Hhihamet  IL  any  BOie 
than  criticism  means  infaUihiUty?  —  but  thus  it  is^ 
''Cfedimus  inque  vicem  pra;bemus  crura  i 
The  mi^ke  seemed  so  completely  a  lapse  i 

(from  the  great  similarity  of  the  two  words,  \ 

total  absence  of  error  from  the  former  pages  of  I 
literary  leviathan  ),  tliat  I  should  have  pas^  itam 
as  in  the  text,  had  Unot  perceived  in  the  Ediahwgk 
Review  much  fiacetions  exaltation  on  all  sock  delsb- 
tions,  partibuiariy  a  recent  one,  where  words  aad 
syllables  aresttbjects  of  disquisitionand  transposttioa; 
and  the  abovementionfd  parallel-passage  in  my  own 
;  irresistibly  proDellcd  me  to  hint  how  modi  < 


m 


it  is  to  be  critical  than  correct  The  yentlemen^  ^J^ 
enjoyed  many  a  triumph  on  such  victories, win  haidll 
bqgrudge«Be  a  slight  oeation  for  the  present 


MOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


709 


•eareit  to  the  Helieoic:  for  the  Albanians  speak  aRomaio 
as  aotoriously  eormpt  as  the  Scotch  of  Aberdeenshire, 
or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Yanina  (where,  next  to  the  Fa- 
naly  the  Greek  is  purest)  alUiough  Uie  capital  of  All 
Pacha's  dominions,  is  not  in  Albania  but  Bpirus:  and 
beyond  Delvinachi  in  Albania  Proper  npto  Ar]g^yrocastro 
and  Tepaleni  (beyond  which  I  c&d  not  advance)  they 
speak  worse  Greek  than  even  the  Athenians.  I  was  attend- 
^  for  a  year  and  a  half  by  two  of  these  singular  moun- 
l^neers,  whose  mother  tongue  islilyric,  and  1  never  heard 
them  or  their  countrymen  (whom  I  have  seen,  not  only 
at  home,  but  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand  in  the 
army  of  Vely  Pacha)  praised  for  their  Greek,  but  often 
langtied  at  for  their  provincial  barbarisms, 

I  have  in  my  possession  about  twenty -five  letters, 
amongst  which  some  firom  the  Bey  of  Corinth,  written  to 
me  by  Notaras,  the  CogiaBachi,  and  others  by  the  drago- 
aum  of  the  Caimacan  of  the  Morea  (which  last  governs 
in  Vely  Pacha's  absence)  which  are  said  to  be  favourable 
spedmens  of  their  epistolary  style.  I  also  received  some 
at  Constantinople  from  private  persons,  written  in  a  most 
hyperbolical  style,  but  in  the  true  antique  character. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  the 
tongue  in  its  past  and  present  state,  to  a  paradox  (page 
Off)  on  the  great  mischief  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
language  has  done  to  Coray,  who,  it  seems,  is  less  likely 
to  understand  the  ancient  Greek,  because  he  is  perfect 
master  of  the  modern!  This  observation  follows  a  pa- 
ragraph, recommending,  in  explicit  terms,  the  study  of 
the  Romaic,  as  ''a  powerful  auxiliary,"  not  only  to  the 
traveller  and  foreign  merchant,  but  also  to  the  classical 
scholar;  in  short,  to  every  body  except  the  only  person 
who  can  be  tlioroughly  acquainted  with  its  uses ;  and  by 
a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old  language  is  conjectured  to 
be  probably  more  attainable  by  ''foreigners"  than  by 
ourselves !  Now  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  a  Dutch  tyro 
in  our  tongue  (albeit  himself  of  Saxon  blood)  would  be 
sadly  perplexed  with  "Sir  Tristram"  or  any  other  given 
'*AuchinIech  MS."  with  or  without  a  grammar  or  glos- 
sary; and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seems  evident,  that 
none  hot  a  native  can  acquire  a  competent,  far  less  com- 
plete, know  ledge  of  our  obsolete  idioms.  We  may  give  the 
critic  credit  for  his  ingenuity,  but  no  more  believe  him 
than  we  do  Smollet's  Lismahago,  who  maintains  that  the 
purest  English  is  spoken  in  Edinburgh.  That  Coray  may 
err  is  very  possible;  but  if  he  does,  the  fault  is  in  the  man 
rather  than  in  his  mother  tongue,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to 
be,  of  the  greatest  aid  to  the  native  student  — •  Here  the 
Reviewer  proceeds  to  business  on  Strabo's  translators, 
and  here  I  close  my  remarks. 

Sir  W.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aberdeen, 
Dr.  Clarke,  Captain  Leake,  Mr.  Gcll,  Mr.  Walpole,  and 
many  others  now  in  England,  have  all  the  requisites  to 
furnish  details  of  this  fallen  people.  The  few  observations 
1  have  offered  I  should  have  left  where  I  made  them,  had 
not  the  article  in  question,  and  above  all  the  spot  where 
I  read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those  pages  which  the 
advantage  of  my  present  situation  enabled  me  to  clear, 
or  at  least  to  make  the  attempt 

J  havci^ndeavoured  to  wave  the  personal  feelings,  which 

«|^lespite  of  me  in  touching  upon  any  part  of  the 
B|:h  Review;  not  from  a  wish  to  conciliate  the 
irof  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remembrance  of  a 
hie  I  have  formerly  published,  but  simply  from  a 
«ense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up  private  resent- 
■lents  with  a  disauisition  of  the  present  kind,  and  more 
partiealarly  at  this  distanee  of  time  and  place, 

IV. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been  muA 
exaggerated,  or  rather  have  considerably  diminished  of 
late  years.  The  Mussulmans  have  been  beaten  into  a  kind 
■  ofsnllen  civility,  very  comfortable  to  voyagers.  • 


It  is  hasardons  to  say  much  on  thesubjeot  ofTnrks  and 
Turkey;  since  it  is  possible  to  live  amongst  them  twenty 
years  without  acquiring  information,  at  least  from  them- 
selves. As  far  as  my  own  slight  experience  carried  me  I 
have  no  complaint  to  make;  but  am  indebted  for  many 
civilities  (I  might  almost  say  for  friendship),  and  much 
hospitality,  to  AJi  Pacha,  his  son  Vely  Pacha  of  the 
Morea,  and  several  others  of  high  rank  in  the  provinces. 
Suleyman  Aga,  bite  Governor  of  Athens,  and  now  of 
Thebes,  was  a  bon  vivant,  and  as  social  a  being  as  ever  sat 
cross-legged  at  a  tn^y  or  a  tables  During  the  carnival,  when 
oar  English  party  were  masquerading,  both  himself  and 
his  successor  were  more  happy  to  ''receive  masks"  than 
any  dowager  in  Grosvenor-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his 
friend  and  visitor,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  carried  from 
table  perfectly  qualiiied  for  any  club  in  Christendom; 
while  the  worthy  Way  wode  himself  triumphed  in  his  fall. 

In  all  money-transactions  with  the  Moslems,  I  ever 
found  the  strictest  honour,  the  highest  disinterestedness^ 
In  transacting  business  with  them,  there  are  none  of  tliose 
dirty  peculations,  under  the  name  of  interest,  difference 
of  exchange,  commission,  uniformly  found  in  applying 
to  a  Greek  consul  to  cash  bills,  even  on  the  first  houses 
in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  an  established  custom  in  the 
Bast,  you  will  rarely  find  yourself  a  loser;  as  one  worth 
acceptance  is  generally  returned  by  another  of  similar 
value  —  a  horse,  or  a  sbawL 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  courtiers 
are  formed  in  the  same  school  with  those  of  Christianity; 
but  there  does  not  exist  a  more  honourable,  friendly,  and 
high-spirited  eharacter  than  the  true  Turkish  provincial 
Aga,  or  Moslem  country-gentleman.  It  is  not  meant  here 
to  designate  the  governors  of  towns,  but  those  Agas  who, 
by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  lands  and  houses,  of 
more  or  less  extent,  in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as  the 
rabble  in  countries  with  greater  pretensions  to  civili- 
sation. A  Moslem,  in  walking  the  streets  of  our  country- 
towns,  would  be  more  incommoded  in  England  than  a 
Frank  in  a  similar  situation  in  Turkey.  Regimentals  are 
the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion,  and  different  sects  of 
Islamism,  may  be  found  in  D'Obsson's  French;  of  their 
manners,  perliaps,  in  Thornton's  English.  The  Ottomans, 
with  all  their  defects,  are  not  a  people  to  be  despised. 
Equal,  at  least,  to  the  Spaniards,  they  are  superior  to  the 
Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce  what  tliey  are, 
we  can  at  leastsay  what  they  arene/ :  they  arene<  treacher- 
ous, they  arc  not  cowardly,  they  do  nol  burn  heretics,  tlicy 
arc  not  assassins,  nor  has  an  enemy  advanced  to  their 
capital.  They  are  faithful  to  their  sultan  till  he  becomes 
unfit  to  govern,  and  devout  to  their  God  without  an  in- 
quisition. Were  they  driven  from  St  Sophia  to-morrow, 
and  the  French  or  Russians  enthroned  in  their  stead,  it 
would  become  a  question ,  whether  Europe  would  gain 
by  the  exchange?  England  would  certainly  be  the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are  so  ge- 
nerally, and  sometimes  j  ustly,<accused,  itmay  be  doubted, 
always  excepdng  France  and  England,  in  what  useful 
points  of  knowledge  they  arc  excelled  by  other  nations. 
Is  it  in  the  common  arts  of  life?  In  their  manufactures? 
IsaTurkbh  sabre  inferior  to  a  Toledo?  or  is  a  Turk  worse 
clothed  or  lodged,  or  fed  and  taught,  than  a  Spaniard  ? 
Are  their  Pachas  worse  educated  than  a  Grandee?  or  an 
Efl'endi  than  a  Knight  of  St  lago  ?  I  think  not 

I  remember  Malunout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha,  ask- 
bg  whether  my  fellow-traveller  and  myself  were  in  the 
upper  or  lower  Itdtose^f  Parliament  Now  this  question 
from  a  boy  often  years  old  proved  that  his  education  had 
not  been  negfected.  It  may  be  doubted  if  an  English  boy 
at  that  age  knows  the  difference  of  the  Divan  from  a  Col- 
lege of  Der V  ises ;  but  I  am  very  sure  a  Spaniard  does  not. 
How  little  Mahmout,  surrounded,  as  lie  has  been,  entirely       ^ 


710 


NOT£Sd  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


by  bis  Turkish  tutors,  bad  learned  thut  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  Parliament  it  were  useless  to  conjecture,  un- 
less we  suppose  that  his  instructors  did  not  confine-  his 
studies  to  the  Koran. 

In  aii  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established,  which 
are  very  regularly  attended;  and  the  poor  are  taught  with- 
out tiie  church  of  Turkey  being  put  into  peril,  i  believe 
the  system  is  not  yet  printed  (though  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  a  Turkish  press,  and  books  printed  on  the  late  military 
institution  of  the  Nizam  Gredid) ;  nor  have  I  heard  whether 
the  Mufti  and  the  Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the  Caima- 
can  and  tlie  Teflerdar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  inge- 
nuous youth  of  the  turban  should  be  taught  not  to  ''pray 
to  God  their  way/'  The  Greeks  also— a  kind  of  iSastern 
Irish  papists — have  a  college  of  their  own  at  Maynooth 
—no,  at  Haivali,  where  the  heterodox  receive  much  the 
same  kind  of  countenance  from  the  Ottoman  as  the  Catho- 
lic college  from  the  Ei^iish  legislature.  Who  shall  then 
affirm,  Uiat  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots,  when  they  thus 
evince  tiie  exact  proportion  of  Christian  charity  which  is 
tolerated  in  themost  prosperous  and  orthodox  ofallpos- 
aible  kingdoms?  But,  though  they  allow  all  this,  they  will 
not  suffer  the  Greeks  to  participate  in  their  privileges:  no, 
let  them  fight  their  battles,  and  pay  their  haratch  (^taxes), 
be  drubbed  in  this  w»rld,  and  damned  in  the  next  And 
ahall  we  then  emancipate  our  Irish  Helots?  Mahomet  for- 
bid! We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse 
Christians;  atpresent  we  unite  fhe  bestof  both-— Jesuitical 
feith,  and  something  not  much  inferior  to  Turldsh  tole- 
ration. 


Amongst  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of  religion,  it  is 
less  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  find  so  few  publications  on 
general  subjects  than  that  we  find  any  at  all.  The  whole 
number  of  the  Greeks,  scattered  up  and  down  the  Turkish 
empire  and  elsewhere,  may  amount,  utmost,  to  three  mil- 
lions ;  and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a  number,  it  is  impossible  to 
discover  any  nation  with  so  great  a  proportion  of  books 
and  their  authors,  as  the  Greeks  of  the  present  centory. 
^Ay,"  bat  say  the  generous  advocates  of  oppression,  who, 
while  they  assert  the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to 
prevent  them  from  dispelling  it,  *%y,  but  these  are 
mostly,  if  not  all,  ecclesiastical  tracts,  and  consequently 
good  for  nothing.''  Well!  and  pray  what  else  can  they 
write  about.'  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank,  par- 
ticularly an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  thegovcrnment 
of  his  own  country;  or  a  Frenchman,  who  may  abuse 
every  government  except  his  own,  and  who  may  range  at 
will  over  every  philosophical,  religious,  scientific,  scepti- 
cal, or  moral  subject,  sneering  at  the  Greek  Iq^ends.  A 


'  Greek  must  not  write  on  politics,  and  cannot  fovdh  m 
science  for  want  of  instruction ;  if  he  doubts,  he  iscxooift* 
municuited  and  damned ;  therefore  his  countrymen  areiMt 
poisoned  with  modern  philosophy;  and  as  to  moial^ 
thanks  to  the  Turks!  there  are  no  sudi  things.  What  Chen 
is  left  him,  if  be  has  a  turn  for  scribbling?  ReligioR  aal 
holy  biography :  and  it  is  natural  enough  that  those  who 
have  so  little  in  this  life  should  look  to  the  next.  It  is  no 
great  wonder  then  that  in  a  catalogue  now  before  bm  «f 
fifty-five  Greek  writers,  many  of  wliom  were  lately  Gviiji^ 
not  above  fifteen  should  have  touched  on  any  thinghntia^ 
ligion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in  the  t»c» 
ty-sixth  chapter  of  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius'sBcde* 
siastical  History.  I  have  in  MS.  a  long  dmnmlic  satire  oa 
the  Greek  priesthood,  princes,  and  gentry.  The  cqbi- 
menoement  is,  as  follows : 

TRANSLATION. 
A  Russian,  Englishman,  and  Frenchman,  »f>^k»"g  the 
tour  of  Greece,  and  observing  the  miserable  state  of  the 
country,  interrogate,  in  turn,  a  Greek  Patriot,  to  lean 
the  cause ;  afterwards  an  Archbishop,  then  a  Prince  of 
Wallachia,  a  Merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  or  Primate. 
Thou  friend  of  thy  country !  to  strangers  record 
W  by  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Ottoman  Lord  ? 
Why  bear  ye  these  fetters  thus  tamely  display 'd. 
The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  striplii^,  and  maid? 
The  descendants  of  Hcllas's  race  are  not  ye! 
The  patriot  sons  of  the  sage  and  the  free, 
Thus  sprung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave^ 
To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mussulman  slave! 
Not  such  were  the  fathers  your  annals  can  boasts 
Who  conquer'd  and  died  for  the  freedom  you  lost! 
Not  such  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour , 
The  day-star  of  nations  in  wisdom  and  power! 
And  still  will  you  thus  unresisting  increase. 
Oh  shameful  dishonour!  the  darkness  of  Grecee? 
Then  tell  us,  beloved  Achasan!  reveal 
The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal. 
The  reply  of  the  Phiiellenist  I  have  not  translated,  as 
it  is  no  better  than  the  question  of  the  travelliDg  trium- 
virate ;  and  the  above  will  sufficiently  show  with  what 
kind  of  composition  the  Greeius  are  now  satisfied.  I  trust 
I  have  not  much  iigured  the  original  in  the  few  lines  given 
as  fiEuthfully,  and  as  near  the  '*0h.  Miss  Bailey !  unfdrte- 
nate  Miss  Bailey!"  measure  of  the  Romaic,  as  I  cooM 
make  them.  Almost  all  tlieir  pieces,  above  a  song,  vhidi 
aspire  to  the  name  of  poetry,  contain  exactly  the  quaatii^ 
of  feet  of 

''A  captain  bold  of  Halifax  who  lived  in 

country -quarters'' 

which  is  in  fact  the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the  Romaic 


NOTES   TO  CANTO  III. 


/n  "pride  of  place"  here  last  the  eagle fie^, 

[p.  22.  St  18. 
"Pride  of  place"  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the 
highest  pitch  of  flight — See  Macbeth : 

An  Eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place 
Was  by  a  mousing  Owl  hawked  at  and  killed. 

Stuh  as  Harmodius  drew  on  Athem^  tyrant  lord, 

[p.  22.  St  20. 
See  the  famous  Song  on  Harmodius  and  AristQgiton.  — 
The  best  English  translation  is  in  Bland's  Antliology,  by 
Mr.  Denman. 

"With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe." 


sslIHF 


And  all  went  merrif  as  a  marria^e-helL 

[p.  23.1,. 
On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  thataliUI 
was  given  at  Brussels. 

And  Evan*s,  Donald's/asne  rings  m  mcA  clasumoMCs  M»a 

[p.23.SL« 
Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  I>oQalilt  ttt 
"gentle  Lochiel"  of  "the  forty-five." 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  hmoeu 

[p.  23.  St  27. 

The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of 

the  "fori^st  of  Ardennes,"  famous  in  Boiardo'a  Orlaatls* 


NOTBS  TO  CBILDB  HAROLD'S  PlI«GiUM40B. 


711 


■d  iminortal  m  Shakapeare's  "Ab  yon  like  iC  It  is  also 
Hebrated  In  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  of  suooessful  de- 
Bftce  by  the  Germans  against  the  Roman  encroachments. 
^  I  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected  with 
riU>ler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 
Ituru'dfrom  all  the  hrwphi  to  thoM  sk9  could  not  himg, 

[p.2a.stao. 

My  guide  from  Mont  St  Jean  over  the  field  seemed  in- 
elligeat  and  aijonrate.  The  place  where  Major  Howard 
ell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there  was 
fthird  cut  down,  or  shivered  in  the  batUe)  which  stand  a 
ew  yards  from  each  other  at  a  path  way's  side.—  Beneath 
iiese  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body  has  since  been 
emoved  to  England.  A  small  hollow  fbr  the  present 
narks  where  it  lay;  but  will  probably  soon  beeffiuied;  the 
ilougb  has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is. 

After  pointing  out  the  different  spots  where  Picton  and 
AXier  gallant  men  had  perished;  the  guide  said,  '^here 
ffajor  Howard  lay;  I  was  near  him  when  wounded.''  I 
old  him  my  relationship,  and  he  seemed  then  still  more 
inxioas  to  point  out  the  particular  spot  and  circumstan- 
es.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  the  field  from 
he  pecniiarity  of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned. 

1  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it 
vith  my  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain,  Water- 
oo  seems  marked  out  for  tlie  scene  of  some  great  action, 
iiongh  this  may  be  mere  imagination.  I  have  viewed  with 
attention  those  of  Platasa,  Troy,  Mantinea,  Leuctra, 
I^haironea,  and  Maratlion;  and  the  field  around  Mont  St. 
lean  and  Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  better 
auae,  and  that  undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which 
Jie  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to  vie 
n  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except  perhaps  the  last 
nentioned. 

Uke  to  the  applet  on  tko  Dead  Sea't  shore, 

[p.  23.  St  34. 

The  fabled  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
vcre  said  to  be  fair  without,  and  within  ashes.  —  Vide 
racitos,  Histor.  1, 5, 7. 

For  sceptred  cynice  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den. 

[p.  24.  St  41. 

The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  '4f  we  have  writ  our  an- 
lals  true,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his 
irant  of  all  community  of  feelingfor  or  with  them;  perhaps 
nore  offensive  to  human  vanity  than  tlie  active  cruelty 
3f  more  trembling  and  suspicious  tyranny. 

Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well  as 
iadividoals:  and  the  single  expression  which  he  is  said  to 
have  used  on  returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian  winter 
Ikad  destroyed  his  army,  rubbing  his  hands  over  a  fire,<'This 
is  pleasanter  than  Moscow,"  would  probably  aliena^ 
more  favour  from  his  cause  than  the  destruction  and  re- 
rerses  whioh  led  to  the  remark. 

What  want  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have  ? 

[p.  25.  St  48. 
'^hat  wants  that  knave 
That  a  king  should  have?" 
vas  King  James's  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong 
ittd  his  followers  in  full  accoutrements  —See  the  Ballad. 

•^^  like  castled  cra$  i^  Drachenfels, 
H  [p.  25.  St  ^. 

■pUe  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest  summit 
Peven  Mountains,"  over  tlie  Rhine  banks ;  it  is  in 
and  connected  with  some  singular  traditions:  it  is 
the  first  in  view  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  on  tlie  oppo- 
dte  side  of  the  river ;  on  tliis  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are  the 
remains  of  another  ealled  the  Jew's  castle,  and  a  kirge  cross 
Bommemorative  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his  brother: 
the  number  of  castles  and  cities  along  the  oourse  of  the 
Rhine  on  both  sides  is  very  great,  and  their  situations  re- 
narkably  beautifut 
The  whiteness  Xffkis  soul,  andthus  man  o*er  him  wepL 

[p.  26.  St  57. 
Theniomuiftntof  theyoung  and  lamented  Ueneral  Mar* 


oeau  (kUled  by  a  rifle-bali  at  Altenkitdiea  on  tlie  last  day 
of  the  fourth  year  of  UieFrench  repubUc)  still  remains  as 
described. 

The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too  lonr, 
and  not  required:  his  name  was  enough;  France  adored. 

and  her  enemies  admired;  both  wept  over  him His  ful 

neral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  detadiments  from 
both  armies.  In  tlie  same  gravegenerai  Hoche  is  interred, 
a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  but  though 
he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  the 
good  fortune  to  die  there;  his  death  was  attended  by 
suspicions  of  poison. 

^  A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is  bu- 
ried by  Marceau's)  is  raised  fbr  him  near  Andernach,  op- 
posite to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was 
performed,  in  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  ontheRhine. 
The  shape  and  style  are  different  from  that  of  Marceau's, 
and  the  inscription  more  simple  and  pissing: 
<^he  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 
to  its  C!ommandcr  in  Chief 
Hoche." 
This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Hoche  was  esteemed 
among  the  first  of  France's  earlier  generals  before  Buona- 
parte monopolized  her  triumphs.  —  He  was  the  destined 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland* 

Hare  JEhrenbreitstoin,  with  har  shattered  walL 
™       .    .      ,     .  rp.26.St58. 

Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.  ''the  broad  Stone  of  Honour,"  one 
of  the  strongest  fortresses  inBurope,  was  dismantled  and 
blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  -  It  had 
been  and  could  only  be  reduced  by  famine  or  treachery.  It 
yielded  to  the  former,  aided  by  surprise.  After  having  seen 
ttic  fortifications  of  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not  much 
strike  by  comparison,  but  the  situation  is  oommandlng. 
General  Marceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I 
slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at  which  he 
is  said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  progress  of 
the  siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  bail  stnick  immediately 
below  it 

Unsepulchred  they  roam%  and  shrieh'd  each  wandering 
ghost,  [p.  26.  St  68. 

The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  di* 
minished  to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  In 
the  service  of  France,  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record 
of  their  ancestors'  less  successful  invasions.  A  few  still 
remain,  notwithstanding  the  pains  taken  by  the  Bufgun- 
dians  tor  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way  removing  a  bone 
to  their  own  country),  and  tlie  less  justifiable  larcenies  of 
the  Swiss  postillions,  who  carried  them  offto  sell  for  knife- 
handles,  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by 
the  bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  request 
Of  these  relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as  much  as  may 
havemade  the  quarter  of  aliero,for  whicli  the  sole  excuse 
is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the  next  passer  by  might  have  pervert- 
ed tfaem  to  worse  uses  than  tJie  careful  preservation  which 
I  intend  for  them. 

LevelTd  Aventicum,  hath  strewed  her  suhject  lands, 

[p.  26.  St  65. 
Aventicum  (near  Morat)  was  the  Roman  capital  of 
Helvetia,  where  Avenches  now  stands. 

And  held  witJun  their  um  ona  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust. 

[p.  26.  St  66. 
Julia  Alpinula ,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon 
after  a  vain  endeavour  to  save  her  father,  oondenaned  to 
death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  C»oina.  Her  epitaph  was  dis* 
covered  many  years  ago; —it  is  tlius— - 
Julia  Alpinula 
Hie  jaceo, 
Infelicis  patris  infelix  proles, 
pea9  Aventiw  Sacerdos. 
Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui; 
Male  mori  la  fhtis  illi  erat 
VixiattAosXXm. 


712 


NOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIM A6B. 


I  know  of  no  human  composition  so  affecting  as  this, 
nor  a  history  of  deeper  interest  These  are  the  names  and 
actions  which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to  which  we  turn 
with  a  tmc  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the  wretched  and 
glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  conquests  and  bat- 
ties,with  whichthemindis  roused  for  a  time  to  a&lseand 
feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with 
ail  the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxication. 

Jbi  the  tun' $  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  enow, 

[p.  27.  St  67. 
This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d,  1816) 
which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine. 

(July  20th.)  I  this  day  observed  for  some  time  the  dis- 
tinct reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and  Mont  Argenti^re  in  the 
calm  of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  my  boat;  tiie 
distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mirror  is  60  miles. 

Bg  the  blue  ruehing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 

[p.  27.  St  71. 
The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  a  depth  of 
tint  whicli  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or 
fresh,  except  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 

T/tan  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possest. 

[p.28.St79. 

This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  ^'Confessions"  of  his 
passion  for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St. 
Lambert)  and  his  long  walk  every  morning  for  the  sake 
of  the  single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of 
French  acquaintance.  —  Rousseau's  description  of  his 
feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  most 
passionate,  yet  not  impure,  description  and  expression  qf 
love  that  ever  kindled  into  words ;  which  after  all  must  be 
felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the  delinea- 
tion :  a  painting  can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 

Ofearth-o'eryaziny-  mountains, 

[p.  29.  St  91. 

It  is  to  be  recollected ,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  im- 
pressive doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity 
were  delivered,  not  in  tiie  Temple,  but  on  the  Mount. 

To  wave  the  question  of  devotion,  and  turn  to  human 
eloquence,  the  most  effectual  and  splendid  specimens 
were  not  pronounced  within  walls.  Demosthenes  ad- 
dressed the  public  and  popular  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke 
in  the  forum.  That  this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind 
of  both  orator  and  hearers,  may  be  conceived  from  the  dif- 
ference between  what  we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and 
there  produced,  and  those  we  ourselves  experience  in  tbe 
perusal  in  the  closet  It  is  one  thing  to  read  the  Iliad  at 
Sigseum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  the  springs,  with  mount 
Ida  above,  and  the  plain  and  rivers  and  Archipelago  arou  nd 
you;  and  another  to  trim  your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  li- 
brary —  thik  I  know. 

Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is  called 
Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the  en- 
tiinsiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines  (the 
truth  or  error  of  which  I  presume  neither  to  canvass  nor 
to  question)  I  should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the  practice 
of  preaching  in  the  fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  extem- 
poraneous effusions  of  its  teachers. 

The  Mussulmans,  whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least 
in  the  lower  orders)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore  impres- 
sive, are  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed  orisons 
-and  prayers  whereyer  they  may  be  at  the  stated  hours — 
of  course  frequentiy  in  the  open  air,  kneeling  upon  a  light 
mat  (which  they  carry  for  the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion 
as  required) ;  the  cereqiony  lasts  some  minutes,  during 
which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  and  only  living  in  their 
supplication;  notiiing  can  disturb  them.  On  me  the  simple 
and  entire  sincerity  of  these  men,  and  the  spirit  which  ap- 
peared to  be  within  and  updn  them,  made  a  far  greater 
impression  than  any  general  rite  whirh  was  ever  per- 
formed in  places  of  worship,  of  which  I  have  seen  tiiose  of 
almost  every  persuasion  under  the  sun;  including  most 
of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the  Ar- 


menian, the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  ] 
Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers  m  t^ 
Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exeretoff 
their  belief  and  its  rites :  some  of  these  I  had  a  distant  Hbf 
of  at  Patras,  and  from  what  I  could  make  oal  of  tktm, 
they  appeared  to  be  of  a  truly  Pagaa  descriptioB,  and  aot 
very  agreeable  to  a  spectator. 

The  sky  is  changed  I— and  sueh  a  ekangel 

Ip.  29.  St  90. 

The  thunder-storms  to  which  these  lines  refer  oocumd 

on  the  Idth  of  June,  1816i  at  midnight  I  have  seen  amo^ 

the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimari  several  moie 

terrible,  but  none  more  beautifuL 

And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought, 

[p.  29.  St » 

Rousseau's  Heloise,  Letter  17,  part  4,  note.  —  Ces  men- 
tagnes  sont  si  hautes,  qu'une  demi-henre  apr^  le  soleil 
couchd  leurs  sommets  sont  encore  dcbures  de  ses  rayons, 
dont  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches  une  belle  com- 
leur  de  rose  qu'on  appercoit  de  fort  loin.** 

This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  heights  orer  Mcil- 
lerie. 

'^J'aUai  k  Yevay  loger  k  la  Qef,  et  pendant  deox jows 
que  j*y  restai  sans  voir  personne  je  pris  poor  cette  vile 
un  amour  qui.m'a  suivi  dans  tons  mes  voyages,  et  qui  n*y 
a  fait  dtablir  enfin  les  heros  de  mon  roman.  Je  diroisvo- 
lontiers  ^  ccux  qui  ont  dugoOtetqui  sont  sensibles:  ales 
^  Vevay  —  visitez  le  pays,  examines  les  sites,  proniewB- 
vous  sur  le  lac,  et  dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  oe  tan 
pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une  Claire  etpour  onStPfecn: 
mais  ne  les  y  cberchez  pas."  Les  Confessions,  tivre  rr. 

Li  July,  1816, 1  made  a  voyage  round  the  Lake  of  €e> 
neva;  and,  as  far  as  my  own  observations  have  led  men 
a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey  of  all  tliesceaes 
most  celebrated  by  Rousseau  in  his  '^Heloise,'*  I  can  sdUy 
say,  that  in  this  there  is  no  exaggeration.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  see  Clarens  (with  the  scenes  around  it,  Vcray, 
Ciiillon,  Boveret,  St  Gingo,  Meillerie,  Bvian,  and  the  en- 
trances of  the  Rhone),  without  beuig  forcibly  stnic^  wifli 
its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the  persons  and  events  with 
which  it  has  been  peopled.  But  this  is  not  all ;  the  feeiiv 
with  which  all  around  Clarens  and  the  opposite  rocfts  cf 
Meillerie  is  invested  is  of  a  still  higher  and  more  oon^ne- 
hensivc  order  than  the  mere  sympathy  with  indivilteal 
passion;  it  is  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  love  in  its  niMt 
extended  and  sublime  capacity,  and  of  our  ownpaitidpa- 
tion  of  its  good  and  of  its  glory :  it  is  the  great  principleof 
the  universe,  which  is  there  more  oondeiued,  bnt notkn 
manifested;  and  of  which,  thougli  knowing  oarseivcta 
part,  we  lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in  the  liiniiij 
of  the  whole. 

If  Rousseau  had  never  written,  nor  lived,  the  saaa  as- 
sociations would  not  less  have  belonged  to  such  socsks. 
He  has  added  to  the  interest  of  his  woriu  by  their  Mi- 
option;  he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty  bj  tese- 
lection;  but  they  have  done  that  for  him  which  no  In- 
man  being  could  do  for  them. 

I  had  the  fortune  (good^evil  as  it  might  be)  la  nil 
from  Meillerie  (where  we  laiMled  for  some  tijM)  Ia8t 
Gingo  during  a  lake-storm,  iMsh  added  tot  '*" 

cence  of  all  around,  although  occasionally  i 
by  danger  to  the  boat,  which  was  Small  and  * 
It  was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that  ] 
driven  the  boat  of  St  Preux  awl  Madame  Wo 
Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest 

On  gaining  the  shore  at  St  Gingo,  we  found  that  Ike 
wind  had  been  sufficicntiy  strong  to  blow  down  somelBe 
old  chesnut-trees  on  the  lower  pact  of  the  moantatM;  Oa 
the  opposite  heigh  t  is  a  seat  called  the  Chateau  de  C1uc9L 
The  hills  are  covered  with  vineyards,  and  interspessri 
witii  some  small  but  beautiful  woods ;  one  of  these  was 
named  the  <<Bosquet  de  Julie,"  and  it  iihemarkable  tfat 
though  long  ago  cut  down  by  tiie  braMMfishness  ofthe 
monks  of  St  Bernard  (to  whom  ti^'lmdMppcftained), 


igfatbe)lQ|iii 
netijl^laa 

ndo^^^^V 
tRoosllJiF 


NOTSS  TO  CHILDB  HAKOLD'S  PILGSQIAGB. 


713 


M  the  ground  might  he  Inclosed  info  a  Tineynrd  for  the 
kiaerable  drones  of  an  execrable  superstition,  the  inbabi* 
utsofClarens  still  point  out  the  spot  where  its  trees 
itood,  caJlisg  it  by  the  name  ipf  hich  consecrated  and  sur- 
llved  them. 

Bousseau  has  not  beenparticalarly  fortunate  in  thepre- 
lenration  of  the  ^local  habitations"  he  has  given  to  **airj 
lothings."  The  Prior  of  Great  St  Berni^d  has  cat  down 
fome  of  his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few  casks  of  wine,  and 
luonaparte  has  levelled  part  of  the  rocks  of  Meilleric  in  im- 
vroviog  the  road  to  theSimplon,  The  road  is  an  excellent 
me,  but  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  a  remark  which  I  heard 
Bade,  that  **La  route  vaut  mieux  que  les  souvenirs." 


Lmuannef  tmd  Ptrumffye  kmot  been  ike  ahodeg. 

Tp.  30,  St  I05i. 
Voltaire  and  Gibbon.  ^^ 

Had  InotfiUd  my  nund,  wkith  tkus  iUelf  subdued. 

[p.dO.Stll3 

^'Ifitbethus, 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  IJUtd  my  mind." 

fSHAKSP.  Macbeth, 
(yer  others'  griefs  that  some  smeerelv  grieve. 

ip.  .30.  St  114. 
It  IS  said  by  Rochefoucault  that  ''there  is  alwi^s  some- 
thing in  themisfortunes  of  men's  best  frieods  notdispleas* 
ittg  to  them." 


NOTES  TO   CANTO  IV, 


I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand, 

[p.3^Stl. 
The  communication  between  the  Ducal  palace  and  the 
prisons  of  Venice  is  by  a  gloomy  bridge,  or  covered  gal- 
trf,  high  above  the  water,  and  divided  by  a  stone- wall 
flto  a  passage  and  a  celL  The  state -dungeons,  called 
'poszi,"  or  wellSy  were  sunk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the  palace; 
md  the  prisoner  when  taken  out  to  die  was  conducted 
icross  the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being  then  led 
Mck  into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon  the  bridge, 
vas  there  strangled.  The  low  portal  through  which  the 
ziminal  was  tsSken  into  this  cell  is  now  walled  up;  but 
he  passage  is  still  open,  and  is  still  known  by  the  name 
]f  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  pozzi  are  under  the  flooring 
tithe  chamber  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge.  They  were  for- 
nerly  twelve,  but  on  the  first  arrival  of  the  French  the  Ve- 
letians  hastily  blocked  or  broke  up  the  deeper  of  these 
inngeons.  Yon  may  still,  however,  descend  by  a  trap- 
toor,  and  crawl  down  through  holes,  half  choked  by  rub- 
Mshy  to  the  depth  of  two  stories  below  the  first  range.  If 
fou  are  in  want  of  consolation  for  the  extinction  of  patri- 
oan  power,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  there;  scarcely  a  ray 
>f  ligfht  glimmers  into  the  narro  w  gallery  w  hich  leads  to  the 
idls,  and  the  places  of  confinement  themselves  are  totally 
lark.  A  small  hole  in  the  wall  admitted  the  damp  air  of 
he  passages,  and  served  for  the  introduction  of  the  pri- 
K>ncr'8  food.  A  wooden  pallet,  raised  a  foot  from  the 
pronndy  was  the  only  furniture.  The  conductors  tell  you 
hat  a  light  was  not  allowed.  The  cells  are  about  five  paces 
a  length,  two  and  a  half  in  width,  and  seven  feet  in  height 
rhey  are  directly  beneath  one  another,  and  respiration 
s  somewhat  difficult  in  the  lower  holes.  Only  one prison- 
r  was  found  when  the  republicans  descended  into  these 
lideons  recesses,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  confined  six- 
eenyears.  But  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  beneath  had 
ell  traces  of  their  repentance,  or  of  their  despair,  w  bich  are 
till  visible,  and  may  perhaps  owe  something  to  recent in- 
lenoity.  Some  of  the  detmned  appear  to  have  ofiendcd 
i;auust,  and  others  to  hav9  belonged  to,  the  sacred  body, 
'  oiiiik^rom  their  s$uatures,but  from  the  churches  and 

k'hich  they  have  scratched  upon  the  walls.  The 

lay  not  object  to  see  a  specimen  of  the  records 

ted  by  so  terrific  a  solitude.  As  nearly  as  they  could 

»ied  by  more  H^  one  pencil,  three  of  them  are  as 

1. 

OV  n  PIDAR  AD  ALCUNO  PENSA  B  TACI 

B  rUOIR  VUOI  D£  SPIONI  INSIDIE  E  LACCI 

L  FCNTIRTI  FENTIRTI  NUULA  GIOVA 

lA  BKN  Dl  VALOR  TUO  LA  VERA  PItOVA 

1607  ADI  2  GENARO  FUl  RBTBNTO 
F*  LA  BESTIKMMA  P*  AVER  OATO  DA 
MANZAR  A  UN  MORTO 
^  .  lAOOMO.  CRITTI.  SCRISSB. 


2. 
UN  PARLAR  POCHO  BT 
NEGARB  PRONTO  BT 
UN  PENSAR  AL  FINE  PVO  DARS  LA  VITA 
A  NOI  ALTRI  MESCHINf 

160ft. 
EGO  lOHN  BAPTISTA  AO 
BCCLBSIAM  CORTELLARXUS. 


DB  CHI  MI  FIDO  OCARDAMI  DIO 

DE  CHI  NON  III  FIDO  Ml  OUARDARO  lO 

A 

V.  LA  STA    cH.  rA.  rNA. 

The  copyist  has  followed,  not  corrected  the  soleoisnui; 
some  of  which  are,  however,  not  quite  so  decided,  since 
the  letters  were  evidently  scratched  in  the  dark.  It  only 
needs  to  be  observed,  that  Bestemmia  and  Mangiar  may 
be  read  in  the  first  inscription,  which  was  probably  writ- 
ten by  a  prisoner  confined  for  some  art  of  impiety  com- 
mitted at  a  funeral:  that  CortelUrius  is  the  name  of  a 
parish  on  Terra  Firma,  near  the  sea:  and  that  the  last 
initials  evidently  are  put  for  Vhta  la  Santa  Chiesa  Kat* 
toliea  Romano, 

Sheloohs  a  sea-tykele^/resh/rom  ocean^ 
Rising  with  her  tsara  of  proud  towers, 

[p.  33.  St  3. 
An  old  writer,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice, 
has  nuide  use  of  the  above  image,  which  would  not  be 
poetical  were  it  not  true. 

^Qmo  Jit  ut  qui  supeme  urbem  contempletur  ^  turritam 
teUuris  imaginem  medio  Oeeano  figuratam  se  putet  in*- 
spicere/'  Marci  Antonii  Sabelii  de  Venet»  Urbis  situ 
narratio,  edit  Taurin.  1627,  lib.  L  fol.  202. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 

[p.  83.  St  3. 
The  well  known  song  of  the  gondoliers,  of  alternate 
stanzas,  from  Tasso's  Jerusalem,  lias  died  with  the  in- 
dependence of  Venice.  Bditions  of  the  poem,  with  the 
original  on  one  column,  and  the  Venetian  variations  on 
the  other,  as  sung  by  the  boatmen,  were  once  common, 
and  are  still  to  be  found.  The  ibliowing  extract  will  serve 
to  show  the  difference  between  the  Tuscan  epic  and  the 
*<Canta  alia  Baieariola.'' 

OriginaL 
Canto  r  armi  pietose,  e'l  capitano 

Che  '1  gran  Sepolcro  liber6  di  Cristo. 
Molto  egli  opr6  col  senno,  e  con  la  mano 

M^olto  sofiri  uel  glorioso  acquisto ; 
B  in  van  V  Inferno  a  lui  s'  oppose,  e  in  vano 

S'  armd  d'  Asia,  e  di  Libia  il  popol  misto, 
Che  il  del  gli  di^  favore,  e  sotto  a  i  Sauti 
Segni  ridusse  i  suoi  compagni  erranti, 

45* 


714 


NOTBS  TO  CHO-DB  HAROLD'S  PCLGRIMAQB. 


Venetian, 

V  arme  pietose  de  cantar  gho  vogria, 
E  de  Goflredo  la  immortal  braura 

Cbe  al  fin  Y  ha  libera  co  strassia,  e  dogia 
Del  nostro  boon  Gesik  la  Scpoltura 

De  mezo  mondo  anito,  e  de  quel  Bo{pa 
Missier  Ptuton  no  V  ha  ba  mai  paura: 

Dio  r  ha  agiaU,  e  i  compagoi  sparpagnai 

Tutti  '1  gh'  i  ha  messi  insieme  i  di  del  Dai. 
Some  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  take  op 
and  continue  a  stanza  of  their  once  familiar  bard. 

On  tbe7th  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Childe  Harold, 
and  another  Bngiishman,  the  writer  of  this  notice,  rowed 
to  tlie  Lido  with  two  singers,  one  of  whom  was  a  car- 
penter, and  the  other  a  gondolier.  The  former  placed 
himself  at  the  prow ,  the  latter  at  the  stern  of  the  boat  A 
little  after  leaving  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta,  they  began 
to  sing,  and  continued  their  exercise  until  we  arrived  at 
the  Island.  They  gave  us,  amongst  other  essays,  the 
death  of  Clorinda,  and  the  palace  of  Armlda;  and  did  not 
sing  the  Venetian,  but  the  Tuscan  verses.  The  carpenter, 
however,  who  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two,  and  was  fre- 
quently obliged  to  prompt  his  companion,  told  us  that 
he  could  translate  the  original.  He  added^  that  be  could 
sing  almost  three  hundred  sUnzas,  but  had  not  spirits 
(morbin  was  the  word  be  used),  to  learn  any  more,  or  to 
sing  what  he  already  knew :  a  man  must  have  idle  time 
on  his  hands  to  acquire,  or  to  repeat,  and,  said  the  poor 
fellow,  <iook  at  my  clothes  and  at  me.  I  am  starviag." 
This  speech  was  more  affecting  than  his  performance, 
which  habit  alone  can  make  attractive.  The  recitallve 
was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monotonous, and  the  gondolier 
behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding  his  hand  to  one  side 
of  his  mouth.  The  carpenter  used  a  quiet  action,  which 
he  evidently  endeavoured  to  restrain,  but  was  too  much 
interested  in  his  subject  altogetlier  to  repress.  From  these 
men  wc  learnt  that  singing  is  not  confined  to  the  gondo- 
liers, and  that  although  the  chant  is  seldom,  if  ever,  vo- 
luntary, tliere  arc  still  several  amongst  the  lower  classes 
who  are  acquainted  with  a  few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  the  performers  to 
row  and  sing  at  the  same  time.  Although  the  verses  of  the 
Jerusalem  are  no  longer  casually  heard,  there  is  yet  much 
music  upon  the  Venetian  canals;  and  upon  holidays, 
those  strangers  who  are  not  near  or  informed  enough  to 
distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many  of  the  gon- 
dolas still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso.  The  writer 
of  some  remarks  which  appeared  in  the  Curiosities  of 
Literature  must  excuse  his  bdng  twice  quoted;  for,  with 
tlie  exception  of  some  phrases  a  little  too  ambitious  and 
extravagant,  be  has  furnished  a  very  exact,  as  well'as 
agreeable,  description. 

^In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heart  long  passages 
from  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  and  often  chant  them  with  a 
peculiar  melody.  But  this  talent  seems  at  present  on  tlie 
decline:  —  at  least,  after  taking  some  pains,  I  could  find 
no  more  than  two  persons  who  delivered  to  me  in  tliis 
way  a  passage  from  Tasso.  I  must  add,  thai  the  late  Mr. 
Berry  once  chanted  to  me  a  passage  in  Tasso  in  the  man- 
ner, as  he  assnred  me,  of  the  gondoliers. 

<<There  are  al  ways  twoconoemed  who  alternately  sing 
the  strophes.  We  know  the  melody  eventually  by  Rous.- 
seau,  to  whose  songs  it  is  printed ;  it  has  properly  no 
melodious  movement ;  and  is  a  sort  of  medium  between 
the  canto  fermo  and  the  canto  figurato;  it  approaches  to 
tiic  former  by  recitativical  declamation ,  and  to  the  latter 
by  passages  and  coarse,  by  which  onesyllable  is  detained 
and  embellished. 

*1  entered  a  gondola  by  moonlight;  one  singer  placed 
himself  forwards,  and  the  other  aft,  and  thus  they  pro- 
ceeded to  St  Geoigio.  One  began  the  song:  when  he  had 
ended  his  strophe,  the  other  took  up  the  lay,  and  so  con- 
tinued the  song  alternately.  Throughout  the  whole  of  it, 
the  same  notes  Invariably  returned,  but  according  to  the 


subject  nwtter  of  the  Strophe,  ttey  laid  a  grenler  m  a 
amailer  stress,  sometimes  on  one,  and  WHuetiaKt  qb 
another  note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunctatioa  of  Ihr 
whole  strophe  as  the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

'<On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  were  honnevri 
screaming:  tiiey  seemed,  in  the  manner  of  all  nide«»> 
civilized  men,  to  make  the  excellency  of  their  singifly  te 
the  force  of  th^  yoice:  one  seemed  desirous  of  ooaqwr- 
ing  the  other  by  the  strength  of  his  lungs;  and  so  for  from 
receiving  delight  from  this  scene  (shut  up  as  I  ww  fc 
the  box  of  the  gondola),  I  found  myself  in  a  very  1K» 
pleasant  situation. 

"Hj  companion ,  to  whom  I  coramonicated  tills  4K 
cumstance,  being  very  desirous  to  keep  up  the  rre<fit  of 
his  countrymen,  assured  me  that  this  singing  was  TC17 
delightful  when  heard  at  a  distance.  Accordingly  we  gol 
out  upon  the  shore  leaving  one  of  the  singera  in  the  gon- 
dola, while  the  other  went  to  the  distance  of  aome  hm* 
dred  paces.  They  now  began  to  sing  against  one  ano&cr 
and  i  kept  walking  up  and  down  between  them  both,so  as 
always  to  leave  him  who  was  to  begin  his  part  I  fre- 
quently stood  still  and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to  the 
other. 

"Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The  strong 
declamatory ,  and ,  as  It  were ,  shrieking  sound ,  ndt 
the  ear  from  far,  and  called  forth  the  attention;  flie 
quickly  succeeding  transitions,  which  neoesaarily  le- 
quired  to  be  sung  in  a  lower  tone,  seemed  like  plamfite 
strains  succeeding  the  vociferations  of  emotion  orof  pri^ 
The  other,  who  listened  attentively,  immediately  began 
where  the  former  left  off,  answering  him  In  milder  or  move 
vehement  notes,  according  as  the  purport  of  the  strophe 
required.  The  sleepy  canals,  the  lofty  buildings,  the  splen- 
dour of  the  moon,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  few  gondblas, 
that  moved  like  spirits  hither  and  thither,  increased  the 
striking  peculiarity  of  the  scene;  and  amidst  all  these 
circumstances  it  was  easy  to  confess  the  character  of  this 
wonderful  harmony. 

'*It  suits  perfectly  well  with  an  idle  solitary  nariner, 
lying  at  length  in  his  vessel  at  rest  on  one  of  these  canals, 
waiting  for  his  company,  or  for  a  fare,  the  tiresomeness 
of  which  situation  is  somewhat  alleviated  by  the  songs 
and  poetical  stories  he  has  in  memory.  He  often  raises 
his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can,  which  extends  itself  lo  a  vast 
distance  over  the  tranquil  mirror,  and  as  all  is  tSSi 
around,  he  is,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  and  populous  town.  Here  is  no  rattling  of  carriagcib 
no  noise  of  foot-passengers:  a  silent  gondola  glides  now 
and  then  by  him,  of  which  tlie  splashing  of  tl^  onnve 
scarcely  to  be  heard. 

"At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly  an- 
known  to  him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately  attach 
the  two  strangers;  he  becomes  the  responsive  echo  to  the 
former,  and  exerts  himself  to  be  heard  as  he  had  heard 
tlie  other.  By  a  tacit  convention  they  alternate  verse  for 
verse ;  though  the  song  should  last  the  whole  n^ 
through,  they  entertain  themselves  without  fatigiie;  the 
hearers,  who  are  passing  between  the  two,  take  part  in 
the  amusement 

<'Tliis  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a  { 
tance,and  is  then  inexpressibly  charming,as  It  4 
its  design  in  the  sentiment  of  remoteness.  It  is  [ 
but  not  dismal  in  its  sound,  and  at  times  it  Is^ 
possible  to  refrain  from  tears.  My  companion,  % 
wise  was  not  a  very  delicately  organized  person,  i 
quite  unexpectedly:  '*^  singolare  come  quel  canto  lrito> 
nerisoe,  e  motto  pid  qnando  lacantano  mcglio." 

*^l  was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  lon^  row  offi^ 
lands  that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  the  Lagoons  *),  p•^ 
ticutorly  the  women  of  the  extreme  districts  of  MnlaimoMi 


eraoB,  aw 


*)  The  writer  meant  Udo,  which  is  not  a 
ofisbuidSybatatong  Island:  httm$pih%9kionu 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAB0IJ>'8  PILGRIHA6B. 


715 


■itPftkstiiiia,  dog  in  fike  inuiiier  the  works  of  Taaso 
pjiese  and  similar  tuoes. 

[nhey  have  the  custom,  wheti  their  husbands  are  fishing 
H  at  sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the  evenings  and  vo- 
lte these  songs,  and  continue  to  do  so  with  great  vio- 
,  till  each  of  them  can  distinguish  the  responses  of 
own  husband  at  a  dbtance/' 
The  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distinguishes  all  classes 
f  Venetians,  even  amongst  the  tuneful  sons  of  Italy.  The 
by  itself  can  occasionally  furnish  respectable  audiences 
br  two  and  even^three  opera-houses  at  a  time;  and  there 
jrefew  events  in  private  life  that  do  not  call  forth  a  printed 
jid  circulated  sonnet  Does  a  physician  or  a  lawyer 
ike  his  degree,or  a  clergyman  preach  bis  maiden-sermon, 
las  a  surgeon  performed  an  operation,  would  a  harlequin 
innouncc  his  departure  or  his  benefit,  are  you  to  be  con- 
^atulated  on  a  marriage,  or  a  birth,  or  a  lawsuit,  the  Mu- 
es  are  invoked  to  furnish  the  same  number  of  syllables, 
ind  the  individual  triumphs  blaze  abroad  in  virgin-white 
nr  party-coloured  placards  on  half  the  corners  of  the  ca- 
liteL  The  last  curtsy  of  a  favourite  ''prima  donna"  brings 
lown  a  shower  of  these  poetical  tributes  from  those  upper 
egions,  from  which,  in  our  theatres,  nothing  but  Cupids 
ind snow-storms  are  accustomed  to  descend.  There  is  a 
toetry  an  the  very  life  of  a  Venetian,  which ,  in  its  com- 
lion  course,  is  varied  with  tliose  surprises  and  changes 
O  reoommendable  in  fiction,  but  so  different  from  the 
ober  monotony  of  northern  existence;  amusements  are 
•ised  into  duties,  duties  arc  softened  into  amusements, 
nd  every  object  being  considered  as  equally  making  a 
part  of  the  business  of  life,  is  announced  and  performed 
iith  the  same  earnest  indifference  and  gay  assiduity, 
rhe  Venetian  gazette  constantly  closes  its  columns  with 
he  following  triple  advertisement 

Charade, 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  In  the 
dinrch  of  St  — 


Theatres. 

St  Moses,  opera. 

St  Benedict,  a  comedy  of  characters. 

St  Luke,  repose. 
When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe  their 
loosecrated  wafer  to  be,  we  may  perhaps  think  it  worthy 
if  a  more  respectable  niche  than  between  poetry  and  the 
ilayhoose. 

Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he. 

[p.  33.  St  10. 
The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas  to  the  strangers 
rho  praised  the  memory  of  her  son. 

St.  Marh  yet  sees  his  JJan  where  he  stood 
Stand,^  [p.  33.  St  11. 

The  lion  has  lost  nothing  hy  his  joarney  to  the  Invalides 
at  the  gospel  which  supported  the  paw  that  is  now  on 
level  with  the  other  foot  The  horses  also  are  returned 
0  tiie  ill-chosen  spot  whence  they  set  out,  and  are,  as  be- 
half hidden  unter  the  porch- window  of  St  Mark's 


history,  after  a  desperate  straggle,  has  been  satis- 
j  explored.  The  decisions  and  doubts  of  Brizzo 
aid  Zanetti,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold  Cicognara, 
roold  have  given  them  a  Roman  extraction,  and  a  pedi- 
rec  not  more  ancient  than  the  reign  of  Nero.  But  M.  de 
iehlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  the  Venetians  the  value  of 
iieir  own  treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated,  at  last  and 
)r  ever,  the  pretension  of  his  oonntrymen  to  this  noble 
todnotion.  Mr.  Mustoxidi  has  not  been  left  without  a 
eply ;  but ,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no  answer.  It  should 
eem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably  Chian,  and  were 
rnnsferred  to  Constantinople  by  Theodosius.  Lapidary 
rriting  IB  a  ifevonxile  play  of  the  Italians,  and  Yoa  con- 


ferred repntation  on  more  than  one  of  their  lUemry  ch»« 
racters.  One  of  the  best  specimens  of  Bodoni's  typo- 
graphy is  a  respectabe  volume  of  inscriptions,  all  written 
by  his  friend  PacciaudL  Several  were  prepared  for  the 
recovered  horses.  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  best  was  not  se- 
lected, when  the  following  words  were  ranged  in  gold 
letters  above  the  cathedral  porch : 

QUATIJOR  EQUORUM  SIONA  A  VENETIS  BYZANTIO  CAPTA  AO 
TBMP.  13.  MAR  A.  R.  S*  MCCIV  POSITA  QUA  HOSTILIS  CUPIDITAS 
A.  MDCCCIII  ABSTULERAT  FRANC.  I.  lUP.  PACIS ORBl  DATiB  TRO* 
PUAUM  A.  MDCCCXV  VICTOR  REDUXIT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin ,  but  it  may  be  per- 
mitted to  observe,  that  the  injustice  of  Uie  Venetians  in 
transporting  the  horses  from  Constantinople  was  at  least 
equal  to  that  of  the  French  in  carrying  them  to  Paris,  and 
that  it  would  have  been  more  prudent  to  have  avoided  aU 
allusions  to  either  robbery.  An  apostolic  prince  should, 
perhaps,  have  objected  to  affixing  over  the  principal  en- 
trance of  a  metropolitan  church  an  inscription  having  a 
reference  to  any  other  triumphs  than  those  of  religion. 
Nothing  less  than  the  pacification  of  the  world  can  excuse 
such  a  solecism. 

The  SaaMan  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reiyns  — > 
An  Emperor  tramples  whore  an  Emperor  knelt. 

[p.33.Stl3; 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians  en- 
tirely to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  Frederic  Barbarossa,  and  as 
ftnitless  attempts  of  the  Bmperor  to  make  himself  abso- 
lute master  throughout  the  whole  of  his  Cisalpine  domi- 
nions, the  bloody  struggles  of  four  and  twenty  years  were 
happily  brooght  to  a  close  in  the  city  of  Venice.  The  ar* 
ticles  of  a  treaty  had  been  previously  agreed  upon  between 
Pope  Alexander  IIL  and  Barbarossa,  and  tiie  former  hav- 
ing received  a  safe  conduct  had  already  arrived  at  Venice 
from  Ferrara,  in  company  with  the  ambassadors  of  the 
king  of  Sicily  and  the  consuls  of  the  Lombard  league. 
There  still  remained,  however,  many  points  to  adjust, 
and  fbr  several  days  the  peace  was  believed  to  be  imprac- 
ticable. At  this  juncture  it  was  suddenly  reported  that  the 
Bmperor  had  arrived  atChioz%  a  town  fifteen  miles  from 
the  capital.  The  Venetians  rose  tumnltuously,  and  in- 
sist^ upon  immediately  conducting  him  to  the  dty.  The 
Lombards  took  the  alarm  and  departed  towards  Treviso. 
The  Pope  himself  was  apprehensive  of  some  disaster  if 
Frederic  should  suddenly  advance  upon  him,  but  was 
reassured  by  the  prudence  and  address  of  Sebastian  Ziani, 
the  Doge.  Several  embassies  passed  between  Chioza  and 
the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the  Emperor  relaxing  somewhat 
of  his  pretensions,  *Maid  aside  his  leonine  ferocnty,  andput 
on  the  mildness  of  the  lamb."  *) 

On  Saturday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1 177,  six  Ve- 
netian galleys  transferred  Frederic,  in  great  pomp,  from 
Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile  from  Venice.  Early 
the  next  morning  the  Pope,  accompanied  by  the  Sicilian 
ambassadors,  and  by  the  envoys  of  Lombardy,  whom  he 
had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  together  with  a  great 
concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the  patriarchal  palace 
to  Saint  Mark's  ehurch,  and  solemnly  absolved  the  Bmpe- 
ror and  his  partisans  from  the  excommunication  pro* 
nounced  against  him.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Empire,  on 
the  part  of  his  master,  renooneed,  the  anti-popes  and  their 
sehismatic  adherents.  Immediately  the  Doge,  with  a  great 
suite  both  of  thedergy  and  laity,  got  on  board  the  galleys, 
and  waiting  on JPrederie,  rowed  him  in  mighty  state  fh>m 
the  Lido  to  the  capital.  The  Emperor  descended  from  the 
galley  at  the  quay  of  the  Piasietta.  The  Doge,  the  pa- 
triarch, his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Venice 
with  their  crosses  and  their  standards,  marched  in  solemn 


*)  *H)aibiis  anditis,  Imperator,  operanle  eo,  <|iii 
corda  principom  siuut  vnlt  et  qnando  vult  hnmiUtet 
inolinat,  leonina  feritate  deposita,  ovinam  mansnetn- 
dineminduifRomualdiSalernitaniChronioon,  apud 
Script  Rer.  Itai  torn,  vik  p.  229, 


716 


KOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGROIAGR. 


pnodUiMk  beibre  Urn  to  the  cfaoroli  of  Saint  Mark.  Alex- 
ander was  seated  before  the  vestibule  of  the  basilica,  at- 
tended by  his  bishops  and  cardinals,  by  the  patriarch  of 
Aqaileja,  by  the  archbishops  and  bishops  of  Lombardy, 
all  of  them  in  state,  and  clothed  in  their  diurch-rob^. 
Frederic  approached — 'teoved  by  the  Holy  Spirit  vene- 
rating the  Almighty  in  the  person  of  Alexander,  laying 
aside  his  imperial  dignity,  and  throwing  off  his  mantle, 
he  prostrated  himself  at  full  length  at  the  feet  of  the  Pope. 
Alexander,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  nused  him  benignantly 
from  the  ground,  kissed  him,  blessed  him ;  and  immedi- 
ately the  Germans  of  the  train  sang,  with  a  loud  voice,  ''We 
praise  thee,  O  Lo;rd."  The  Emperor  then  taking  the  Pope 
by  the  right  hand,  led  him  to  the  church ,  and  having  re- 
ceived his  benediction,  returned  to  the  ducal  palace."  The 
ceremony  of  humiliation  was  repeated  the  next  day.  The 
Pope  himself,  at  the  request  of  Frederic,  said  mass  at  Saint 
Mark's.  The  Emperor  again  laid  aside  his  imperial  mantle, 
and,  taking  a  wand  in  his  hand,  officiated  as  verger,  driv- 
ing the  laity  from  the  choir,  and  preceding  the  pontiff  to 
the  altar.  Alexander,  after  reciting  the  gospel ,  preached 
to  the  people.  The  Emperor  put  himself  close  to  the  pul- 
pit in  tfie  attitude  of  listening;  and  the  pontiff,  touched  by 
this  mark  of  his  attention,  for  he  knew  that  Frederic  did 
not  understand  a  word  he  said,  commanded  the  patriarch 
of  Aquileja  to  translate  the  Latin  discourse  into  the  Ger- 
man tongue.  The  creed  was  then  chanted.  Frederic  made 
his  oblation  and  kissed  the  Pope's  feet,  and,  mass  being 
over^  led  him  by  the  hand  to  his  white  horse.  He  held  the 
stirrup,  and  would  have  led  the  horse's  rein  to  the  water- 
side, had  not  the  Pope  accepted  of  the  inclination  for  the 
performance,  and  affectionately  dismissed  him  with  his 
benediction.  Such  is  the  substance  of  the  account  left  by 
the  archbishop  of  Salerno,  who  was  present  at  the  cere- 
mony, and  whose  story  is  confirmed  b^  every  subsequent 
narration.  It  would  be  not  worth  so  mmute  a  record,  were 
it  not  the  triumph  of  liberty  as  well  as  of  superstition.  The 
states  of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the  confirmation  of  their  pri- 
vileges; and  Alexander  had  reason  to  thank  the  Almighty, 
who  had  enabled  an  infirm,  unarmed  old  man  to  subdue 
a  terrible  and  potent  sover'^ign,*) 

Oh  for  ime  hour  of  blind  old  Dmdolol  * 

Th'  octogenArian  chief,  Bgzantium'g  conquering  foe. 

[p.  33.  St  12. 
The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the  high- 
lander:  Oh  for  one  hour  of  Dundee!  Henry  Dandolo, 
when  elected  Doge,  in  1 192,  was  eighty-five  years  of  age. 
When  he  commanded  the  Venetians  at  the  taking  of  Con- 
stantinople he  was  consequently  ninety-seven  years  old. 
At  this  age  he  annexed  the  fourth  and  a  half  of  the  whole 
empire  of  Romania,*)  for  so  the  Roman  empire  was  then 
called,  to  the  title  and  to  the  territories  of  the  Venetian 
Doge.  The  three-eighths  of  this  empire  were  preserved  in 


f 

*)  See  the  above  cited  Romuald  of  Salerno.  In  a  se- 
cond sermon  which  Alexander  preached,  on  the  first 
day  of  August,  before  tiie  Emperor,  he  compared  Fre- 
deric to  the  prodigal  son,  and  himself  to  the  forgiving 
fatiier. 

**)  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  important  «,  and 
has  written  Romani  instead  ofRomaniae.  Decline  and 
Fall,  cap.  Lxi.  note  9.  But  the  title  acquired  by  Dan- 
dolo runs  thus  in  the  Chronicle  of  his  namesake,  the 
Doge  Andrew  Dandolo :  DucaUtituh  addidit "  Quarim 
partis  etdimidim  totius  imperii  Romania,'^  And.Dand. 
Chronicon.  cap.  iti.  pars  xxxvii.  ap.  Script  Rer.  Ital. 
tom.xii.  page  331.  And  the  Romania  b  observed  in 
the  subsequent  ants  of  the  Doge.  Indeed  the  continent- 
al possessions  of  the  Greek  empire  in  Europe  were 
then  generally  known  by  the  name  of  Romania,  and 
that  appellation  is  still  seen  in  the  maps  of  Turkey  as 
applied  to  Thrace* 


the  diplomas  until  the  Dukedom  of  Glovnnid 

who  made  use  of  the  above  designation  in  the  yeac  II 

Dandolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  wm\ 

twoships,  tiieParadiseand  the  Pilgrim,  weretiedl 
and  a  drawbridge  or  ladder  let  down  from  their  1  ^  . 
yards  to  the  walls.  The  Doge  was  one  of  the  first  to  inih 
into  the  city.  Then  was  completed ,  said  the  Venetiflai^ 
the  Prophecy  of  the  Erythrasan  sybil.  "A  gatberiiq^  to* 
gether  of  the  powerful  shall  be  maide  amidst  the  wavctoT 
the  Adriatic,  under  a  blind  leader;  they  shall  ~ 
goat — they  shall  profone  Byzantium — they  shall  blacken 
her  buildings — her  spoilsshali  be  dispersed;  a  new  goat 
shall  bleat  until  they  have  measured  out  and  run  oivcr  fif- 
ty-four feet,  nine  inches,  and  a  half."*). 

Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1905, 
reigned  thirteen  years,  six  months,  and  five  days,  aadv 
buried  in  the  church  of  St  Sophia,  at  Constantinoyle. 
Strangely  enough  it  must  sound ,  that  the  name  of  the  le- 
bei  apothecary  who  received  the  Doge's  sword,  and  amu 
hilated  the  ancient  government  in  1797,  was  Dandolik 

But  is  not  Doria'e  menaee  come  to  pose? 
.     Are  theg  not  hndUdf  [p.  33.  St  13L 

After  the  loss  of  the  battie  of  Pola,  and  the  takiag  of 
Chioaa  on  the  16th  of  August,  1379,  by  the  united  \ 
ment  of  the  Genoese  and  Francesco  (fit  Carrara,  £  _ 
of  Padua,  the  Venetians  were  reduced  to  (he  atmoatlk*- 
pair.  An  embassy  was  sent  to  the  conquerors  with  a  I 
sheet  of  paper,  praying  them  to  prescribe  what  toma  Acy 
pleased,  and  leave  to  Venice  only  her  indcpendeooe^  The 
Prince  of  Padua  was  inclined  to  listen  to  these  propoa^ 
but  the  Genoese,  who,  after  the  victory  at  Pola,  had  shoat* 
ed,  *'to  Veniee,  to  Venice,  and  long  live  St  George  f*  de- 
termined to  annihilate  their  rival,  and  Peter  Dona,  tbm 
commander  in  chief,  returned  tiiis  answer  to  the  si^ 
pliants :  ''On  God's  faith ,  |;entiemen  of  Venice,  ye  shaB 
have  no  peace  from  the  signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  ov 
commune  of  Genoa,  until  we  have  first  put  a  rein  upon 
those  unbridled  horses  of  yours,  that  are  upon  the  Pomh 
of  your  Evangelist  St  Hiark.  When  we  have  bridled  them, 
we  shall  keep  you  quiet  And  this  is  the  pleasure  ofnsaad 
of  our  commune.  As  for  these  my  brotf»er8  of  Genoa,  tet 
you  have  brought  with  you  to  give  up  tons,  I  will  not  hava 
them :  take  them  back;  for  in  a  few  days  hence  I  shaOcosae 
and  let  them  out  of  prison  myself,  both  these  and  aH  the 
others."  In  fhct,  the  Genoese  did  advance  as  fhr  as  31a- 
lamocco,  within  five  miles  of  the  capital ;  but  their  own 
danger  and  the  pride  of  their  enemies  gave  c»nrage  toihe 
Venetians,  -who  made  prodigious  eflforts,  and  nmny  indi- 
vidual sacrifices,  all  of  them  carefully  recorded  by  thek 
historians.  Vettor  Pisani  was  put  at  the  head  ofthii^ 
four  galleys.  The  Genoese  broke  up  from  Maiamoeoo^ 
and  retired  to  Chioza  in  October ;  but  they  again  thnal* 
ened  Venice,  which  was  reduced  to  extremities.  At  tkb 
time,  the  1st  of  January,  1380,  arrived  Carlo  Zeno,  who 
had  been  cruising  on  the  Genoese  coast  with  foorieen gat- 
leys.  The  Venetians  were  now  strong  enough  to  besme 
the  Genoese.  Doria  was  killed  on  the  22d  of  JanQaiy% 
a  stone  bullet  195  pounds  weight,  discharged  firomabom- 
bard  called  the  Trevisan.  Chioza  was  then  closely  investodt 
dOOO  auxiliaries,  amongst  whom  were  some  BngllriiCan^ 
dottieri,  commanded  by  one  Captain  Ceccho,  j<NaeA^ 
Venetians.  The  Genoese  in  their  turn,  prayed  for j^ 
tions,  but  none  were  granted,  until,  at  last,  they^p 
dered  at  discretion;  and,  on  the  24th  of  June,  iMti 
Doge  Contarini  made  his  triumplial  entry  into  < 
Four  thousand  prisoners,  nineteen  galleys,  many  i 
vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  ammunition  and  arms,  aal 


*)  *'Fktp0tentium  m  mmde  Adrieaicie  rsnjrif  ia^ 
ttreo  praAce,  Hireum  mmkigont,  Bf*emiiumprifmi^ 
hunty  adifieim  denigrabunt;  epoHm  duporgentmr,Uirtuf 
novue  halahit  u$^  dum  uv  pedes  et  ix  poihen^sewm 
prwjaeiincrsd'ibfcarfaMt'Xvhrooio^md^pmxzxiv.] 


MOSBg  TO  OIBLDB  OlMUjyB  PlUmMAOS. 


717 


mmudibe  expedition,  fell  ibIdIIm  faMidt  of  theeonqoer- 
wsy  who,  had  it  not  been  for  the  inexorable  answer  of 
[>oria,  would  have  gladly  redaoed  their  dominion  to  the 
Uj  of  Venice.  An  account  of  these  transactiona  is  found 
B  a  work  called  the  War  of  Chioza,  written  by  Daniel 
SilnaszOy  whotwas  in  Yenioe  at  the  time. 

7%e  ''Planter  of  the  JUon."    [p,  34.  St  14. 
Plant  the  Zion— that  is,  tlie  Lion  of  St  Mark,  the^tand- 
trd  of  the  republic,  which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pan- 
aloon— Pianta-leone,  Pantaleon,  Pantaloon. 

OTm  streets  tmd/oreian  aspects,  such  as  mvsi 
jfbo  ofi  remind  her  who  ana  what  enthrals.      ^ 

[p.  34.  St  15. 

The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
sentury  amounted  to  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  soub. 
it  the  last  census,  taken  two  years  ago,  it  was  no  more 
han  about  one  hundred  and  three  thousand,  and  it  dimi- 
lisbes  daily.  The  commerce  and  the  official  employments, 
vlucb  were  to  be  the  unexhausted  source  of  Venetian 
^ndeur,  have  both  expired*).  Most  of  the  patrician 
nanaions  are  deserted,  and  would  gradually  disappear, 
lad  not  the  government,  alarmed  by  the  demolition  ofse- 
renty-two,  during  the  last  two  years,  expressly  forbidden 
his  sad  resource  of  poverty.  Many  remnants  of  the  Ve* 
letian  nobility  are  now  scattered  and  confounded  witli 
he  wealthier  Jews  upon  the  banks  oftheBrenta,  whose 
Palladian  palaces  have  suuIl,  or  are  sinking,  in  the  gene- 
■al  decay.  Of  the  **gentil  uomo  Veneto,"  the  name  is  still 
cnown,  and  that  is  alL  He  is  but  the  shadow  of  his  former 
leif,  but  he  is  polite  and  kind.  It  surely  may  be  pardoned 
o  1dm  if  he  is  querulous.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
rices  of  the  republic,  and  although  the  natural  term  of  its 
rustence  may  be  thought  to  foreigners  to  have  arrived  in 
he  due  course  of  mortality,  only  one  sentiment  can  beex- 
»ected  from  the  Venetians  themselves.  At  no  time  were 
he  subjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in  their  resolu- 
ion  to  rally  round  the  standard  of  St  Mark,  as  when  it 
ras  for  the  last  time  unfurled;  and  the  cowardice  and 
he  treachery  of  the  few  patridans  who  recommended  the 
htal  neutrality,  were  oonOned  to  the  persons  of  the  traitors 
hemselves. 

The  present  race  cannot  be  thought  to  regret  the  loss 
if  their  aristocratical  forms,  and  too  despotic  government; 
hey  think  only  on  their  vanished  independence.  They  pine 
iwayatthe  remembrance,  and  on  this  subject  suspend 
'or  a  moment  their  gay  good- humour.  Venice  may  be 
Kid,  in  the  words  of  the  scripture, /*to  die  daily ;"  and  so 
general andso  apparentis  the  decline,  as  to  become  painful 
iO  a  stranger,  not  reconciled  to  the  sight  of  a  whole  nation 
spiring  as  it  were  before  his  eyes.  So  artificial  a  creation, 
laving  lost  that  principle  which  called  it  into  life  and  sup- 
Kirted  its  existence,  must  fall  to  pieces  at  once ,  and  sink 
norerapidly  thanitrose.  The  abhorrence  of  slavery  which 
Irove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has,  since  their  disaster, 
breed  them  to  the  land,  where  they  may  be  at  least  over- 
ooked  amongst  tiie  crowd  of  dependants,  and  not  present 
he  humiliating  spectacle  of  a  whole  nation  loaded  with 
tceat  chains.  Their  liveliness,  their  affability,  and  that 
lappy  indifference  which  constitution  alone  can  give,  for 
diilosophy  aspires  to  it  in  vain,  have  not  sunk  under  oir- 
jWBStanoes;  but  many  peculiarities  of  costume  and  man- 
■Miave  by  degrees  been  lost,  and  the  nobles,  with  a  pride 
NNnmon  to  all  Italians  who  have  been  masters, have  not 
leen  persuaded  to  parade  their  insignificance.  That  spleur 
lour,  which  was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of  their  power. 


*)  '^onnullomm  e  nobilitate  immensas  sunt  opes, 
adeo  ttt  vix  nstimari  possint:  id  quod  tribus  e  rebus 
oritur,  parsimonia,  tsommercio,  atque  iis  emolumen- 
tis,  qu»e  Repub.  percipiunt,  qiue  hancob  causam  diu- 
turoa  fore  creditur."— See  de  Principatibus  Italiw 
Tractatua»<rtit  1631. 


they  wowld  not  degnde  into  (he  trappings  of  their  8Qh» 
jectiott.  They  retired  fVom  the  space  uhii-h  they  had  oe- 
oopied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow  -citiscns ;  their  continu* 
anoe  in  which  would  have  been  a  symptom  of  acquies- 
cence, andan  insult  to  those  who  suffered  by  the  common 
misfbrtune.  Those  who  remained  in  the  degraded  capi- 
tal, might  be  said  rather  to  haunt  the  scenes  of  their  de- 
parted power,  than  to  live  in  them.  The  reflection ,  '*who 
and  what  enthrals,''  will  hardly  bear  a  comment  from  one 
who  is^  nationally,  the  friend  and  the  ally  of  the  conquer^ 
or.  It  may,  however,  be  allowed  to  say  thus  much,  that, 
to  those  who  wish  to  recover  their  independence  any 
masters  most  be  an  object  of  detestation ;  and  it  may  be 
safely  foretold  that  this  unprofitable  aversion  w  ill  not  have 
been  corrected  before  Venice  shaU  have  sunk  into  the 
slime  of  her  choked  canals. 

Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 

fp.34.Stie. 
The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

And  Otwa^,  Radehffe^  Schiller,  Shahspeare's  arL 

[p.  34.  St  18. 
Venice  Preserved;  Mysteries  of  Udofpho:  the  Ghost* 
seer,  or  Armenian;  the  Merchant  of  Venice;  Othello. 

But/rom  their  TUUure  will  the  tannen  prow 
Lo/Hest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rochs. 

[p.  34.  St  20. 
Tannen  is  the  plural  of  tanne,  a  species  of  fir  peculiar 
to  the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts,  where 
scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  be  found. 
On  these  spots  it  grows  to  a  greater  height  than  any  other 
mountain-tree. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reipns 
WUh  her  o'er  half  the  lovefy  heaven. 

[p.  36.  St  28. 
The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exag- 
gerated to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  an 
Italian  sky,  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  sufficient  der 
lineation  of  an  August-evening  (the  eighteenth),  as  con- 
templated in  one  of  many  rides  along  the  banks  of  the 
Brenta  near  La  Mira. 

Watering  the  tree  which  hears  his  ladjfs  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame, 

[p.  35.  St  30. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotchman,  we  now 
know  as  littie  of  Laura  as  ever.  The  discoveries  of  the 
Abb^  de  Sade,  his  triumphs,  his  sneers,  can  no  longer 
instruct  or  amuse.  We  must  not,  however,  think  that 
the^e  memoirs  are  as  much  a  romance  as  BeKsarius  or 
the  Incas,  although  we  are  told  so  by  Dr.  Beattie,  a  great 
name,  but  a  littie  authority.  His  '*labour"  has  not  been 
in  vain,  notwithstanding  his  "love"  has,  like  most  other 
pasaions,  made  him  ridiculous.  *)  Tlie  hypothesis  which 
overpowered  the  struggling  Italians,  and  carried  along 
less  interested  critics  m  its  current,  is  run  out  We  have 
another  proof  tiiat  we  can  never  be  sure  that  the  paradox, 
the  mostsingular,  and  therefore  having  the  most  agreeable 
and  authentic  air,  will  not  give  place  to  there-established 
andcnt  prejudice. 

It  seems|l|ien,  first,  that  Laura  was  born,  lived,  died, 
and  was  buned,  not  in  Avignon,  but  in  the  country.  The 
fountains  of  the  Sorga,  the  thickets  of  Cabri^res,  may 
resume  their  pretensions,  and  the  exploded  de  U  Bastie 
again  be  heard  with  complacency.  The  hypothesis  of  the 
Abbe  bad  no  stronger  props  than  the  parchment  sonnet 
and  medal  found  on  the  skeleton  of  the  wife  of  Hugo  de 
Sade^  and  the  manuscript-note  to  the  Viigil  of  Petrarch^ 


*)  Mr.  Gibbon  called  his  Memoirs  ''«  lakour  of 
love,"  and  followed  him  with  confidence  and  delight 
The  compiler  of  a  very  voluminous  work  must  tel  c 
much  criticism  upon  trust;  Mr.  Gibbon  has  done  so, 
though  not  so  readily  as  some  other  aothors. 


7ia 


NOTES  TO  GHUJ>B  HAROUyS  FUJGMXMXQB. 


now  10  tJie  Ambrosiao  library.  If  these  proofr  were  both 
incontestable,  the  poetry  was  written,  the  medal  com- 
posed, cast,  and  deposited,  within  the  space  of  twelve 
hours;  and  these  deliberate  duties  were  performed  round 
the  carcass  of  one  who  died  of  the  pla|[^ue,  and  was  hur- 
ried to  the  grave  on  the  day  of  her  death.  These  docu- 
ments, therefore,  are  too  decisive:  they  prove,  not  the 
Ceust,  but  the  forgery.  Either  the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian 
note  must  be  a  falsification.  The  Abbe  cites  both  as  in- 
eontestably  true;  the  consequent  deduction  is  inevitable — 
diey  are  both  evidently  false. 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a  hau|f hty 
vir^n  rather  than  that  teaubr  and  pnuUnt  wife  who  hon- 
oured Avig^non  by  making  that  town  the  theatreof  an  honest 
French  passion,  and  played  off  for  one-and-twenty  years 
her  Uute  machinery  of  alternate  fiivours  and  refusals  *) 
upon  the  first  poet  of  the  age.  It  was,  indeed,  rather  too 
unfair  that  a  female  should  be  made  responsible  for  eleven 
children  upon  the  faith  of  a  misinterpreted  abbreviation, 
and  the  decision  of  a  librarian.  **)  It  is,  however,  satis- 
fhctory  to  think  that  the  love  of  Petrarch  was  not  platonic 
The  happiness  which  he  prayed  to  possess  but  once  and 
fbr  a  moment  was  surely  not  of  tlie  mind,***^  and  some- 
thing so  very  real  as  a  marriage -project,  with  one  who 
has  been  idly  called  a  shadowy  nymph,  may  be,  perhaps, 
detected  in  at  least  six  places  of  his  own  sonnets.  The 
love  of  Petrarch  was  neither  platonic  nor  poetical;  and 
if  in  one  passage  of  his  works  he  calls  it  *^amore  veemen- 
tcissimo  ma  unico  ed  onestu,"  he  confesses ,  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend,  that  it  was  guilty  and  perverse,  that  it  absor- 
bed him  quite,  and  mastered  his  heart  f) 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for  the 
oulpability  of  his^  wishes;  for  the  Abbe  de  Sade  himself, 
who  certainly  would  not  have  been  scrupulously  delicate, 
if  he  could  have  proved  his  descent  from  Petrarch  as  well 
as  Laura,  is  forced  into  a  stout  defence  of  his  virtuous 
grand-mother.  As  for  as  relates  to  the  poet,  we  have  no 
security  for  the  innocence,  except  perhaps  in  the  con- 
stancy of  his  pursuit  He  assures  us  in  his  epistle  to  pos- 
terity that,  when  arrived  at  his  fortieth  year,  he  not  only 
had  m  horror,  but  had  lost  all  recollection  and  image  of 
any  *^irregularity."tt)  But  the  birth  of  his  natural  daugh- 
ter cannot  be  assigned  earlier  than  his  thirty-ninth  year; 
and  either  the  memory  or  the  morality  of  the  poet  must 
have  failed  him,  when  he  forgot  or  was  guilty  of  this  tUp. 


*)  <<Par  oe  petit  man^,  oette  alternative  de 
foveurs  et  de  rigueurs  bien  m^nag^,  une  femme  tendre 
et  sage  amnse,  pendant  ringt-un  ans,  le  plus  grand 
po^te  deson  si^le,  sans  foire  la  moindre  brdche  k  son 
honnenr.^'  The  Italian  editor  of  the  London  edition  of 
Petrarch ,  who  has  translated  Lord  Woodhouselee, 
renders  the' Yenune  tendre  et  sage"  **raffinata  eivetia," 

**)  In  a  diaologue  with  St  Augustin,  Petrarch 
has  described  Laura  as  having  a  body  exhausted  with 
repeated  ptubs.  The  old  editors  read  and  printed 
perturhatUnUhuM ;  but  Mr.  Capperonier,  librarian  to 
the  French  King  in  1702,  who  saw  the  MS.  in  the 
Paris  library,  made  an  attestation  that  "m  Hi  et  qu*on 
doit  Ure,  partuhu  exhawtum"  De  Saoe  joined  the 
names  of  Messrs.  Boudot  and  Bejot  with  Mr.  Cap- 
peronier, and  in  the  whole  discussion  on  this  ptubt 
showed  himselfa  downright  literary  rogue.  Thomas 
Aquinas  is  called  in  to  settle  whether  Petrarch's  mis^ 
tress  was  a  chaste  maid  or  a  continent  wife. 

•♦♦)  Pigmallon,  c|uanto  lodar  ti  del 
Deir  immagme  tna,  se  mille  yolte 
N'  avesti  quel  ch'  i'  sol  una  vorreL 

t)  Quetia  rea  e  perversa  passione  oho  solo  tatio 
mi  oooupava  e  mi  regnava  nel  caore. 

+t)  Azion  disoneeta  arc  his  words. 


The  weakest  aigmnent  for  the  purity  of  Us  love  kui  I 
drawn  from  the  permanence  of  effects,  whi^  sunriv 
object  of  his  passion.  The  reflexion  of  Mr.  de  la  ! 
that  virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impressiOBS  \ 
death  cannot  elfiice,  is  one  of  those  which  every  L  ^^^ 
applauds,  and  every  body  finds  not  to  be  trae^  the«i» 
ment  he  examines  his  own  breast  or  the  records  oC  ii^ 
man  feeling.  Such  apophthegms  can  do  nothii^  forRs^ 
trarch  or  for  the  cause  of  morality,  except  with  the  WB 
weak  and  the  very  young.  He  that  has  made  erea  a  In 
progress  beyond  ignorance  and  pupilage,  cannot  be  eS* 
fied  with  any  thing  but  truth.  What  is  called  vindkatiH 
the  honour  of  an  individual  or  a  nation,  b  the  most  fitfk^ 
tedious,  and  uninstructive  of  all  writing;  although  it  ■■ 
always  meet  with  more  applause  than  that  sober  criticMi^ 
which  is  attributed  to  the  malicious  desire  of  redaoHa 
great  man  to  the  common  standard  of  humanity,  tt^ 
after  all,  not  unlikely,  that  our  historian  was  right  ia  ip^ 
taining  his  fovorite  hypothetic  salvo,  which  secures  At 
author,  although  it  scarcely  saves  the  honour  of  the  iffil 
unknown  mistress  of  Petrarch.  *) 

l%ey  keep  kii  dust  in  Arqmi,  whtrt  he  died. 

[p.35uSt3l. 

Petrarch  retired  to  Arqui  immediately  oo  his  relm 
fh>m  the  unsuccessful  attempt  to  visit  Urban  V.  at  UUMmt, 
in  the  year  1370,  and,  with  the  exception  offais  oelebraled 
visit  to  Venice  in  company  with  Francesco*  Noveiio  da 
Carrara,  he  appears  to  have  passed  the  four  last  years  of 
his  life  between  that  charming  solitude  and  Padaa.  ^sr 
four  months  previous  to  his  death  he  was  in  a  state  ofeea- 
tinual  languor,  and  in  the  morning  of  July  the  19fh»  la 
the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his  library-chair  with  ib 
head  resting  upon  a  book.  The  chair  is  still  showa 
amongst  the  precious  relics  of  Arqni,  which,  fran  Ae 
uninterrupted  veneration  that  has  been  attached  to  eveqr 
thing  relative  to  this  great  man  from  the  moment  of  his 
death  to  the  present  hour,  have,  it  may  be  hoped,  a  I 
chance  of  authenticity  than  the  Shakspcarian  i 
of  Stratford  upon  Avon. 

Arqui  (for  the  last  syllable  Is  aocentedin  pronnaciatiOBi 
although  the  analogy  of  the  English  language  lias  hea 
observed  in  the  verse)  is  twelve  miles  from  Padua,  and 
about  three  miles  on  the  right  of  the  high  road  toRorrigo^ 
in  the  bosom  of  theEoganean  hills.  After  a  walk  (rf'tweoty 
minutes,  across  a  flat  well-wooded  meadow,  yon  eomets 
a  little  blue  lake,  clear  but  fothomless,  and  to  the  foollf 
a  succession  of  activities  and  hills,  clothed  with  via^ 
yards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir  and  pom^ranate^eei^ 
and  every  sunny  fruit-shrub.  From  the  hanks  of  the  taki 
the  road  winds  into  the  hills,  and  the  church  of  Arqui  is 
soon  seen  between  a  cleft  where  two  ridges  slope  towwdl 
each  other,  and  nearly  inclose  the  villajpe.  The  houses  are 
scattered  at  untervals  on  the  steep  sides  of  these  summils; 
and  that  of  the  poet  is  on  the  edge  of  a  little  knoll  over- 
looking two  descents,  and  commanding  a  view  not  only 
of  the  glowing  gardens  in  the  dales  immediately  beaeatl^ 
but  of  the  wide  plains,  above  whose  low  woods  of  mul- 
berry and  willow,  tiiiokened  into  a  dark  mass  bj  festooM 
of  vines,  tall  single  cypresses,  and  the  spires  of  towns  sr 
seen  in  the  distance,  which  stretches  to  the  montiis  of  the 
Po  and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  The  climate  of  theie 
volcanic  hills  is  wanner,  and  the  vintage  begins  a  week 
sooner  than  in  the  plains  of  Padua.  Petrarch  is  laid,  HI 
he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a  sarcophagus  of  lei 
marble,  raised  on  four  pilasters  on  an  elevated  base,  aad 
preserved  from  an  association  with  meaner  tombs,  tt 
stands  conspicuously  alone,  but  will  be  soon  over- 
shadowed by  four  hitely  planted  laurels.  Petrarch's  f 


*)  ''And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  Laura  was 
inexorable,  be  enjoyed,  and  might  boast  of  en^yiag 
the  nymph  of  poetry."  Gibbon,  Perhaps  tlie  if  is  hcfc 
meant  for  although,  • 


NOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIM  AGE. 


719 


hi,  fb€  here  ererj  tbingr  is  Petrarch's,  springs  and  ex- 
ands  itself  hcneath  an  artiliciaJ  arch,  a  little  below  the 
kardi,  and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  driest  season,  with 
ImiI  soft  water  which  was  the  ancient  wealth  of  tlieEuga- 
saa  hills.  It  would  be  more  attractive,  were  it  not,  in 
one  seasons,  beset  with  hornets  and  wasps.  No  other 
oineidenoe  could  assimilate  the  tombs  of  Petrarch  and 
LTchilcehus.  The  revolutions  of  centuries  have  spared 
Itese  sequestered  vallies,and  the  only  violence  which  has 
cen  ofiered  to  the  ashes  of  Petrarch  was  prompted,  not 
y  hate,  but  veneration.  An  attempt  was  made  to  rob  the 
ircopliagus  of  its  treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  sto- 
»  by  ft  Florentine  through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible. 
1m  injury  is  not  forgotten,  but  has  served  to  identify  the 
oet  with  the  country  where  he  was  born,  but  where  he 
ronid  not  live.  A  peasant-boy  of  Arquii  being  asked  who 
Petrarch  was,  replied,  '^at  the  people  of  the  parsonage 
new  all  about  him,  but  that  he  only  knew  that  be  was  a 
lorentine.^' 

Mr.  Forsyth  was  not  quite  correct  in  saying,  that  Pe- 
rarcb  never  returned  to  Tuscany  after  he  had  once  quit- 
ed  it  when  a  boy.  It  appears  be  did  pass  through  Flo- 
mce  on  his  way  from  Parma  to  Rome,  and  on  his  return 
1  the  year  1350,  and  remained  there  long  enough  to  form 
Offle  acquaintance  with  its  most  distinguished  inbabi- 
ints.  A  Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the  aversion 
f  the  poet  for  his  native  country,  was  eager  to  poiot  out 
Us  trivial  error  in  our  aooomplished  traveller,  whom  he 
aeW  and  respeeted  for  an  extraordinary  capacity,  ex- 
msiTe  erudition,  and  refined  taste,  joined  to  that  enga- 
ing  simplicity  of  manners  which  has  been  so  fteqnently 
Bcognized  as  the  surest^  though  it  Is  certainly  not  an  in- 
ispensable,  trait  of  superior  genius. 

Bvery  footstep  of  Laura's  lover  has  been  anxiously 
raced  and  recorded.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  is 
town  in  Venice.  The  inhabitants  of  Arezzo,  in  order  to 
eeide  the  ancient  controversy  between  their  city  and  the 
eaghbouring  Ancisa,  where  Petrarch  was  carried  when 
sven  months  old,  and  remained  until  his  seventh  year, 
■ve  designated  by  along  inscription  the  spot  where  their 
reat  feUow-oitisen  was  bom.  A  tablet  has  been  raised  to 
ha  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St  Agatha,  at  the  cathe- 
ni,  because  he  was  archdeacon  of  that  society,  and  was 
aiy  snatched  from  his  intended  sepulture  in  their  church 
J  ^foreign  death.  Another  tablet  with  a  bust  has  been 
rected  to  him  at  Pavia,  on  account  of  his  having  passed 
le  antumn  of  1368  in  that  city,  with  his  sou-in*law  Bros- 
uio.  The  political  condition,  which  lias  fur  ages  preolu- 
ed  the  Italians  from  the  criticism  of  tlic  living,  has  con- 
nitrated  their  attention  to  the  illustration  of  the  dead, 
he  tablet  at  Parma  is  as  follows : 

D.  O.  M. 

Francisco  Petrarchee 

Parmensi  Archidiacono. 

Psrentibus  praoclaris  genere  perantiquo 

Bthiccs  ChristlanaD  scriptori  eximio 

Romann  linguas  restitutori 

Etruscae  principi 

Africac  oh  carmen  faac  in  urbe  peractum 

regibus  accito 

S.  P.  Q.  R.  faiurea  donato 

Tanti  Vlri 

Juvenrlium  juvenis  senilinm  senex 

Studiosissimus 

Comes  Nicolaus  Oanonicus  Cioognarus 

Marmorea  proxima  ara  exoitata 

Ibique  condito 

Divas  Januarias  cruento  oorporc 

H.M.P. 

Sufiectum 

Sed  infra  meritnm  Francisd  sepulchro 

Summa  hac  in  aide  efierri  mandantis 

8i  Parmss  ooeumberet 

Bxtera  mofle  hea  nobis  erepti. 


Or,  t^  matf  he,  with  dtmom.  [p.  35.  £t  34. 
The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons 
as  with  our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilderness 
for  the  temptationof  our  Saviour.  And  our  unsullied  John 
Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  child  to  complete  so- 
litude. 

Jnfate  of  all  kit  foes,  the  Crutean  quire. 
And  Boileem,  whose  rash  envtf  —  [p.  36.  St.  38. 

Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreciates 
Tasso  may  serve  as  well  as  any  other  specimen  to  justify 
the  opinion  given  of  the  harmony  of  French  verse : 
A  Malherbe,  k  Racan  pr£f<£rer  Th^phile, 
£t  le  clinquant  dn  Tasse  k  tout  Tor  de  Virgile. 
Sat  u.  176. 
The  biographer  Serassi,  out  of  tenderness  to  the  reputation 
either  of  the  Italian  or  the  French  poet,  is'eager  to  observe 
that  the  satirist  recanted  or  explained  away  this  censure, 
and  subsequently  allowed  the  author  of  the  Jerusalem 
to  be  a  ^'genius,  sublime,  yast,  and  happily  born  for  the 
higher  flights  of  poetry."  Tp  this  we  will  add,  that  the. 
recantation  is  for  from  satisfactory,  when  we  examine  the 
whole  anecdote  as  reported  by  Olivet  The  sentence  pro- 
nounced against  him  by  Bohours,  is  recorded  only  to  the 
confusion  of  the  critic,  ythose  palinodia  the  Italian  makes 
no  effort  to  discover,  and  would  not  perhaps  accept  As 
to  the  opposition  which  the  Jerusalem  encountered  from 
the  Cmscan  academy,  who  degraded  Tasso  from  all  com- 
petition with  Ariosto,  below  Bojardo  and  Pulci,  the  dis- 
grace of  such  opposition  must  also  in  some  measure  be 
laid  to  the  charge  of  Alphonso ,  and  the  court  of  Ferrara. 
For  Leonard  Salviati,  the  principal  and  nearlv  the  sole 
origin  of  this  attack,  was,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  influenced 
by  a  hope  to  acquire  the  favour  of  the  House  of  Este :  an 
object  which  he  tbou^t  attainable  by  exalting  the  repu- 
tation of  a  native  poet  at  the  expense  of  a  rival,  then  a  prU 
soner  of  state.  The  hopes  and  efforts  ofSalviati  must  serve 
to  show  the  cotemporary  opinion  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
poet's  imprisonment ;  and  will  fill  up  the  measure  of  our 
indignation  at  the  tyrant-jailor.  In  fact,  the  antagonist  of 
Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the  reception  given  to  bis 
criticism;  he  was  called  to  the  court  of  Ferrara,  where, 
having  endeavoured  to  heighten  his  claims  to  favour,  by 
panegyrics  on  the  family  of  his  sovereign,  he  was  in  his 
turn  abandoned,  and  expired  in  neglected  poverty.  The 
opposition  of  the  Cruscans  was  brought  to  a  close  in  six 
years  after  the  commenooment  of  the  controversy,  and  if 
the  academy  owed  its  first  renown  to  having  almost  opened 
with  such  a  paradox;  it  is  probable  that,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  care  of  his  reputation  alleviated  ratiier  than  ag<- 
gravated  the  imprisonment  of  the  ii^ured  poet  The  de- 
fence of  his  father  and  of  liimself ,  for  both  were  involved 
in  the  censore  ofSalviati,  found  employment  for  many 
of  his  solitary  hoars,  and  the  captive  oould  have  been  but 
little  embarrassed  to  reply  to  accusations,  where,  amongst 
other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invidiously 
omitting,  in  his  comparison  between  France  and  Italy,  to 
make  any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St  Maria  del  Fiore  at 
Florence.  The  late  biographer  of  Ariosto  seems  as  if  wil- 
ling to  renew  the  controversy  by  doubting  the  interpreta- 
tion of  Tasso's  self-estimation,  related  in  Serassi's  life  of 
the  poet  But  Tiraboschi  had  before  laid  that  rivalry  at 
rest,  by  showing,  that  between  Ariosto  and  Tasso  it  is  not 
a  question  of  comparison,  but  of  preference. 

The  Uyhtning  rent  from  Ariotto*s  bust 
The  iron  crown  ofUureFs  mimi^d  leuoe$» 

[p.  86. 8t  41. 
Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  were  removed  fttmi  the 
Benedictine  church  to  the  library  of  Ferrara,  his  bust, 
whidi  surmounted  the  tomb,  was  struck  by  lightning,  and 
a  crown  of  iron  laurels  melted  away.  The  event  has  been 
recorded  by  a  writer  of  the  last  century.  The  transfer  of 
these  sacred  ashes  on  the  6th  of  June  1801  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  speetaeles  of  the  shortlived  Italian  Repub- 
lic, and  to  eonseerate  the  memory  of  theoeronony,  the 


720 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  P1LGRUCA6B. 


once  fiunoiu  feUen  Intrepidi  were  revived  and  reformed 
Into  the  Ariostean  academy.  The  large  public  place  through 
which  the  proceasion  paraded  was  theo  for  the  first  time 
called  Ariosto  Square.  The  author  of  the  Orlando  is  jeal- 
ously claimed  as  the  Homer,  not  of  Italy,  but  Ferrara. 
The  mother  of  Ariosto  was  ofRegg;io,  and  tlie  house  in 
which  he  was  bora  is  carefttliy  distinguished  by  a  tablet 
with  these  words :  "Qui  naeqtie  Ludovico  Ariosto  ilgiomo 
8  di  Seitemhre  deW^anno  1474."  But  the  Fcrrarese  make 
light  of  the  accident  by  which  theirpoet  was  bom  abroad, 
and  claim  him  exclusively  for  their  own.  They  possess 
his  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chair,  and  his  inkstand,  and 
his  autographs  — 

*^ Hie  illius  arma. 

Hie  currus  fuit *' 

The  house  where  he  lived ,  the  room  where  he  died,  are' 
designated  by  his  own  replaced  memorial*), and  by  a  re- 
cent inscription.  The  Ferrarese  are  more  jealous  of  their 
claims  since  the  animosity  of  Denina,  arising  from  a  cause 
which  their  apologists  mysteriously  hint  is  not  unknown 
to  them,  ventured  to  degrade  their  soil  and  climate  to  a 
Boeotian  incapacity  for  all  spiritual  productions.  A  quarto 
volume  has  been  called  forth  by  the  detraction,  and  this 
supplement  to  Barotti's  Memoirs  of  tlie  illustrious  Fer- 
rarese has  been  considered  a  triumphant  reply  to  the 
''Quadro  Storico  Statistico  deli'  Alta  Italia." 

For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  holt  of  thunder  cleaves, 

•^  [p.  36.  St  41- 

The  eagle,  the  sea-calf,  the  laurel ,  and  the  white  vine, 
were  amongst  the  most  approved  preservatives  against 
lightning:  Jupiter  chose  the  first,  Augustas  Caesar  the  se- 
cond, and  Tiberius  never  failed  to  wear  a  wreath  of  the 
third  when  the  sky  threatened  a  thunder-storm.  These 
superstitions  may  be  received  without  a  sneer  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  magical  properties  of  the  hazel-twig  have 
not  lost  all  thdr  credit ;  and  perhaps  the  reader  may  not 
be  much  surprised  to  find  that  t  commentator  on  Sueto- 
nius has  taken  upon  himself  gravely  to  disprove  the  im- 
puted virtues  of  the  crown  of  Tiberius,  by  mentioning 
that,  a  few  years  before  he  wrote,  a  laurel  was  actually 
struck  by  lightning  at  Rome. 

Know,  that  the  Ughtmng  samctiftes  below, 

[p.8e.St41. 

TheCurtianhikeandtheRamiiial  fig-tree  in  the  Forum, 
having  been  touched  by  ligbtning,  were  held  sacred,  and 
the  memory  of  the  aoradent  was  preserved  by  a  puteal,  or 
altar,  resembiing  the  mouth  of  a  well,  with  a  little  chapel 
eoveringthe  cavity  supposed  to  be  made  by  the  thunder- 
lK>lt  Bodies  scathed  and  persons  struck  dead  were  thought 
to  be  inoorrnptibie :  imd  a  stroke  not  fotal  conferred  per- 
petual dignity  upon  the  man  so  distinguished  by  heaven. 

Those  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapped  in  a  white  gar- 
ment, and  buried  where  they  feM.  The  superstition  was 
not  confined  to  the  worshippers  of  Jupiter  :theLombards 
believed  in  the  omens  ftirnished  by  ligbtning,  and  a  Chris- 
tian priest  confesses  that,  by  a  diabolical  skill  in  interpret- 
ing thunder,  a  seer  foretold  to  Agilulf,  duke  of  Turin,  an 
event  which  came  to  pass ,  and  gave  him  a  queen  and  a 
crown.  There  was,  however,  something  equivocal  in  this 
sign,  which  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Rome  did  not  al- 
ways consider  propitious;  and  as  the  fears  are  likely. to 
last  longer  than  the  consolations  of  superstition ,  it  is  not 
strange  that  the  Romans  of  the  age  of  Leo  X.  should  have 
been  so  much  terrified  at  some  misinterpreted  storms  as 
to  require  the  exhortations  of  a  scholar  who  arrayed  all 
the  learning  on  thunder  and  lightning  to  prove  the  omen 
favourable:  beginning  with  the  flash  which  struck  the 


*)  ''Parva,  sed  spta  mUii,  sed  nnlli  obnoxia,  aed  mm 
Sordida,  parta  meo  sed  tamen  nre  domus." 


walls  of  Yefitne,  and  including  that  which  played  upon  a 
gate  at  Florence,  and  foretold  the  pontificate  of  ooe  of  its 
citizens. 

IUlia,ohJ&aiimI  [p.36.St.^» 

The  two  stanzas,  42  aad  43,  are  with  the  exoeptioo  of 
a  line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of  Filka|a: 
*«Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  feo  b  sorte." 

Wandering  m  youth,  I  traced  the  path  t^him. 
The  Romanfriend  of  Home's  least  mortal  mind, 

[p.  36.  ^44. 

The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero  ob 
the  death  of  his  daughter  describes  as  it  then  was,  aad 
now  is,  a  path  which  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  foj  sea 
and  land,  in  different  journeys  and  voyages. 

'^n  my  return  from  Asia,  as  I  was  sailing  frmnJB^sm 
towards  Megarai  I  began  to  contemplate  the  prospect  d 
the  countries  around  me:  iEginawas  behind,  Megara. be- 
fore me  ;  Piraeus  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the  left;  all  mhiA 
towns,  once  famous  and  flourishing,  now  lie  overturned 
and  buried  in  their  ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  I  could  not 
but  think  presently  within  myself:  Alas !  how  do  we  poor 
mortals  Iret  and  vex  ourselves  if  any  of  our  friends  bappea 
to  die  or  be  killed,  whose  life  is  yet  so  short,  whentbecar> 
casses  of  so  many  noble  dtics  lie  here  exposed  before  me 
in  one  view." 

— And  we  pass 
The  skeUton  tfher  Titanic  forwiu 

[p.3aSit4fiL 

It  is  Poggio  who.  looking  from  theCapitolioe  bill  npQ» 

rained  Rome,  breaks  ibrthinto  the  exdamatioa :  *^Ut  mmm 

omni  decor  e  nudata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar  gigantci  cm  da* 

veris  oorrupti  atque  undique  exesL" 

There  too  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone, 

[p.  36.  St  491 
The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicb  instantly  si^ggttli 
the  lines  in  the  Seasons,  and  the  comparison  of  tbe  object 
with  tlie  description  proves,  not  only  the  correctness  of 
the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn  of  thought,  and,  if  Ihb 
term  may  be  used,  thesexual  imagination  of  the  dcsctip^ve 
poet.  Tfaesameoondusion  may  be  deduced  from  anotlHr 
hint  in  the  sameepisode  of  Musidora;  for  Thomson's  no* 
tion  of  the  privileges  of  fovoured  lovemusthavebeeaeiliMr 
very  primitive,  or  rather  deficient  in  delicacy,  wben  be 
made  his  grateful  nymph  inform  her  discreet  Damon  Ifait 
in  sotne  happier  moment  he  might  perhaps  be  tbe  com> 
panion  of  her  bath: 

"The  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly." 
The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  tbe  life  «C 
Dr.  Johnson.  We  will  not  leave  the  Florentine  gaBoy 
without  a  word  on  the  Whettor.  It  seems  strange  that  <fae 
character  of  that  disputed  statue  shoold  not  be  cnlM^ 
decided,  at  least  in  the  mind  of  any  one  who  bas  aeena 
sarcophagus  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Basilica  of  St.  Pan! 
without  the  walls,  at  Rome,  where  the  whole  group  of  te 
feble  of  MArsyas  is  seen  in  tolerable  preservation  and  te 
Scythian  slave  whetting  the  knife  is  represented  esnecy 
in  the  same  positioa  as  this  celebrated  masterpieoe.  lbs 
slave  is  not  naked:  but  it  is  easier  togetridof  tiiiadififlri' 
ty  than  to  suppose  the  knife  in  tbe  band  of  tbe  FlfMHiiiinr 
statue  an  instrument  for  shaving,  which  it  must  bc^l^Si 
Lanzi  supposes,  the  man  is  no  other  than  tbe  baiter  «f 
Julius  Cttsar.  Winkelmann,  illustrating  a  basrefiefcf  He 
same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agostfri, 
and  his  authority  might  have  been  thought  condnsiv^ 
even  if  the  resemblance  did  not  strike  the  most  careits 
observer. 

Amongst  the  bronzes  of  tiie  same  princely  ooUeetion,  k 
still  to  be  seen  the  inscribed  tabletoopied  andcommenlMl 
upon  by  Mr.  Gibbon.  Our  historian  ftmnd  aome  t^MMJ 
ties,  but  did  not  desist  from  his  illusttmtion;  be  nrf^ia 
vexed  to  hear  that  his  oritidism  bas  been  ttirown  away» 
an  Inscription  BOW  generally  reociinined  to  be  a  forgoy. 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIHAGB. 


721 


— His  Bjfes  to  thee  upturn. 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek! 

[p.  37.  St  51. 

''Atque  ocuJos  pascat  uterque  suos." 

Ovid.  Amor.  lib.  ii. 

In  Santa  Croce*s  holy  prednctt  lie, 

[p.  37.  St  64. 
This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of  those 
hose  tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into  the  centre 
r  pilgrimage,  the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her  whose  elo- 
nence  was  poured  over  the  illustrious  ashes,  and  whose 
Dice  is  now  as  mute  as  those  she  sung.  CoRrNNA  is  no 
K>re;  and  with  her  should  expire  the  fear,  the  flattery, 
nd  the  envy,  wliich  threw  too  dazzling  or  too  dark  a  cloud 
>and  the  march  of  genius,  and  forbad  the  steady  gaze  of 
isinterested  criticism.  We  have  her  picture  embellished 
r  distorted,  as  friendship  or  detraction  has  held  the  pen- 
il:  the  impartial  portrait  was  hardly  to  be  expected  from 
cotemporary.  The  immediate  voice  of  her  survivors  will, 
.  is  probable,  be  far  from  affording  a  just  estimate  of  her 
ingular  capacity.  The  gallantry,  the  love  of  wonder,  and 
le  hope  of  associated  fame,  which  blunted  the  edge  of 
msure,  must  cease  to  exist — The  dead  have  no  sex; 
icy  can  surprise  by  no  new  miracles;  they  can  confer  no 
rivilege;  Corinna  has  ceased  to  be  a  woman — she  is  only 
D  author :  and  it  may  be  foreseen  that  many  will  repay 
liemselves  for  former  complaisance  by  a  severity  to  which 
be  extravagance  of  previous  praises  may  perhaps  give 
le  colour  of  truth.  The  latest  posterity,  for  to  the  latest 
osterity  they  will  assuredly  descend,  will  have  to  pro- 
ounce  upon  her  various  productions;  and  the  longer  the 
ista  through  which  they  are  seen,  the  more  accurately 
linute  will  be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice,  of 
he  decision.  She  will  enter  into  that  existence  in  which 
lie  great  writers  of  all  ages  and  nations  are ,  as  it  were, 
ssociated  in  a  world  of  their  own,  and,  from  that  superior 
phere,  shed  their  eternal  influence  for  the  controul  and 
onsolation  of  mankind.  But  the  individual  will  gradually 
isappear  as  the  author  is  more  distinctly  seen;  someone, 
kerefore,  of  all  those  whom  the  charms  of  involuntary 
rity  and  of  easy  hospitality,  attracted  >vithin  the  friendly 
Ircies  of  Coppet,  should  rescue  from  oblivion  those  vir- 
MS  which,  although  they  are  said  to  love  the  shade,  are, 
1  fiust,  more  frequently  chilled  than  excited  by  the  donfts- 
ic  cares  of  private  life.  Some  one  should  be  found  to 
ourtray  the  unaffected  graces  with  which  she  adorned 
lose  dearer  relationships,  the  performance  of  whose  du- 
les  18  rather  discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than 
eea  in  the  outward  management,  of  family  intercourse; 
ad  which,  indeed,  it  requires  the  delicacy  of  genuine  af- 
ielion  to  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  indifferent  spectator. 
^me  oneshoold  be  found,  not  to  celebrate,  but  to  describe, 
be  amiable  mistress  of  an  open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a 
Dciety»  ever  varied,  and  always  pleased,  the  creator  of 
'hich,  divested  of  the  ambition  and  the  arts  ofpublicri- 
tlry ,  ahone  forth  only  to  give  fresh  animation  to  those 
nrand  her.  The  mother  tenderly  affectionate  and  ten* 
eriygenerous,but  still  esteemed^tbe  charitable  patroness 
fall  distress,  cannot  be  forgotten  by  those  whom  sheche- 
ished,  and  protected,  and  fed.  Her  loss  will  be  mourned 
le  most  where  she  was  known  the  best;  and,  to  tlic  sor- 
>ws  of  very  many  friends  and  more  dependants,  may  be 
ffered  the  disinterested  regret  of  a  stranger,  who,  amidst 
le  sublimer  scenes  of  the  Leman  lake,  received  his  chief 
itisfactioa  from  contemplating  the  engaging  qualities  of 
le  incomparable  Corinna. 

Here  repoee 

Angelo^i,  AlfterCt  honee.  [p.  37.  St  54. 
Alfieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  age.  The  Italians, 
itlM>ot  waiting  for  the  hundred  years,  consider  him  as 
a  poet  good  in  law."  —  His  memory  is  the  more  dear 
>  tliem,  because  he  is  the  bard  of  freedom ;  and  because, 
•  such,  his  tragedies  can  receive  no  countenance  from 


any  of  their  sovereigns.  They  are  but  very  seldom,  and 
but  very  few  of  tliem,  allowed  to  be  acted.  It  was  obser- 
ved by  Cicero,  that  nowhere  were  the  true  opinions  and 
feelings  of  the  Romans  so  clearly  shown  as  at  the  theatre.  *) 
In  the  autumn  of  1816  a  celebrated  improvisatore  exhi* 
bited  his  talents  at  the  Opera-house  of  Milan.  The  read- 
ing of  the  theses  handed  in  for  the  subjects  of  his  poetry 
was  received  by  a  very  numerous  audience,  for  die  most 
part  in  silence,  or  with  laughter;  but  when  the  assistant, 
unfolding  one  of  the  papers,  exclaimed :  *'  The  apotheoHs 
of  Victor  Alfieri,"  the  whole  theatre  burst  into  a  shout, 
and  the  applause  was  continued  for  some  moments.  The 
lot  did  not  fall  on  Alfieri;  and  the  Signor  Sgricci  had  to 
pour  forth  his  extemporary  common-places  on  the  bom- 
bardment of  Algiers.  The  choice,  indeed,  is  not  left  to  ac- 
cident quite  so  much  as  might  be  thought  from  a  first  view 
of  the  ceremony;  and  the  police  not  only  takes  care  to 
look  at  the  papers  beforehand,  but,  in  case  of  any  pru- 
dential afterthought,  steps  in  to  correct  the  blindness  of 
chance.  The  proposal  for  deifying  Alfieri  was  received 
with  immediate  enthusiasm,  tlie  rather  because  it  was 
conjectured  there  would  be  no  opportunity  of  carrying 
it  into  effect 

Here  Maehiavellfi  earth ,  retum'd  to  whence  it  rose, 

[p.  37.  St.  64. 

The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  inscriptions, 
which  so  often  leaves  us  uncertain  whether  the  structure 
before  us  is  an  actual  depository,  or  a  cenotaph,  or  a 
simple  memorial  not  of  death  but  life,  has  given  to  the 
tomb  of  Machiavelli  no  information  as  to  the  place  or 
time  of  the  birth  or  death,  the  age  or  parentage,  of  the 
historian, 

TANTO  NOMINI  NVLLVM  PAR  ELOGIVM 
NICOLAVS   MACHIAVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name  should 
not  have  been  put  above  the  sentence  which  alludes  to  it 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  prejudices,  which 
have  passed  the  name  of  Machiavelli  into  an  epithet  pro- 
verbial of  iniquity,  exist  no  longer  at  Florence.  His  me- 
mory was  persecuted  as  his  life  had  been  for  an  attachment 
to  liberty, incompatible  with  the  new  system  of  despotism, 
which  succeeded  the  fhll  of  the  ft-ee  governments  of  Italy, 
He  was  put  to  the  torture  for  being  a  ^'libertine"  that  is, 
for  wishmg  to  restore  the  republic  of  Florence;  and  such 
are  the  undying  efforts  of  those  who  are  interested  in  the 
perversion  not  only  of  the  nature  of  actions ,  but  the 
meaning  of  words,  that  what  was  once  patriotism,  has  by 
degrees  come  to  signify  debauch.  We  have  ourselves 
outlived  the  old  meaning  of  "liberality,''  which  is  now 
another  word  for  treason  in  one  country  and  tot  infotuatlon 
in  all.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  strange  mistake  to  aooose 
the  author  of  the  Prince,  as  being  a  pander  to  tyranny; 
and  to  think  that  the  inquisition  would  condemn  his  work 
for  such  a  delinquency.  The  fact  is,  that  Machiavelli,  as 
is  usual  with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be  proved, 
was  suspected  of  and  charged  with  atheism;  and  the 
first  aod  last  most  violent  opposers  of  the  Prince  were 
both  Jesuits,  one  of  whom  persuaded  the  Inquisition 


*)  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  sentiments 
survived  their  liberties.  Titius,  the  friend  of  Antony, 
presented  them  with  games  in  the  theatre  of  Pomper. 
They  did  not  suffer  the  brilliancy  of  the  spectacle  U> 
efface  from  their  memory  that  the  man  who  furnished 
them  with  the  entertainment  Ifad  murdered  the  sop 
of  Pompey.  Thev  drove  bioa  from  the  theatre  with 
curses.  The  moral  sense  of  a  populace,  spontaoeousjly 
expressed,  is  never  wrong.  Even  the  soldiers  of  the 
triumvirs  joined  in  the  execration  of  the  citizens,  by 
shouting  round  the  chariots,  of  Ijcpidns  and  Plancus, 
who  had  proscribed  their  brothers,  D*  Gemumis  nm 
de  Gallis  duo  triumphant  Cvnfulee^  ^  saying  worth  a 
record,  were  it  nothing  but  a  good  pan. 

46 


722 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGB. 


'*lKiieli^  fosse  tBTdo/'  to  prohibit  the  treatise,  and  the 
other  qualified  the  secretary  of  the  Florentiiie  republic 
as  no  better  than  a  fool.  The  Ikther  Possevin  was  proved 
never  to  have  read  the  book ,  and  the  father  Lucchesini 
not  to  have  understood  it  It  is  clear,  however,  that  such 
critics  must  have  objected  not  to  the  slavery  of  the  doc- 
trines, but  to  the  supposed  tendency  of  a  lesson  which 
shows  how  distinct  are  the  interests  of  a  monarch  from 
the  happiness  of  mankind.  The  Jesuits  are  re-established 
in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter  of  the  Prince  may  again  call 
forth  a  particular  refutation,  from  those  who  arc  employed 
once  more  in  moulding  the  minds  ofthe  rising  generation, 
so  as  to  receive  the  impressions  of  despotism.  The  chapter 
bears  for  title:  Esortazione  a  liberare  la  Italia  dai  Bar- 
bari/'  and  concludes  with  a  libertine  excitement  to  the 
future  redemption  of  Italy.  *^Non  si  deve  adunque  latciar 
patsare  questa  occasioMy  acciocchi  la  ItaUa  vegga  dopo 
tanto  tempo  apparire  un  wuo  redentore,  N^pouo  espri- 
mere  con  qual  amore  eifHSSe  rieevuto  m  tutte  quelle  pro- 
vmcie,  che  hanno  patito  per  queste  iltuvioni  esteme^con 
qual  sete  di  vendetta,  con  che  otttnatafede,  eon  che  lacrime, 
Qmliporte  $e  U  serrerehcnof  QuaHponoUlinegherehheno 
la  obhedienzaf  Quale  Italiano  li  negherebbe  f  oeeequio? 

AD  OGNUNO  PUZZA  QUBSTO  BARBARO  DOMINIO." 

Ungrateful  Florence!  Dante  sleeps  afar, 

[p.  37.  St.  67. 
Dante  was  born  in  Florence  in  the  year  1261 .  He  fought 
in  two  battles,  was  fourteen  times  ambassador,  and  once 
prior  of  the  republic  When  the  party  of  Charles  of  Anjou 
triumphed  over  the  Bianchi,  he  was  absent  on  an  embassy 
to  Pope  Boniface  VIII ,  and  was  condemned  to  two  years 
banishment,  and  to  a  fine  of  8000  Hre;  on  the  non-pay- 
ment of  wbicli  he  was  further  punished  by  the  seques- 
tration of  all  his  property.  The  republic,  however,  was 
not  content  with  this  satisfaction,  for  in  1772  was  disco- 
vered in  the  archives  at  Florence  a  sentence  in  which 
Dante  *is  tlie  eleventh  of  a  list  of  fifteen  condemned 
in  1302  to  be  burnt  alive;  Talis  perveniens  ifne  com- 
buratur  sic  quod  moriatur.  The  pretext  for  this  judgment 
was  a  proof  of  unfair  barter ,  extortions ,  and  illicit 
gains:  Baracteriarum  inimtarum,  extorsionum,  et  illi" 
citorum  lucrorum;  and  with  such  an  accusation  it  is  not 
strange  that  Dante  should  have  always  protested  his  in- 
nocencc,  and  the  injustice  of  his  fellow -citizens.  His  ap-' 
peal  to  Florence  was  accompanied  by  another  to  tiie 
Emperor  Henry,  and  the  deatli  of  that  sovereign  in  1313, 
was  the  signal  for  a  sentence  of  irrcvociible  banisliment. 
He  had  before  lingered  near  Tuscany  with  hopes  of  recall; 
then  travelled  into  the  north  of  Italy  where  Verona  had 
to  boast  of  his  longest  residence,  and  he  finally  settled  at 
Ravenna,  which  was  his  ordinarybutnotconstant  abode 
until  his  deatli.  The  refusal  of  the  Venetians  to  grant  him 
a  public  audience,  on  the  part  of  Guido  Novello  da  Po- 
lenta, his  protector,  is  said  to  have  been  the  principal 
cause  of  this  event,  which  h^pened  in  1321.  He  was 
buried  C'in  sacra  minorum  awie")  at  Ravenna,  in  a  hand- 
some tomb,  which  was  erected  by  Guido,restored  by  Ber- 
nardo Bembo  in  1483, praetor  for  that  republic  which  had 
refused  to  hear  him,  again  restored  by  Cardinal  Corsi  in 
1692,  and  replaced  by  a  more  magnificent  sepulchre,  con- 
structed in  1780  at  tlie  expense  ot  the  Cardinal  Luigi 
Valenti  Gonzaga.  The  offence  or  misfortune  of  Dante 
was  an  attachment  to  a  defeated  party,  and,  as  his  least 
favourable  biographers  allege  against  him,  too  great  a 
freedom  of  speech  and  haughtiness  of  manner.  But  the 
next  age  paid  honours  almost  divine  to  the  exile.  The 
Florentines,  having  in  vun  and  frequently  attempted  to 
recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image  in  a  chnrch,  and  his 
picture  Is  still  one  of  the  idob  of  their  cathedral.  They 
struck  medals,  they  raised  statues  to  him.  The  cities  of 
Italy  not  being  able  to  dispute  about  his  own  birth,  con- 
tended for  tliat  of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines 
thought  it  for  their  lionour  to  prove  ttiat  he  had  finished 
the  seventh  Canto,  before  they  drove  him  from  his  native 
dty.   Fifty-one  years  after  his  death  they  endowed  a 


professorial  chair  for  the  expounding  of  lusi 
Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this  patriotic  emplojn 
The  example  was  imitated  by  Bologna  and  Pin,  and  tiK 
commentators ,  if  they  performed  but  little  serricae  to 
literature,  augmented  the  veneration  which  beheld  a 
sacred  or  moral  allegory  in  all  the  images  of  his  mjslie 
muse.  His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  dlsoovcred  to  have  ' 
been  distinguished  above  those  of  ordinary  men ;  the 
author  of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,  rcMes 
that  his  mother  was  warned  in  a  dream  of  the  impnrtanm 
of  her  pregnancy;  and  it  was  found,  by  others,  that  at  tea 
years  of  age  he  had  manifested  his  preoocioos  paauon  §m 
that  wisdom  or  theology,  which,  under  tlie  same  of 
Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken  for  a  substantial  ] 
When  the  Divine  Comedy  had  been  recognized  as  a  i 
mortal  production,  and  at  the  distance  of  two  oentuiiei^ 
when  criticism  and  competition  had  sobered  the  jn^g^  ' 
ment  of  the  Italians,  Dante  was  seriously  declared  sape- 
rior  to  Homer,  and  although  the  preference  appeared  to 
some  casuists  **an  heretical  blasphemy  worthy  of  the 
flames/'  the  contest  was  vigorously  maintained  for  neariy 
fifty  years.  In  later  times  it  was  made  a  ouestioB  which 
of  the  Lords  of  Verona  could  boast  of  having  patraniacd 
him,  and  the  jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer  would  aoC 
allow  Ravenna  tne  undoubted  possession  of  his  1 
Even  the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  believe  that 
the  poet  had  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the  diaoovcncs 
of  Galileo.  Like  the  great  originals  of  other  natkuMy  his 
popularity  has  not  always  maintained  the  saoae  level. 
The  last  age  seemed  inclined  to  ondervaluehimas  aaodd 
and  a  study;  and  Bettinelli  one  day  reboked  his  i 
Monti,  for  poring  over  the  harsh  and  obsolete  extrava* ' 
gances  of  the  Commedia.  The  present  geaeratioa  having . 
recovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries  of  Cesarotti  has  le- 
turned  to  the  aniuent  worship,  and  tbeDmmieg^'mrt  of  the 
northern  Italians  is  thought  even  indiscreet  by  the  J 
moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  mucli  corioos  information  rdativctothe 
life  and  writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has  not  as  yct^ 
been  collected  even  by  the  Italians;  but  the  oelebiated 
Hugo  Foscolo  meditates  to  supply  this  defect;  and  it  b; 
not  to  be  regretted  tliat  this  national  work  has  been  re-' 
served  for  one  so  devoted  to  his  country  and  the  < 
of  truth.  . 

*  Like  SeipiOf  buried  bg  the  uphredding  shore  ; 
Thg  factions,  in^knr  worse  than  ciiil  wary 
Proscribed  etc.  {p.  37.  St  fi9.  ' 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanns  had  a  tomb  if  he  was  aoC 
buried  at  Liternum,  whither  he  had  retired  to  voluotMy  | 
banishment  This  tomb  was  near  the  sea-shore  >  and  ilic' 
story  of  an  inscription  upon  it,  Ingrata  Patri^  hariag' 
given  a  name  to  a  modern  tower,  is,  if  not  true,  an  agree- 
able  fiction.  If  he  was  not  buried,  ho  certainly  fived 
there.  •) 

In  oosi  angosta  e  solitaria  villa 

Era  'I  grand'  uomo  che  d'Africa  8*appclla 

Percbl  prima  col  ferro  al  vivo  aprilla. 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  pccafiar  io 
republics;  and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten  that  for  oar 
instance  of  popular  inconstancy,  we  have  a  baadRi 
examples  of  the  fall  of  courtly  fhvonrites.  Bendo^  a 
people  have  often  repented — a  monarch  seldom  or  acMH 
Leaving  apart  many  familiar  proofs  of  this  fact,  a JhBrt 
story  may  show  the  difference  between  even  an  ailrt^ 
cracy  and  the  multitude. 

Vettor  Pisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at  F*^ 
tolongo,  and  many  years  afterwards  in  the  more  decisiw 
action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled  by  the  Ve- 
netian Government,  and  thrown  into  chains.  The  Awe- 


*)  Yitam  Litemi  egit  sine  desiderto  arhis.  iJlh 
Hist.  lib.  xxxviii.  Livy  reports  that  some  said  he  mm 
buried  at  Litcrnum,  others  at  Rooke. 


VOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


723 


idoli  proposed  to  behead  bim,  but  the  supreme  tribunal 
M content  with  the  sentence  of  imprisonment.  Whilst 
isani  was  suffering  this  unmerited  disgrace,  Chioza,  in 
le  Yiciuity  of  the  capital,  was,  by  the  assistance  of  the 
^or  of  Padua,  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Pietro 
k>ria.  At  the  intelligence  of  that  disaster,  the  great  bell 
rSt  Mark's  tower  tolled  to  arms,  and  the  people  and 
le  soldiery  of  tlie  galleys  were  summoned  to  the  repulse 
rthe  approaching  enemy ;  but  they  protested  they  would 
ot  move  a  step,  unless  Pisani  were  liberated  and  placed 
t  their  head.  The  great  council  was  instantly  assembled  : 
le  prisoner  was  called  before  them,  and  the  Doge,  An- 
rea  Contarini,  informed  him  of  the  demands  of  the  people 
nd  the  necessities  of  the  state,  whose  only  hope  of  safety 
ms  reposed  on  his  efforts,  and  who  implored  him  to  for- 
et  the  indignities  he  had  endured  in  her  service.  **I  liave 
idmutted,"  replied  the  magnanimous  republican,  "I  have 
Bbraitted  to  your  deliberations  withoutcomplaint ;  I  have 
ipported  patiently  the  pains  of  imprisonment,  for  they 
rere  inflicted  at  your  command:  this  is  no  time  to  inquire 
rliether  I  derserved  them—  the  good  of  the  republic  may 
ave  seemed  to  require  it,  and  that  which  the  republic  re- 
olves  is  always  resolved  wisely.  Behold  me  ready  to  lay 
own  my  life  for  tlie  preservation  of  my  country."  Pisani 
rat  appointed  generalissimo,  and  by  his  exertions,  in  con- 
UMtion  with  those  of  Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  re- 
orered  the  ascendancy  over  their  maritime  rivals. 
The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  their  ci- 
iMos  than  the  Greek  republics.  Liberty,  both  with  the 
i»e  and  the  other,  seems  to  have  been  a  national,  not  an 
idividual object :  and,  notwithstanding  the  boasted  equal- 
^  btfare  tkt  laws,  which  an  aneie&t  Greek  writer  consi- 
lered  the  great  distinctive  mark  between  his  countrymen 
ad  the  barbarians,  the  mutual  rights  of  fellow  -citizens 
eem  never  to  have  been  the  principal  scope  of  the  old  de- 
Bocracies.  The  world  may  have  not  yet  seen  an  essay 
fj  the  author  of  the  Italian  Republics,  in  which  the  dis- 
inotion  between  the  liberty  of  former  states,  and  the  sig- 
ofication  attached  to  that  word  by  the  happier  constitu- 
lonofEnglaud,  is  ingeniously  developed.  The  Italians, 
lowever,  when  they  had  ceased  to  be  free,  still  looked  back 
rhhasigh  upon  those  times  of  turbulence,  when  every 
itjsen  might  rise  to  a  share  of  sovereign  power,  and 
kav6  never  been  taught  fally  to  appreciate  the  repose  of 
I  monarchy.  Sperone  Speroni,  when  Francis  Maria  II. 
)uke  of  Rovere,  proposed  the  question,  **which  was  pre- 
icrable,  the  republic  or  the  principality — the  perfect  and 
lot  durable,  or  t  he  less  perfect  and  not  so  liable  to  change," 
tplied,  '^tliat  our  happiness  is  to  he  measured  by  its  qua- 
ity,  not  by  its  duration ;  and  that  he  preferred  to  live  for 
ine  day  like  a  man,  than  for  a  hundred  years  like  a  brute, 
t  stock,  or  a  stone."  This  was  tliought,  and  called, a  mag- 
tifieeHt  answer^  down  to  the  last  days  of  Italian  servitude. 

And  the  crown 

Which  Petrarch* i  laureate-hrow  supremely  wore. 
Upon  afar  and  forei^  soil  had  grown, 

[p.  37.  St.  57. 
The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  Pe- 
larch's  short  visit  to  their  city  in  1350  to  revoke  the  de- 
see  which  confiscated  the  property  of  his  father,  who  had 
leen  banished  shortly  after  the  exile  of  Dante.  His  crown 
Gd  not  dazzle  them ;  but  when  in  the  next  year  they  were 
a  want  of  his  assistance  in  the  formation  of  their  univer- 
tiiy,  they  repented  of  their  injustice,  and  Boccaccio  was 
KBt  to  Padua  to  intreat  the  Laureate  to  conclude  his 
wanderings  in  the  bosom  of  his  native  country,  where  he 
^ta^i  finish  his  immortal  Africa,  and  enjoy,  with  his 
Weovered  possessions,  the  esteem  of  all  classes  of  his  fel- 
low-eidzens.  They  gave  him  the  option  of  the  book  and 
the  science  he  migtit  condescend  to  expound ;  they  called 
lim  the  glory  of  his  country,  who  ivas  dear,  and  would  be 
karcr  to  them ;  and  they  added,  that  if  there  was  any  thing 
ni|)lcanogin  their  letter,  he  ought  to  return  amongst  them, 
ii«re  it  only  to  correct  their  style.  Petrarch  seemed  at 
Int  to  listen  to  the  flattery  and  to  the  intreatica  of  his 


friend,  but  he  did  not  return  to  Florence  ^  and  preferred 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  Laura  and  the  shades  of 
Yauciuse. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 

Bis  dust,  [p.  37.  St  68. 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael  and 
St  James,  at  Certaldo,  asmall  town  in  the  Valdelsa,  which 
was  by  some  supposed  the  place  of  his  birth.  There  he 
passed  the  latter  part  of  his  life  in  a  course  of  laborious 
study,  which  shortened  his  existence;  and  there  might 
his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if  not  of  honour,  at  least  of  re- 
pose. But  the  "hyaena  bigots"  of  Certaldo  tore  up  the 
tombstone  <«f  Boccaccio,  and  ejected  it  from  the  holy  pre- 
cincts of  St  Michael  and  St  James.  The  occasion,  and,  it 
may  be  hoped,  tlie  excuse,  of  this  ejectment  was  themeik- 
ing  of  a  new  floor  for  the  church ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  the 
tombstone  was  taken  up  and  thrown  aside  at  the  bottom 
of  the  building.  Ignorance  may  share  the  sin  with  bigotry. 
It  would  be  painful  to  relate  such  an  exception  to  the  de- 
votion of  the  Italians  for  their  great  names,  could  it  not 
be  accompanied  by  a  trait  more  honourably  conformable 
to  the  general  character  of  the  nation.  The  principal  per- 
son of  the  district,  the  last  branch  of  the  house  of  Medicia, 
afforded  that  protection  to  the  memory  of  the  insulted 
dead  which  her  best  ancestors  had  dispensed  upon  all  co- 
temporary  merit  The  Marchioness  Lenzoni  rescued  the 
tombstone  of  Boccaccio  from  the  neglect  in  which  it  had 
some  time  lain,  and  found  for  it  an  honourable  elevation 
in  her  own  mansion.  She  has  done  more:  the  house  in 
which  the  poet  lived  has  been  as  little  respected  as  his 
tomb,  and  is  falling  to  ruin  over  the  head  of  one  indifferent 
to  the  name  of  its  former  tenant  It  consists  of  two  or  three 
little  chambers,  and  a  low  tower,  on  which  Cosmo  II.  af- 
fixed an  inscription.  This  house  she  has  taken  measures 
to  purchase,  and  proposes  to  devote  to  it  that  care  and  con^ 
sideration  which  are  attached  to  the  cradle  and  to  the  roof 
of  genius. 

This  b  not  the  place  to  undertake  the  defence  of  Boc- 
caccio; but  the  man  who  exhausted  his  little  patrimony  Sn 
the  acquirement  of  learning,  who  was  amongst  the  first, 
if  not  the  first,  to  allure  the  science  and  the  poetry  of 
Greece  to  the  bosom  of  Italy ;  —  who  not  only  invented  a 
new  style,  but  founded,  or  certainly  fixed,  a  new  language; 
who,  besides  the  esteem  of  every  polite  court  of  Europe, 
was  thought  wortJiy  of  employment  by  the  predominant' 
republic  of  his  own  country,  and,  what  is  more,  of  the 
friendship  of  Petrarch,  who  lived  tlie  life  of  a  philosopher 
and  a  freeman,  and  who  died  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge, 
— such  a  man  might  have  found  more  con»deration  than 
he  has  met  with  from  the  priests  of  Certaldo,  apd  from  a 
late  English  traveller,  who  strikes  off  his  portrait  as  an 
odious,  contemptible,  licentious  writer,  whose  impure  r^ 
mains  should  be  suffered  to  rot  without  a  repord  *)«  That 


*)  Classical  Tour,  chap.  ix.  vol.  ir.  p.  855.  edit  3d. 
''Of  Boccaccio,  the  modern  Petronius,  we  say  nothing; 
the  abuse  of  genius  is  more  odious  and  more  contempt- 
ible than  its  absence;  and  it  imports  little  where  the 
impure  remains  of  a  licentious  author  are  consigned 
to  their  kindred  dust  For  the  same  reason  the  tra^ 
veller  may  pass  unnoticed  the  tomb  of  the  malignant 
Arctino." 

This  dubious  phrase  is  hardly  enough  to  save  the 
tourist  from  the  suspicion  of  another  blunder  respect- 
ing the  burial-place  of  Aretino,  whose  tomb  was  in  the 
church  of  St  Luke  at  Venice,  and  gave  rise  to  the  &- 
mous  controversy  of  which  some  notice  is  taken  In 
Ba>le.  Now  tlie  words  of  Mr.  Bustace  would  lead  us 
to  think  the  tomb  was  at  Florence ,  or  at  least  was-  to 
be  somewhere  recognized.  Whether  the  inscription  so 
much  disputed  was  ever  lyrittep  on  the  tomb  caimot 
DOW  bedecided,  for  aU  memorial  of  this  author  has  dis- 
appeared from  the  church  of  St  Luke,  which  is  now 
changed  into  a  lamp-warehouse. 


724 


NOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PIL6RIMAGK. 


Boglish  traveller,  unfortunately  for  (hose  who  have  to  de- 
plore the  loss  of  a  very  amiable  person,  is  beyond  all  cri- 
ticism; but  the  mortality  which  did  not  protect  Boccaccio 
from  Mr.  Bustace,  must  not  defend  Mr.Bustace  from  the 
Impartial  judgement  of  bis  successors. — Death  may  ca- 
nonize his  virtues,  not  his  errors;  and  it  may  be  modestly 
'  pronounced  that  be  transgressed ,  not  only  as  an  author, 
but  as  a  man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade  of  Boccaccio  in 
company  with  that  of  Aretino,  amidst  the  sepulchres  of 
Santa  Croce,  merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As  far 
as  respects 

II  flagello  de'  Principi 

II  divin  Pietro  Aretino, 
it  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  past  upon  a  coxcomb 
who  owes  his  present  existence  to  the  above  burlesque 
character  given  to  him  by  the  poet  whose  amber  has  pre- 
served many  other  grubs  and  w  orms :  butto  classify  Boc- 
caccio with  such  a  person,  and  to  excommunicate  his  very 
ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us  doubt  of  the  qualification  of 
the  classical  tourist  for  writing  upon  Italian,  or,  indeed, 
upon  any  other  literature ;  for  ignorance  on  one  point  may 
incapacitate  an  autlior  merely  for  that  particular  topic,  but 
Bubjection  to  a  professional  prejudice  must  render  him 
an  unsafe  director  on  all  occasions.  Any  perversion  and 
i^jufltice  may  be  made  what  is  vulgarlj  called  "a  case  of 
conscience,"  and  this  poor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be  otter- 
ed for  the  priests  of  Certaldo,  or  the  author  of  the  Clas- 
sical Tour.  It  would  have  answered  tlie  purpose  to  confine 
the  censure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio,  and  gratitude  to 
that  source,  which  supplied  the  muse  of  Dry  den  witli  her 
last  and  most  harmonious  numbers,  might  perhaps  have 
restricted  tliat  censure  to  the  objectionable  qualities  of 
the  hundred  tales.  At  any  rate,  the  repentance  of  Boccac- 
cio might  have  arrested  his  exhumation,  and  it  should 
have  been  recollected  and  told,  that  in  hisold  age  he  wrote 
a  letter  intreating  his  ft-iend  to  discourage  the  reading  of 
the  Decameron,  for  the  sake  of  modesty  ^and  for  the  sake  of 
tbeauthor,  who  would  notbaveanapologistal waysat  hand 
to  state  in  his  excuse  that  he  wrote  it  whenyoung.and  atthe 
command  of  superiors  *).  It  is  neither  the  licentiousness  of 
the  writer,  nor  the  evil  propensities  of  the  reader,  which 
have  given  to  the  Decameron  alone,  of  all  the  works  of  Boc- 
caccio, a  perpetual  popularity.  The  establishment  of  a  new 
and  delightful  dialect  conferred  an  immortality  on  the 
works  in  which  it  was  first  fixed.  The  sonnets  ofPetrarch 
were,for  the  same  reason,fated  to  survive  his  self-admired 
Africa  the  "/*a»oieri/e  of  kings"  The  invariable  traits  of 
nature  and  feeling  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as  tlie 
▼erseti,  abound,  have  doubtless  been  the  chief  source  of 
the  foreign  celebrity  of  both  authors ;  but  Boccaccio,  as  a 
man,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by  that  work,  tlian  Pe- 
trarch is  to  be  regarded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the  lover 
of  Laura.  Bven,  however,  had  the  father  of  the  Tuscan 
prose  been  known  only  as  the  author  of  the  Decameron,  a 
considerate  writer  would  have  been  cautious  to  pronounce 
a  sentence  irreconcileable  with  the  unerring  voice  of  many 
%%ei  and  nations.  An  irrevocable  value  has  never  been 
stamped  upon  any  work  solely  recommended  by  impurity. 
Tlie  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio,  which 
began  at  a  very  early  period,  was  the  choice  of  his  scan- 
dalous personages  in  the  cloisters  as  well  as  the  courts; 
but  the  princes  only  laughed  at  tlie  gallant  adventures  so 
unjustly  charged  upon  Queen  Theodelinda,  whilst  the 
priestliood  cried  shame  upon  the  debauches  drawn  from 
the  convent  and  the  hermitage;  and,  most  probably,  for 
the  opposite  reason,  namely,  that  the  picture  was  faithful 
to  tlie  lifc^  Two  of  the  novels  are  allowed  to  be  facts  use- 
fully turned  into  tales,  to  deride  the  canonization  of  ro- 
gues and  laymen.  Ser  Ciappelletto  and  Marcellinus  are 
cited  with  applause  even  by  the  decent  MuratorLThegreat 


*)  '^Norrenim  ubfqtteest,  qui  tnexeusationem  meam 
consurgeiks  dicat,  juveuis  scripsit,  et  majoris  coactun 
imperio/' 


Arnauld,  as  he  Is  quoted  in  Bayle,  states,  that  a  ncv  eA> 
tion  of  the  novels  was  proposed,  of  which  tbeexpurgalioa 
consisted  in  omitting  the  words  *'monk"  and  **niiii,''  ani 
tacking  the  immoralities  to  other  names.  The  literary  his* 
tory  of  Italy  particularizes  no  such  edition ;  but  it  was  do! 
long  before  the  whole  of  Europe  had  but  one  opioioD  ef 
the  Decameron;  and  the  absolution  of  the  author  aemi 
to  have  been  a  point  settled  at  least  a  hundred  years  ago: 
"On  se  ferait  sifQer  si  Ton  pr^tcndait  oonvaincre  Boceace 
de  n'avoir  pas  ete  honudte  homme,.puisqu'il  a  ftit  le  De- 
eameron."  So  said  one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the 
best  critic,  tbatever  lived — the  very  martyr  to  impartial- 
ity*). But  as  this  information,  tluit  in  the  beginning  of 
the  last  century  one  would  have  been  hooted  at  for|ne- 
tending  that  Boccaccio  was  not  a  good  man,  may  seem  t» 
come  from  one  of  those  enemies  who  are  to  be  suspected, 
even  when  they  make  us  a  present  of  truth,  amoreaeoepl- 
able  contrast  with  the  proscription  of  the  body,  soul,  aid 
muse  of  Boccaccio  may  be  found  in  a  few  wordi  frooi  the 
virtuous,  the  patriotic  cotemporary,  who  thoogfat  one  of 
the  tales  of  this  impure  writer  worthy  a  Latin  vermn  fron 
his  own  pen.  '*i  kaverenuirked  ehewkere,*' saLjs  Petraivl^ 
writing  to  Boccaccio,  that  the  book  iUelfkas  ioen  worriot 
by  certain  dogs,  but  stoutly  defended  by  yovr  etmf  aad 
voice.  Nor  was  lastonishedy  for  I  have  had  proof  ftftMevi- 
gour  of  jf our  mind,  and  I  know  you  have f alien  on  diuumae' 
commodating  incapable  race  of  mortals  who,  wkaiewer  tkeg 
either  like  not,  orknownot^  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  iareprt' 
hend  in  others :  and  on  those  occasion*  only  put  am  m  ekam  ^ 
learning  and  eloquence,  but  otherwise  areextireiydumb,'^} 
It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do  ool 
resemble  those  of  Certaldo,  and  that'one  of  them  who  did 
not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  would  not  ioaefheop- 
portuiiity  of  raising  a  cenotaph  to  his  memory,  fievios, 
canon  of  Padua,  at  the  beginning  of  the  lOth  ceotwy, 
erected  at  Arqu&,  opposite  to  the  tomb  of  the  Iiai]reaie,~a 
tablet,  in  which  he  associated  Boccaccio  to  tlie  equal  ho- 
nours of  Dante  and  of  Petrarch. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stanesf 

[p.37.SteQL 
Our  veneration  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo,  and 
expires  with  his  grandson;  tiiat  stream  is  pure  oaly  at 
the  source;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  memorial  of  the 
virtuous  republicans  of  the  family,  that  we  visit  the  church 
of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The  tawdry,  glaring,  ui^ 
nished  chapel  in  that  church,  designed  for  the  mausolenia 
of  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany ,  set  round  with  crowns  and 
coffins,  gives  birth  to  no  emotions  but  those  c^ contempt 
for  the  lavisli  vanity  of  a  race  of  despots ,  whilst  the  pave- 
ment-slab simply  inscribed  to  tiic  Father  of  his  Gooatrr. 
reconciles  us  to  the  name  of  Medici.***)  It  was  veeynatD- 
ral  for  Corinna  to  suppose  tiiat  the  statue  raised  to  the 
Duke  of  Urbino  in  ihccapella  de*  depositi  was  intended  Ibr 
his  great  namesake ;  but  the  magnificent  Lorenso  la  oaly 
the  sharer  of  a  coffin  half  hidden  in  a  niche  of  tfaesaeristy. 
The  decay  of  Tuscany  dates  from  the  sorereignty  of  the 
Medici.  Of  tiie  sepulchral  peace,  which  succeeded  to  the 
establishment  ot  the  reigning  families  in  Italy,  oarAva 
Sidney  has  g^ven  us  a  glowing,  but  a  isuthlul  pidse. 
'^Notwithstanding  alUhe  seditions  of  Florence,  and  other 
cities  of  Tuscany,  the  horrid  foctions  of  Goelphs  aai 


*)  Eclaircissementy  in  the  Supplement  to  Bayle'i 
Dictionary. 

**)  "Animadvertialicubilibrumipaum  canumden- 
tibus  lacessitum,  tuo  tamcn  baculo  egregie  tuique 
voce  defensum.  Nee  miratus  sum :  nam  et  vires  iogeai 
tui  novi ,  et  scio  expertus  esses  hominum  genus  lose- 
lens  et  ignavum,  qui  quicquid  ipsi  vel  nolunt  vel  ae- 
sciunt,  vel  non  possunt,  in  aliis  reprebendunt;  ad  hoc 
unum  docti  et  arguti,  sed  elingues  ad  reliqua.*' 

***)  Cosmus  Medioes,  Becivto  Publico »  Paler 
Patriae. 


MOTKS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIHAGB. 


725 


GbibeliBt,  Neri  and  Biandu,  Nobles  and  Commons,  they 
eonturaed  populous,  strong,  and  exceeding  rich;  but  in 
the  space  d  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  the  peace- 
able reign  of  the  Medices  is  thought  to  have  destroyed 
nine  parts  in  (en  of  the  people  of  that  province.  Amongst 
other  things  it  is  remarkable,  that' when  Philip  the  Se- 
cond of  Spain  gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  his 
embassador  then  at  Rome  sent  him  word,  that  he  had 
given  away  more  tlian  650,000  subjects;  and  it  is  not  be- 
lieved there  are  now  20,000  souls  inhabiting  that  city  and 
territory.  Pisa,  Pistoia,  Arezzo,  Cortooa,  and  other 
towns,  that  were  then  good  and  populous,  are  in  the  like 
proportion  diminished,  and  Florence  more  than  any. 
When  that  city  had  been  long  troubled  with  seditions, 
tumults,  and  wars,  for  the  most  part  unprosperous,  they 
still  retained  such  strength,  that  when  Charles  VIll.  of 
France,  being  admitted  as  a  friend  with  his  whole  army, 
which  soon  after  conquered  tlie  kingdom  of  Naples, 
thought  to  master  them,  tlie  people  taking  arms,  struck 
such  a  terror  into  him,  that  he  was  glad  to  depart  upon 
such  conditions  as  they  thought  fit  to  impose.  Machiavel 
reports,  that  in  that  time  Florence  alone,  with  the  Val 
d'Arno,  a  small  territory  belonging  to  that  city,  could  in 
a  few  honrs,by  the  sound  of  a  bell,  bring  together  135,000 
well-armed  men;  whereas  now  that  city,  with  all  the 
others  in  that  province,  are  brought  to  such  despicable 
weakness,  emptiness,  poverty  and  baseness,  that  they  can 
neither  resist  the  oppressions  of  their  own  prince,  nor 
defend  him  or  themselves  if  the^  were  assaulted  by  a 
foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersed  or  destroyed, 
and  the  best  families  sent  to  seek  habitations  in  Venice, 
Genoa,  Rome,  Naples,  and  Luixa.  This  is  not  the  eO'cct 
of  war  or  pestilence;  they  enjoy  a  perfect  peace,  and 
suffer  no  other  plague  than  the  government  they  are  un- 
der." *)  From  the  usurper  Cosmo  down  to  the  imbecil 
Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed  qua- 
lities which  should  raise  a  patriot  to  the  command  of  bis 
fellow-citizens.  The  Graiid-Dukes,  and  particularly  tlie 
third  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a  change  in  the 
Tuscan  character,  that  the  candid  Florentines  in  excuse 
for  some  imperfections  in  the  philanthropic  system  of 
Leopold,  are  obliged  to  confess  that  the  sovereign  was 
the  only  liberal  man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  that  excellent 
prince  himself  had  no  other  notion  of  a  national  assembly, 
than  of  a  body  to  represent  the  wants  and  wishes,  not  the 
will  of  the  people. 

An  earthquake  reeled  unheedediy  away! 

[p.  38.  St.  63. 

**And  such  was  their  mutual  animosityj  so  intent  were 
ikey  upon  the  battle,  that  the  earthquake,  which  overthrew 
in  great  part  many  of  the  cities  of  Italy,  which  turned  the 
course  of  rapid  streams,  poured  back  the  sea  upon  the  ri- 
vers, and  tore  down  the  very  mountains,  was  not  felt  by 
9ne  of  the  combatants,"**)  Such  is  the  description  of 
Livy.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  modern  tactics  would 
admit  of  such  an  abstraction. 

The  site  of  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be  mis- 
taken. The  traveller  from  the  village  under  Cortona  to 
Casa  di  Piano,  the  next  stage  on  the  way  to  Rome,  has 
for  the  first  two  or  three  miles,  around  him,  but  more 
particularly  to  the  right,  that  flat  land  which  Hannibal 
laid  waste  in  order  to  induce  the  Consul  Flaminius  to 
move  from  Arezzo.  On  his  left,  and  in  front  of  him,  is  a 


*)  On  Government ,  chap.  ir.  sect  xxvi.  Sidney 
is,  together  with  Locke  and  Hoadley,  one  of  Mr. 
Home's  **despicable"  writers, 

**)  Tantusque  fuit  ardor  attimorum,adeo  intentns 
pugna)  animos,  nt  eum  terras  motum,  qui  muitarum 
urbium  Italias  magnas  partes  prostravit,  avertitque 
cnrsu  rapido  amues,  mare  fluminibus  invcxit,  monies 
lapsn  ingenti  proruit,  nemo  pugnantium  senserit." 
^•■v.xxii.  13. 


ridge  of  hills,  bending  down  towards  the  lake  of  Thra* 
simene,  called  by  Livy  "montes  Cortonenses,"  and  now 
named  th(*Gualandra.These  hills  he  approaches  atOssaja, 
a  village  which  the  itineraries  pretend  to  have  been  so 
denominated  from  the  bones  found  there:  but  there  have 
been  no  bones  found  there,  and  the  battle  was  fought  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hill.  From  Ossaja  the  road  begins 
to  rise  a  little,  but  does  not  pass  into  the  roots  of  the 
mountains  until  the  sixty-seventh  mile-stone  from  Flo- 
rence. The  ascent  thence  is  not  steep  but  perpetual,  and 
continues  for  twenty  minutes.  The  lake  is  soon  seen  be- 
low on  the  right,  with  Borghetto,  a  round  tower  close 
upon  the  water;  and  the  undulating  hills  partially  co- 
vered with  wood,  amongst  which  the  road  winds,  sink  by 
degrees  into  the  marshes  near  to  this  tower.  Lower  than 
the  road,  down  to  the  right,  amidst  these  woody  hillocks, 
Hannibal  placed  bis  horse,  •)  in  the  jaws  of  or  rather 
above  the  pass,  which  was  between  the  lake  and  the  pre- 
sent road,  and  most  probably  close  to  Borghetto,  just 
under  the  lowest  of  the  "tumuli."**)  On  a  summit  to  the 
left, above  the  road, is  an  old  circular  ruin  which  the  pea- 
sants call  *Hhe  Tower  of  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian.*' 
Arrived  at  the  highest  point  of  the  road,  the  traveller  has 
a  partial  view  of  the  fatal  plain  which  opens  fully  upon 
him  as  he  descends  the  Gualandra.  He  soon  finds  himself 
in  a  vale  inclosed  to  the  left  and  in  front  and  behind  him 
by  the  Gualandra-hills ,  bending  round  in  a  segment 
hirger  than  a  semicircle,  and  running  down  at  each  end 
to  the  lake,  which  obliques  to  the  right  and  forms  the 
chord  of  this  mountain -arc.  The  position  cannot  be 
guessed  at  from  the  plains  of  Cortona,nor  appears  to  be  so 
completely  inclosed  unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within 
the  hills.  It  then,  indeed,  appears  "a  place  made  as  it 
were  on  purpose  for  a  snare,"  locus  insidOs  natus.  Bor- 
ghetto is  then  found  to  stand  in  a  narrow  marshy  pass 
close  to  the  hill  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is  no  otlier 
outlet  at  the  opposite  turn  of  the  mountains  than  through 
the  little  town  of  Pasignano,  which  is  poshed  into  £e 
water  by  the  foot  of  a  high  rocky  acclivity.***)  There  is  a 
woody  eminence  branching  down  from  the  mountains 
into  the  upper  end  of  the  plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Pa- 
signano, and  on  this  stands  a  white  village  called  Torre. 
Polybius  seems  to  allude  to  tliis  eminence  as  the  one  on 
which  Hannibal  encamped  and  drew  out  his  heavy  armed 
Africans  and  Spaniards  in  a  conspicuous  position.  From 
this  spot  hedispatdied  hisBalearic  and  light-armed  troops 
round  through  the  Gualandra-lieights  to  the  right,  so  as 
to  arrive  unseen  and  form  an  ambush  amongst  the  broken 
acclivities  which  the  road  now  passes,  and  to  be  ready  to 
act  upon  the  left  flank  and  above  the  enemy,  whilst  the 
horse  shut  up  the  pass  behind.  Flaminius  came  to  the 
lake  near  Borghetto  at  sunset;  and,  without  sending  any 
spies  before  him,  marched  through  tlie  pass  the  next 
morning  before  the  day  had  quite  broken,  so  that  he 
perceived  nothing  of  the  horse  and  light  troops  above  and 
about  him,  lyid  saw  only  the  heavy-armed  Carthaginians 
in  front  on  the  hill  of  Torre,  f)  The  Consul  began  to 
draw  out  his  army  in  the  flat,  and  in  the  mean  time  the 
horse  in  ambush  occupied  the  pass  behind  him  at  Bor- 
ghetto. Thus  the  Romans  were  completely  inclosed, 
having  the  lake  on  the  right,  the  main-army  on  the  hill  of ' 
Torre  in  front,  the  Gualandra-hills  filled  with  the  light- 
armed  on  their  left  flank,  and  being  prevented  from  rei*e- 
ding  by  the  cavalry,  who,  the  farther  they  advanced,  stop- 
ped up  all  the  outlets  in  the  rear-  A  fog  rising  from  the 
lake  now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  Consul,  but 


*)  Equttes  ad  ipsas  fhuces  sattus  tumulis  apte 
tegentibus  locat.  Liv.  xxii.  4. 

**)  Ubi  maxime  montesCortonensesTbrasimenaa 
subit.  Ibid. 

***)  indecolfesaasttrgunt.  Ibid. 

t)  A  tergo  et  super  caput  decepcre  iusidiar.  Ibid 


726 


NOTBS  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAG& 


the  Kiffh  lands  were  in  the  son-shine,  and  all  the  different 
corps  in  anibnsh  looked  towards  the  hill  of  Torre  for  the 
order  of  attack.  Hannibal  gave  the  signal,  and  moved 
down  from  his  post  on  the  height.  At  the  same  moment 
all  his  troops  on  the  eminences,  behind  and  in  the  flank 
of  Flaminins,  rushed  forwards  as  it  were  with  one  accord 
into  the  plain.  The  Romans,  who  were  forming  their 
array  in  the  mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shouts  of  the  enemy 
amongst  them,  on  every  side,  and  before  they  could  fall 
into  their  ranks,  or  draw  their  swords,  or  see  by  whom 
they  were  attacked,felt  at  once  that  they  were  surrounded 
and  lost. 

There  are  two  little  rivulets  which  run  from  the  Qua- 
landra  into  the  lake.  The  traveller  crosses  the  first  of 
these  at  about  a  mile  after  he  comes  into  the  plain,  and 
this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the  Papal  territories.  The 
second,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  on,  is  called 
*'tbc  bloody  rivulet,"  and  the  peasants  point  out  an  open 
spot  to  tlte  left  between  the  *'8anguinctto"  and  the  hills, 
which,  they  say,  was  the  principal  scene  of  slaughter.  The 
other  part  of  the  plain  is  covered  with  thick-set  olive-trees 
in  ooru-grouuds,  and  is  no  where  quite  level  except  near 
the  edge  of  the  lake.  It  is,  indeed,  most  probable  that  the 
battle  was  fought  near  this  end  of  the  valley,  for  the  six 
thousand  Romans  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  action, 
broke  through  the  enemy*  escaped  to  the  summit  of  an 
eminence  which  must  have  been  in  tliis  quarter ,  other- 
wise they  would  have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  pUiiu  and 
to  pierce  through  the  main-army  of  Hannibal. 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  tliree  hoars,  bat 
the  death  of  Flaminius  was  the  signal  for  a  general  disper- 
sion. The  Carthaginian  horse  then  burst  in  upon  the  fu- 
gitives, and  the  lake,  tlie  marsh  about  Borghetto,  but 
chiefly  the  plain  of  the  Sanguinetto  and  the  passes  of  the 
Gualandra,  were  strewed  with  dead.  Near  some  old  walls 
on  a  bleak  ridge  to  the  left  above  the  rivulet  many  human 
bones  have  t^en  repeatedly  found,  and  this  has  con- 
firmed the  pretensions  and  the  name  of  the  '^stream  of 
blood." 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  its  hero.  In  the  north  some 
painter  is  the  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and  the  foreign 
Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Mantua  with  her  native 
Vifgil.  *)  To  the  south  we  hear  of  Roman  names.  Near 
Thrasimene  tradition  is  still  faithful  to  the  fame  of  an 
enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian  is  thoonly  ancient 
name  remembered  on  the  banks  of  tlie  Perugian  lake. 
Flaminius  is  unknown;  but  the  postilions  on  that  road 
have  been  taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  il  Console 
Romano  was  slain.  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in  the  battle 
of  Thrasimene,  the  historian  himself  has,  besides  the 
generals  and  Maliarbai,  preserved  indeed  only  a  single 
name.  Yoo  overtake  the  Carthaginian  again  on  the  same 
road  to  Rome.  The  antiquary,  that  is,  the  hostler  of  the 
posthouse  atSpoleto,  tells  you  that  his  town  repulsed  the 
victorioas  enemy,  and  shows  yoa  the  gate  still  called 
Porta  di  Anibale.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  ti» remark  that 
a  French  travel- writer,  well  known  by  the  name  of  the 
President  Dupaty,  saw  Thrasimene  in  ttie  lake  of  Bolsena, 
which  lay  conveniently  on  his  way  from  Sienna  to  Rome. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus!        [p.  38,  St.  66. 

No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on  the 

temple  of  the  Clitumnus,  between  Foligiio  and  Spolcto; 

and  no  site,  or  scenery,  even  in  Italy,  is  more  worthy  a 

description. 

Charming  the  ewe  with  dread^  -  a  maiehless  cataracL 

[p.  38.  St  71. 

I  saw  the  "Cascata  del  marmore"  of  Terni  ti\ice,  at 
different  periods ;  once  from  the  summit  of  the  precipice, 
and  again  from  the  valley  below.  The  lower  view  is  far 


*)  AboQt  the  middle  of  the  xiith  century  the  coins 
of  Mantua  bore  on  one  side  the  image  and  figure  of 
Virgil, 


to  be  preferred,  if  the  tim?elkr  hu  time  for  one  only; 

but  in  any  point  of  view,  either  from  above  or  below,'it 
is  worth  all  the  cascades  and  torrents  of  Switzerland  pot 
together;  the  Staubbacb,  Reichenbach,  Pisse-Vaclie,  fiiH 
of  Arpenaz,  are  rills  in  comparative  appeanuiec.  Of  the 
fall  of  Schaffhausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  havii^aeeji  it 

An  Irit  titty  amidst  the  infernal  surge. 

[p.  38.  St  72. 
Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  Iris  the 
reader  may  see  a  short  account  in  a  note  to  JUtanfred, 
The  fall  looks  so  much  like  **the  hell  of  waters"  that  Ad- 
dison thought  the  descent  alluded  toby  the  galph  In  which 
Alccto  plunged  into  the  infernal  regions.  It  is  singular 
enough  that  two  of  the  finest ^rascades  in  Europe  shoidd 
be  artificial  —  this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivofi. 
The  traveller  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino, 
at  least  as  high  as  the  little  lake  called  Pie*  di  Lmp,  The 
Reatine  territory  was  the  Italian  Tempe,  *)  and  the 
ancient  naturalist,  amongst  other  beautiful  varieties,  re- 
marked the  daily  rainbows  of  the  lake  Velinas.  **) 

T%e  thundering  lauwvne.      [p.  38.  St  73. 
In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland  the  a\alaache3  are 
known  by  the  name  of  lauwine. 

I  abhorred 

Iho  muchf  to  conquer  for  the  poet*  s  sake. 
The  drilled  dull  lessonyforced  down  word  ly  wford, 

[p.39.S«.7&. 
These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  oCBwyi 
Northerton's  remarks :  *'D  —  n  Homo,"  bat  our  reaaoaa 
for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same.  I  wish  to  express 
that  we  become  tired  of  the  task  before  we  can  coniiNe- 
hend  the  beauty ;  that  we  learn  by  rote  before  we  can  get 
by  heart;  that  the  freshness  is  worn  away,  and  the  fatare 
pleasure  and  advantage  deadened  and  destroyed  by  the 
didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel 
nor  understand  the  power  of  compositions  which  it  re-> 
quires  an  acquaintance  with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and 
Greek,  to  relish  or  to  reason  upon.  For  the  same  reason 
we  never  can  be  aware  <tf  the  fulness  of  some  of  the  finest 
passages  of  Shakspeare  ('*To  be  or  not  to  be,"  for  in- 
stance), from  the  habit  of  having  tliem  hammered  into  os 
at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise,  not  of  mind  but  of  me- 
mory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to  enjoy  them,  the 
taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  pall^.  In  some  parts  of 
tlic  Continent  young  persons  are  taught  from  more  com- 
mon authors,  and  do  not  read  the  best  classics  till  then 
maturity.  I  certainly  do  not  speak  on  tliis  point  from  any 
pique  or  aversion  towards  the  place  of  my  education  I 
was  not  a  slow ,  though  an  idle  boy;  and  I  believe  no  oae 
could,  or  can  be  more  attached  to  Harrow  tlian  I  have  al- 
ways been,  and  with  reason;  —  a  part  of  the  time  passed 
ttiere  was  the  happiest  of  my  life;  and  my  preceptor  (the 
Rev.  Dr.  Joseph Drury)  was  the  best  and  worthiest  Ikiead 
I  ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  I  have  remembcted  bal 
too  well— though  too  late— when  1  have  erred,  and  »hose 
counsels  I  have  but  followed  when  I  have  done  wdl  or 
wisely.  If  ever  this  imperfect  record  of  my  feelings  (owvdi 
him  should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one  whs 
never  thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and  veneration— of 
one  wlio  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been  his  pn- 
pil,  if,  by  more  closely  folio \iing  his  injunctions,  heooM 
reflect  any  honour  upon  his  instructor. 

ne  trebly  hundred  tnumpksl 

[p.  39.  St  81 
Orosius  gives  three  hundred  and  twenty  for  tliemimbcr 
of  triumphs.  He  is  followed  by  Panvinias;  andPrnnviaitii 
by  Gibbon  and  the  modern  writers. 


*)  Reatini  me  ad  sua  Tempe  dttxerant  Oceso, 
epist  ad  Attic,  iv.  16, 

**)  **ln  eodem  laca  nultonondie  apparere 
Pun.  Hist  Nat  11. 42. 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


727 


Ok  thou,  wk^te  chariot  roiled  6n  Fortune's  wheel 

[p.  39.  St.  83. 
CcrtaLaly  were  It  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life  of 
Sylla,  alkided  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should  regard  him  as 
a  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admirable  quality.  The 
atonemeiU  of  his  voluntary  resignation  of  empire  may  per- 
haps  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems  to  have  satisfied  the 
Romans,  who  if  they  had  not  respected  must  have  destroy- 
ed him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of  opinion ; 
tiiey  must  have  all  thought,  like  Euorates,  that  what  had 
appeared  ambition  was  a  love  of  glory,  and  tliat  what  had 
been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a  real  grandeur  of  soul.  *) 

And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  precedino  clay, 

[p.  40.  St  86. 
On  the  third  of  September  Cromwell  gained  the  victory 
of  Dunbar;  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained  '*his  crowning 
mercy"  of  Worcester;  and  a  few  years  after,  on  the  same 
lay,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  moilt  fortunate  for 
liimy  died. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  m 
T%e  austerest/orm  of  nuked  majesty, . 

[p.  40.  St  87. 

The  projected  division  of  theSpadaPompcyhas  alrea- 
ly  been  recorded  by  the  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall 
>f  the  Roman  Empire.  Mr.  Gibbon  found  it  in  the  me- 
Boriato  of  Flaminius  Vama,  and  it  may  be  added  to  his 
Bcntion  of  it  that  Pope  Julius  III.  gave  the  contending 
mncn  fi  vehundred  crowns  for  the  statue ;  and  presented  it 
oCardinalCapo  diFerro,who  had  prevented  the  judgment 
»f  Solomon  from  being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a  more 
ivilized  age  this  statue  was  exposed  to  an  actual  opera- 
ion:  for  tiieFrencb,  who  acted  the  Brutus  ofVoltaire  in  the 
>oliseamy  resolved  that  their  Caosar  should  fall  at  the  base 
if  tfaatPompey>  which  was  supposed  to  have  been  sprink- 
ed  with  the  blood  of  the  original  dictator.  The  nine  foot 
lero  was  therefore  removed  to  the  Arena  of  the  amphi- 
lieatre,  and  to  facilitate  its  transport  suffered  the  tempora- 
y  amputation  of  its  right  arm.  The  republican  tragedians 
lad  to  plead  tliat  the  arm  was  a  restoration :  but  their  accu- 
ers  do  not  believe  that  the  integrity  of  tlie  statue  would 
ave  protected  itThe  love  of  finding  every  coincidence  has 
iscsovered  the  true  CsBsarean  ichor  in  a  stain  near  the  right 
nee ;  but  colder  criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  blood 
vt  the  portrait,  and  assigned  tbeglobeof  power  rather  to 
le  first  of  the  emperors  than  to  the  last  of  the  republican 
laaters  of  Rome.  Winkelmami  is  loth  to  allow  an  heroic 
latiie  of  a  Roman  citizen,  but  theGrimani  Agrippa,  a  co- 
snporary  almost,  is  heroic;  and  naked  Roman  figures 
ere  only  very  rare,  not  absolutely  forbidden.  The  face 
Dcordfl  much  better  with  the" hominem  integrum  ei  castum 
I  grenem**  than  with  any  of  the  busts  of  Augustus,  and 

too  stern  for  him  who  was  beautiful,  says  Suetonius,  at 
I  periods  of  his  life.  The  pretended  likeness  to  Alcxan- 
er  the  Great  cannot  be  discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble 
te  medal  ofPompey.  The  objectionable  globe  may  not 
tve  been  an  ill-applied  flattery  to  him  who  found  Asia  Mi- 
>r  the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of  the  Roman  em- 
re.  It  seems  that  Winkehnann  has  Ihade  a  mistake  in 
ioking  that  no  proof  of  the  identity  of  this  statue,  with 
at  which  received  the  bloody  sacrifice,  can  be  derived 
om  the  spot  where  it  was  discovered.  Flaminius  Vacca 
ya  sotto  WM,  cantina,  and  this  cantina  Is  known  to  have 
;cJi  in  the  Vicolo  de'  Leutari  near  the  Canoellaria,  a  po- 
tion eorrespon4ing  exactly  to  thatof  the  Janus  before 
e  basilica  of  Pompey 's  theatre,  to  w  hich  Augustus  trans- 
rred  the  statue  after  the  carta  was  either  burnt  or  taken 


*)  ^'Seigneur,  vous  changee  toutes  mes  idees  de  la 
fb^on  dont  je  vousvoisagir.  Je  croyais  que  vous  aviea 
de  Tambition,  mais  aucun  amour  pour  la  gloire:  je 
voy  ais  bieu  que  votre  ame  ^tait  haute ;  mais  je  nesoup- 
^niiais  pas  qu'elleTdt  grande."  Momt£8QU1iku,  DiaL 
de  Sylla  et  d*£ucratc. 


down.  Partof  tbcPompeian  shade,*)  the  portico,  existed 
in  the  beginning  of  the  XVth  century,  and  the  atrium  was 
still  called  Satrum,  So  says  Blondus.  At  all  events,  so 
imposing  is  the  stern  majesty  of  the  statue,  and  so  memor* 
able  is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  the  imagination  leaves 
no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  judgment  and  the  fiction, 
if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates  on  the  spectator  with  an  effect 
not  less  powerful  than  truth. 

And  thou,  the  thunder^tricken  nurse  of  Rome! 

*     .       „  ...  [p.  40.  St  88. 

Ancient  Rome,  like  modem  Sienna,  abounded  most 
probably  witli  images  of  the  foster-mother  of  her  founder ; 
but  there  were  two  she -wolves  of  whom  history  makes 
particular  mention.  Oneof  these,  of  brass  in  ancient  work, 
was  seen  by  Dionysius  at  the  temple  of  Romulus  under 
the  Palatine,  and  is  universally  believed  to  be  that  men- 
tioned by  the  Latin  historian,  as  having  been  made  from 
the  money  collected  by  a  fine  on  usurers,  and  as  standing 
under  the  Ruminal  fig-tree.**)  The  other  was  that  which 
Cicero  *♦•)  has  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and 
which  the  historian  Dion  also  records  as  having  suffered 
the  same  accident  as  is  alluded  toby  the  orator.  Theques* 
tion  agitated  by  the  antiquaries  is,  whether  the  wolf  now 
in  the  conservator's  palace  is  that  of  Livy  and  Dionysius, 
or  that  of  Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  neither  one  or  the  other. 
The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much  as  the  modern :  Lucius 
Faunust)  says,  that  it  is  the  one  alluded  to  by  both,  which 
is  impossible,  and  also  by  Virgil,  which  may  be.  Fulvius 
Ursinus  calls  it  the  wolfof  Dionysius,  and  Marlianus  talks 
of  it  as  the  one  mentioned  by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius 
tremblingly  assents  ft).  Nardini  is  inclined  to  suppose  it 
may  bconeof  themany  wolves  preserved  in  ancient  Rome: 
but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to  the  Ciceronian  statue. 
Montfaucon  ttt)  mentions  it  as  a  point  without  doubt. 
Of  the  latter  writers  the  decisive  Winkclmann  proclaims 
it  as  having  been  found  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore, 
where,  or  near  where,  was  the  temple  of  Romulus,  and 
consequently  makes  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  His  author- 
ity is  Lucius  Faunus,  who,  however^  only  says  that  it 


*)  '<Tu  modo  Pompeia  lenta  spatiare  sub  umbra.*' 

Ovid  de  Arte  Amandi. 

**)  Ad  ficum  Ruminalem  simulacra  infantium  con- 

di  torum  urbis  sub  uberibus  lupas  posuerunt  Liv.  x.  60. 

This  was  in  the  year  U.  C.  465,  or  457. 

***)  ««Tum  statua  Natt»,  turn  simulacra  Deorum, 
Roniulusquc  et  Remus  cum  altrice  bellua  vi  fulminis 
icti  concicferunt"  De  Divinat  ii.  30.   ^'Tactusestille 
etiam  qui  banc  urbem  oondidit  Romulus,  quern  inaur 
ratum  inCapitolio  parvum  atqoe  laotantem,  uberibus 
lupiuis  inhiantemfuisse  meministis."  In  Catilln.  lu.  6. 
'^Hic  silvestris  erat  Roman!  nominis  altrix 
Martia,  que  parvos  Mavortis  semine  natos 
Uberibus  gravidis  vitali  rore  rigabat. 
Quae  turn  cum  pueris  flammato  fulminis  iotu 
Concidit,  atque  avuisa  pedum  vestigia  liqidt" 
De  Consulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  1.  de  Divinat  c.  ir.) 

t)  '*In  eadem  porticu  aenea  lupa,  cujus  uberibus 
Romulus  ac  Remus  lactantes  inhiant,  conspicitur :  de 
hac  Cicero  et  Virgilius  semper  intellexere.  Livius  hoc 
signum  ab  iGdilibus  ex  pecuniis  quibus  mulctati  es- 
sent  roeneratores  positum  innuit  Antea  m  Comitiis 
ad  Ficum  Ruminalem,  quo  locopueri  foersmt  expositi, 
locatum  pro  certo  est" 

tt)  ^'Non  desunt  qui  banc  ipsam  esse  patent,  quam 
adpinximus,  quw  e  comitio  in  Basilicam  Lateranam, 
cum  nonnullis  aliis  antiquitatum  reliquiis,  atque  hinc 
in  Capitolium  postca  relata  sit,  quamvis  Marlianus 
antiquam  Capitolinam  esse  maluit  a  Tullio  descriptam, 
cui  ut  in  re  nimis  dubia,  trepide  adsentunnr." 

ttt)  ''Lupa  hodie^ue  in  capitolinis  prostat  sBdlbuf » 
com  vestigio  fulminis  quo  ictam  narrat  Cicero.'' 


728 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


w€i  piaeedj  notfoundy  at  the  Ficns  Ruminalis  by  the  Co- 
oiitiooi,  by  whidi  he  does  not  seem  to  allude  to  the  church 
of  Saint  Theodore.  Rycquius  was  the  first  to  make  the 
mistake,  and  WinkeJmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flamiiiius  Vacca  tells  quite  a  different  story,  and  says 
he  had  heard  the  wolf  with  the  twins  was  found  near  the 
archof  Septimias  Scverus.  The  commentator  onWinkel- 
mann  is  of  the  same  opinion  witii  that  learned  person,  and 
is  incensed  at  Nardini  for  not  having  remarked  that  Cicero, 
in  speakings  of  the  wolf  struck  with  lig^htniug  in  the  Capi- 
tol, makes  use  of  the  past  tense.  But,  with  the  Abate's 
leave,  Nardini  does  not  positively  assert  the  statue  to  be 
that  mentioned  by  Cicero,  and,  if  he  had,  the  assumption 
would  not  perhaps  have  been  so  exceedingly  indiscreet 
The  Abate  himself  is  obliged  to  own  that  there  are  marks 
very  like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of  the 
present  wolf;  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  that  the  wolf 
seen  by  Dionysius  might  have  been  also  struck  by  light- 
ning, or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  by  a  reference  to  the  words 
of  Cicero.  The  orator  in  two  places  seems  to  particularize 
the  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  especially  the  first,  which 
his  audience  remembered  to  have  been  in  the  Capitol,  as 
being  struck  with  lightning.  In  his  verses  he  records  that 
the  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and  that  the  tatter  left  behind 
the  marks  of  her  feet  Cicero  does  not  say  that  the  wolf 
was  consumed:  and  Dion  only  mentions  that  it  fell  down, 
without  alluding,  as  the  Abate  has  made  him,  to  the  force 
of  the  blow,  or  the  firniness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed. 
The  whole  strength,  therefore,  of  the  Abate's  argument 
hangs  upon  the  past  tense:  which,  however,  may  be  some- 
what diminished  by  remarking  that  the  phrase  only  shows 
that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its  former  position. 
Winkelmann  has  observed ,  that  the  present  twins  are 
modern ;  and  it  is  equally  clear  that  there  are  marks  of  gild- 
ing on  the  wolf,  which  might  therefore  be  supposed  to 
make  part  of  the  ancicntgroup.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred 
images  of  theCapitol  were  not  destroyed  when  injured  by 
time  or  accident,  but  were  put  into  certain  underground 
depositaries  called  favissa.  It  may  be  thought  possible 
that  the  wolf  had  been  so  deposited,  and  had  been  replac- 
ed in  some  conspicuous  situation  when  the  Capitol  waa 
rebuilt  by  Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning  his 
authority,  tells  that  it  was  transferred  from  the  Comitium 
to  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the  Capitol.  If  it 
was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,it  may  have  been  one 
of  the  images  which  Orosius  says  were  thrown  down  in 
the  Forum  by  lightning  when  Alaric  took  the  city.  Thai 
it  is  of  very  high  antiquity  the  workmanship  is  a  decisive 
proof;  and  that  circumstanne  induced  Winkelmann  to 
believe  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  The  CapitoUne  wolf, 
however,  may  have  been  of  the  same  early  date  as  that 
at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lactantius*)  asserts  that  in 
bis  time  the  Romans  worshipped  a  wolf;  and  it  is  known 
that  theLupercalia  held  out  to  a  very  latcperiod  ^)  after 
every  other  observanoe  of  the  ancient  superstition  had 
totally  expired.  This  may  account  for  the  preservation  of 
the  ancient  image  longer  than  the  other  early  symbols  of 
Paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark  that  the  wolf 
wasaRoman  symbol,  but  that  the  worship  of  thaisymbol 


*)  <HoiBQlas  nutrlx  Lupa  honoribns  est  affecta  di- 
Tinis,et  ferrcm  si  animal  tpsam  fuisset,  cujus  figuram 
gerit"  That  is  to  say,  he  would  rather  adore  a  wolf 
than  a  prostitute.  His  commentator  has  observed,  that 
the  opinion  of  Livy  concerning  Laurentia  bang  figur- 
ed in  this  wolf  was  not  universal. 

•♦)  To  A.  D-  496.  Quis  credere  possit,  says  Baro- 
nlus,  viguisse  adhncRomie  ad  Gelasii  tempora,  quas 
fuere  9Qtc  exordia  urbis  allata  in  Italiam  Lupercalia? 
Gelasius  wrote  a  letter  to  Andromachus,  the  senator, 
and  others,  to  show  that  the  rites  shoold  be  given  up. 


is  an  Inference  drawn  by  the  semlof  Lactandas.  The  ew|y 

Christian  writers  are  not  to  be  trusted  in  thechai^geswUcfc 
they  make  against  the  Pagans.  Eusebius  aocased  die  Bo* 
mans  to  their  faces  of  worshipping  Simon  Mai^os,  aad 
raising  a  statue  to  him  in  the  island  of  the  Tyber.  The 
Romans  had  probably  never  heard  of  such  a  person  before, 
who  came,  however,  to  play  a  considerable,  though  scan- 
dalous part  in  the  church  -  history,  and  has  left  serenl 
tokens  of  his  aerial  combat  with  St  Peter  at  Rome;  not- 
withstanding that  an  inscription  found  in  this  verj  island 
of  the  Tyber  showed  the  Simon  Magus  of  Eusebius  to  be 
a  (x:rtain  indigenal  god,  called  Semo  Sangus  or  Fiifins. 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome  had 
been  abandoned,  it  was  thought  expedient  to  humour  the 
habits  of  tlie  good  matrons  of  the  city  by  sending  then 
with  their  sick  infants  to  the  church  of  St  Theodore,  as 
they  had  before  carried  them  to  the  temple  of  Romnlas. 
The  practice  is  continued  to  diis  day;  and  the  site  of  the 
above  church  seems  to  be  thereby  identified  with  that  oi 
the  temple :  so  tliat  if  the  wolf  had  been  really  found  dkere, 
as  Winkelmann  says  there  would  be  no  doubt  of  the  pre- 
sent statue  being  that  seen  by  Dionysius.  But  Faonus,  in 
saying  that  it  was  at  tlie  Ficns  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitiam, 
is  only  talkingof  its  ancient  position  as  recorded  by  Pliny ; 
and  even  if  he  had  been  remarking  where  it  was  found, 
would  not  have  alluded  to  the  church  of  8t  Theodore^ 
buttoa  very  dificrent  place,  near  which  it  was  then  thought 
the  Fious  Ruminalis  had  been,  and  also  the  ComitinBi; 
that  is,  the  three  columns  by  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Liberatrice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Palatine  looking  on  the 
Forum. 

It  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  conjecture  where  the  image  was 
actually  dug  up,  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  marks  of 
the  gilding,  and  of  the  lightning,  are  a  better  argument  ia 
favour  of  its  being  the  Ciceroman  wolf  than  any  that  can 
be  adduced  for  the  contrary  opinion.  At  any  rate,  it  ii 
reasonably  selected  in  the  text  of  the  poem  as^  one  of  tba 
most  interesting  relics  of  the  ancient  city,  and  is  eertaia^f 
the  figure,  if  not  the  very  animal  to  which  Vii^gil  alludea 
in  his  beautiful  verses. 


^Geminos  huic  nbera  i 
[«adere  pendentes  pneros  et  lambere  matrem 
Impavidos:  illam  tereti  oervice  reflexam 
Mulccre  altemos,  et  fingere  corpora  lingua." 

For  the  Roman's  mimd 

Was  modelled  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould. 

[p.4N».StML 

It  Is  possible  to  be  a  very  great  man  and  to  be  still  wiy 
inferior  to  Julius  Ciesar,  the  most  complete  character, » 
Lord  Bacon  thought,  of  all  antiquity.  Nature  seems  in- 
capable of  such  extraordinary  combinations  as  composed 
his  versatile  capacity,  which  was  the  wonder  even  of  tbr 
Romans  themselves.  The  first  general  — the  only  triuoB- 
phant  politician  —  inferior  to  none  in  eloquence  —  com- 
parable to  any  in  the  attainments  of  wisdom^ in  an  sfe 
made  up  of  tlie  greatest  commanders,  statesmeii,ontois 
and  philosophers  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world  —  aa 
author  who  composed  a  perfect  specimen  of  military 
annals  in  hb  travelling-carriage  —  at  one  time  in  a  ooa- 
troversy  with  Cato,  at  another  writing  a  treaUse  on  puB> 
ing,  and  collecting  a  set  of  good  sayings— fighting  •)  aad 
making  love  at  the  same  moment,  and  willing  to  abandon 
both  his  empire  and  his  mistress  for  a  aight  of  the  Fomit- 

•)  111  his  tenth  book,  Lucan  shows  him  spriiikkd 
with  the  blood  of  PharsaRa  in  the  arms  of  Cieopaira: 

Sanguine  Thessalicas  cladis  perfusos  adulter 
Admisit  Venerem  curis,  et  miscuit  armis. 

After  feasting  with  his  mistress,  he  s|U  up  ail 
to  eouverse  with  the  i£gyptUn  sages,  and 
Afshorensy 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAOB. 


729 


lias  of  the  Nile  Saoh  did  Julias  Cassar  appear  to  his 
otemporaries  and  to  those  of  the  subsequeot  a^es,  who 
rere  the  most  inclined  to  deplore  and  execrate  his  fatal 
eaias. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  ^ith  his  surpass* 
3g  glory  or  with  his  magnanimous,  his  amiable  qualities, 
s  to  forget  the  decision  of  his  impartial  countrymen: 

HE  WAS  JUSTLY  SLAIN.  *) 

Whatjrom  this  barren  being  do  we  reap? 
Our  tenses  narrow,  and  our  reason  fraiL 

[p.40.Std3. 
'',...  Omnes  pene  vetercs,  qui  nihil  cognosci,  nihil 
tercipiy  nihil  sciri  posse  dixerunt ;  angustos  sensus ;  im- 
ledllos  animos;  brevia  curricula  vitse;  in  profundo  Yeri- 
ttem  demersam ;  opinionibus  et  institutis  omnia  tcneri: 
lihil  ?eritati  relinqui:  deinceps  omnia  tenebris  circum- 
osa  esse  dixerunt'**) The  eighteen  hundred  years  which 
lave  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote  this,  have  not  removed 
ay  of  the  imperfections  of  humanity :  and  the  complaints 
if  the  ancient  philosophers  may,  without  injustice  or 
Jfectation,  be  transcribed  in  a  poem  written  yesterday. 

Tkere  it  a  stem  round  tower  of  other  days, 

[p.  41.  St.  99. 
Alluding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called  Capo 
fi  Bore,  in  the  Appian  Way. 

Prophetic  of  the  doom 

Heaven  givet  itsfavouritet  —  early  death* 

[p.  41.  St  102. 
*0p  ol  &tol  (fiXovaiv  ttno&n]axt$  v^oq* 
To  Y^q  &aviiv  ovx  ulaxgof,  dk^  aiaxQ^^  ^awtlw, 

Brunck,  Poetas  Gnomici,  p.  231. 

Behold  the  Imperial  Mount!  {p.  41 .  St  107. 
The  Palatine  is  one  maas  of  ruins ,  particularly  on  the 
Ida  towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very  soil  is 
bvmed  of  crumbled  brick- work.  Nothing  has  been  told, 
lothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  belief  of  any  but  a  Bo- 
BSD  antiquary. 

7%ere  it  the  moral  of  all  human  talet; 

*1U  hut  the  tame  rehearsal  of  the  pott: 

JPurst  Freedom,  and  then  Glory^ 

[p.  41.  St  108. 
The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the  opi- 
ion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his  ootem- 
Ofary  Bomans,  haa  the  following  eloquent  passage: 
From  their  railleries  of  this  kind,  ou  the  barbarity  and 
neiy  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  on  the 
nrprising  fate  and  revolutions  of  kingdoms,  how  Rome, 
■oe  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire 
id  glory,  now  lies  sunk  in  sloth,  ignorance  and  pover^, 


Spes  sit  mihi  certa  videndi 
Niliacos  fontes,  helium  civile  relinqi 


Sie  velut  in  tuta  securi  pace  trahebant 
Noctis  iter  mediao. 
Immediately  afterwards,  he  is  fightbg  again  and 
defending  every  position. 

Sed  adcst  defensor  ubi<jue 
CsDsar,  et  hos  aditus  gladiis,  hos  ignibus  arcet 

Casca  nocte  carinis 

lusilnit  Caesar  semper  feliciter  usus 
Pnecipiti  cursu  beilorum  et  tempore  rapto. 

*)  Jure  cassus  existimetur,  says  Suetonius  after  a 

^&ir  estimation  of  bis  character,  and  making  use  of  a 

phrase  which  was  a  formula  in  Liv^'s  time.  **Melium 

are  cassum  pronuntiavit,  etiam  si  regni  crimine  in« 

ifuerit." 

*)  Academ.  1. 13 


enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  most  oou« 
temptible  of  tyrants,superstition  and  religious  imposture : 
while  this  remote  country,  anciently  the  jest  and  contempt 
of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the  happy  seat  of  liberty, 
plenty,  and  letters;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and  refine- 
ments of  civil  life;  yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course 
which  Rome  itself  had  run  beifore  it,  from  virtuous  in- 
dustry to  wealth;  from  wealth  to  luxury;  from  luxury 
to  an  impatience  of  discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals : 
till,  by  a  total  degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown 
ripe  for  destruction,  it  falls  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy 
oppressor,  and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every  thing 
that  is  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into  its  original 
barbarLsm." 

And  apostolic  statues  climb 

To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whote  ashet  tlept  sublime, 

[p.  42.  St  no. 

The  column  of  Tnyan  is  surmounted  Xy  St 


thatof  Aurelius  by  St  Paul 


Peter; 


StiU  we  Trajan* t  name  adore. 

[p.42.Stlll. 
Trajan  was  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman  prin- 
ces: *J  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sovereign  uniting 
exactly  the  opposite  characteristics,  than  one  possessed 
of  all  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this  emperor.  <<  When 
he  mounted  the  throne,''  says  the  historian  Dion,  ''he  was 
strong  in  body,  he  was  vigorous  in  mind ;  age  had  im- 
paired none  of  his  faculties;  he  was  altogether  free  from 
envy  and  from  detraction;  he  honoured  all  the  good  and 
he  advanced  them ;  and  on  this  account  they  could  not  be 
the  objects  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate;  he  never  listened  to 
informers;  he  gave  not  way  to  his  anger;  he  abstained 
equally  from  unfair  exactions  and  unjust  punishments ; 
he  had  rather  be  loved  as  a  man  than  honoured  as  a  so- 
vereign; he  was  affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the 
senate,  and  universally  beloved  by  both;  he  inspired 
none  with  dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country/' 

Rienzi,  Utt  of  Romans  !     [p.  42.  St  1 14. 
The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienxd  must  be  fiuniliar  to 
die  reader  of  Gibbon. 

JEaeria  !  tweet  creation  ^tome  heart 

Which  found  no  mortal  rettiny^plaee  to  fair 

As  thine  ideal  breasU  [p.  42.  St  1 15. 

The  respectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vaoca  would 
incline  us  to  believe  in  the  claims  of  the  Egerian  grotto. 
He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an  inscription  in  the  pavement, 
stating  that  the  fountain  was  that  of  Bgeria  dedicated  to 
the  nymphs.  The  inscription  is  not  there  at  this  day ;  but 
Montfauoon  quotes  two  lines  **)  of  Ovid  from  a  stone  in 
the  Villa  Giustiniani,  which  he  seems  to  think  liad  been 
brought  fit>m  the  same  grotto. 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented  in 
summer,  and  particularly  the  first  Sunday  in  May,  by  the 
modern  Romans,  who  attached  a  salubrious  quality  to 
the  fountain  which  trickles  from  an  orifice  at  the  bottom 
of  the  vault,  and,  overflowing  the  little  pools,  creeps  down 
the  matted  grass  into  the  brook  below.  The  brook  is  the 
Ovidian  Almo,  whose  name  and  qualities  are  lost  in  the 


*)  Hujus  tantom  memoriae  delatnm  est,  ut,  usque 
ad  nostram  astatem  non  aliter  in  Senatu  prindpibus 
acclamatur ,  nisi  fbucior  auousto  meuob  tr4Jano. 
Butr.  VKU.  6. 

**)  In  villa  Justiniana  exstat  ingeos  lapis  qua- 
dratus  solidus  in  quo  sonlpta  hapc  duo  Ovidii  car- 
minasunt: 

JBgeria  est  qdce  prasbet  aquas  dea  grata  CamoBnis, 

Ula  Numaa  conjux  eonsiliumque  fuit 
Qui  lapis  videtur  ex  eodem  Bgerias  fonte,  nut  ejus 
vicinia  isthuc  oomportatus. 

40* 


730 


NOTES  TO  CHILDB  HAROLD'S  PILQROfAGB. 


modern  Aqaatamto.  The  v*liey  itflelf  is  called  YaHe  di 
Caflarelli,  from  the  dakes  of  that  name  who  made  over 
the  fountain  to  the  PaUaTicini,  with  sixty  m^Ma  of  ad* 
joininjiT  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  longr  deli  is  the  Ege- 
rian  valley  of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing-pl^ce  of  Urn- 
bririus,  notwithstanding  the  generality  of  his  commen  - 
tators  have  supposed  the  descent  of  the  satirist  and  his 
friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician  grove,  where  the 
nymph  met  Hippolitus,  and  where  she  was  more  peculi- 
arly worshipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Ckpena  to  the  Alban  hill ,  fif- 
teen miles  distant,  would  be  too  considerable,  unless  we 
were  to  believe  in  the  wild  conjecture  of  Vossius,  who 
makes  that  gat»travel  from  its  present  station,  where  he 
pretends  it  was  during  the  reign  of  the  Kings^as  far  as  the 
Arician  grove,  and  then  makes  it  recede  to  its  old  site 
with  the  shrinking  city,  The  tufo,  or  pumice,  which  the 
poet  prefers  to  marble,  is  the  substance  composing  the 
bonk  in  which  the  grotto  Is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers  find  in  the  grotto  the  statue 
of  the  nytnph  and  nine  niches  for  the  Muses ;  and  a  late 
traveller  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is  restored  to  that 
simplicity  which  the  poet  regretted  had  been  exchanged 
for  injudicious  ornament  But  the  headless  statue  is  pal- 
pably rather  a  male  than  a  nymph,  and  has  none  of  the 
attributes  ascribed  to  it  at  present  visible.  The  nine  Mu- 
ses could  hardly  have  stood  in  six  niches;  and  Juvenal 
'  certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual  cave.*)  Nothing 
can  be  collected  from  the  satirist  bat  that  somewhere 
near  the  Porta  Capena  was  a  spot  in  which  it  was  sup- 
posed Numa  held  nightly  consultations  with  his  nymph, 
and  where  there  was  a  grove  and  a  sacred  fountain,  and 
fanes  once  consecrated  to  the  Muses;  and  that  from  this 
spot  there  was  a  descent  into  the  valley  of  £geria,  where 
were  several  artificial  caves.  It  is  clear  that  the  statues  of 
the  Muses  made  no  part  of  the  decoration  which  the  satirist 
thought  misplaced  in  these  caves;  for  he  expressly  as- 
signs other  fanes  (delubra)  to  these  divinities  above  the 
valley,  and  moreover  tells  us,  tliat  they  had  been  ejected 
to  make  room  for  the  Jews.  In  fact,  the  little  temple,  now 
called  that  of  Bacchus,  was  formerly  tliought  to  belong 
to  the  Muses,  and  Nardini  places  them  in  a  poplar-grove, 
which  was  in  his  time  above  the  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position,  that 
the  cave  now  shown  mav  be  one  of  the  ''artificial  ca- 
verns," of  which,  indeed,  there  is  another  a  little  way 
higher  up  the  valley,  under  a  toft  of  alder  bushes :  but  a 
iinple  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a  mere  modem  invention,  graft- 
ed upon  the  application  of  the  epithet  Egerian  to  these 
n}  mphca  in  general,  and  which  might  send  us  to  look  for 
the  haunts  of  Noma  upon  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistrans- 
lation by  his  acquaintance  with  Pope':  he  careAilly  pre- 
serves the  correct  plural  — 

Thence  slowly  winding  down  the  vale  we  view 
The  Kgerian  ^oU;  oh,  how  unfike  the  true! 

The  Valley  abounds  with  springs,  and  over  these 
springs,  which  the  Muses  might  haunt  from  their  neigh- 
bounng  groves,  Egeria  presided:  hence  she  was  said  to 
supply  them  with  water;  and  she  was  the  nymph  of  the 
grottos  through  which  the  fountains  were  taught  to  flow. 


*)  Substitit  ad  veteres  arcus  madidamque  Capcnami 
Hie,  ubi  nocturnas  Numa  constituebat  amicae, 
Nunc  sacri  fontis  nemns  et  delubra  locantur 
Judttis,  quorum  copbinns  fiaenumque  supellex^ 
Omnis  enim  populo  mercedem  pendere  jussa  est 
Arbori  et  dcctis  mendicat  silva  Oamoenis. 
In  vallem  Egerias  descendimus,  et  speluncas 

^      Dissimiles  veris :  auanto  prsestantius  esset 
Numen  aquas,  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undas 
Herba,  nee  ingenuum  violarcnt  marmora  tophum? 


The  whole  of  the  moniimeBts  in  the  Tidni^  of  A 
Kgerian  valley  have  received  names  at  will,  nkkh  WlB 
been  changed  at  will.  Yenuti  owns  he  can  fleenoiMM 
of  the  temples  of  Jove,  Saturn,  Juno,  Venos,^  and 
which  Nardini  found,  or  hoped  to  find.  The 
of  Caracalla's  circus,  the  temple  of  Honour  and  TIM 
the  temple  of  Bacchus,  and,  above  all,  the  temple  ^CB 
god  Rediculus,  are  the  antiquaries'  despair.  « 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  medal  of  flip^ 
emperor  cited  by  Pulvius  Ursinus,  of  which  the  rvtm 
shows  a  dfcus,  supposed,  however,  by  some  to  i 
the  Circus  Maximus.  It  gives  a  very  good  Idea  of  t 
place  of  exercise.  The  soil  has  been  bat  litile  rai 
we  may  Judge  from  the  small  cellular  stractnre  at  t 
of  the  Spina,  which  was  probably  the  chapel  of  thejjjl 

Constts.  This  cell  is  half  beneath  the  soil,  as  it iiJSp 

been  in  the  circus  itself;  fbr  Dionysius  could  not  bepi^ 
suaded  to  believe  that  this  divinity  was  the  Roman  lU^ 
tune,  because  his  altar  was  underground. 

YHUtwpmubrMdfy.  [p.4S.St». 
'<Atall  events,''  says  the  author  of  the  AoMleaW 
Questions,  *'I  trust,  whatever  mav  be  the  fate  of  my  «•■ 
speculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  estiiiiallli 
which  it  ought  to  possess.  The  firee  and  philosophiei^M 
of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of  admiratioD  10^ 
world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction  of  BngiLih]iMn,Mif 
the  luminous  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then  to 
get  the  manly  and  dignified  sentiments  of  our  aaoeflBn^ 
to  prate  in  the  language  of  the  mother  or  the  nurse  aM 
our  good  old  prejudices?  This  is'not  tlie  way  to  detaf 
the  cause  of  truth.  It  was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  majn* 
tained  it  in  the  brilliant  periods  of  our  history.  Prejudn 
may  be  trusted  to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  ol 
time  while  reason  slumbers  in  the  citadel:  hat  if  the  latfta 
sink  into  alethaigy,  the  fbrmer  will  quickly  ereotaMli 
ard  for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  Oberty,  tm 
port  each  other;  he  who  will  not  reason,  ii  a  bigot;  ha«il 
cannot,  is  a  fool;  and  he  who  dares  no^  is  a  afanpcw" 

Great  Sjememi 

Hef€y  where  the  ^tneienipftkl  thee  home^  iang^ 

[p.43.Stiai 
We  read  in  Snetonins  that  Aognstns,  msm  a  wanii| 
received  in  a  dream,  counterfeited,  once  a  year,  tbete 
gar,  sitting  before  the  gate  of  his  paiace  with  bis  fattsdlsl 
lowed  and  stretched  out  for  charity.  *)  A  statne  I 
in  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  which  should  he  now  at  1 
represents  the  Emperor  in  that  posture  of  supplkatim 
The  object  of  this  self-  degradation  was  the  appeaaaaerij 
of  Nemesis,  the  perpetual  attendant  on  good  fortnae^d 
whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors  were  also  rcmiBdei 
by  certain  symbols  attached  to  their  cars  of  triampb^W 
symbols  were  the  whip  and  the  crota/o,  which  wevadto* 
covered  in  the  Nemesis  of  the  Vatican.  The  atfilaii  4 
beggary  made  the  above  statue  pass  for  thatof  fidisHte] 
and  until  the  criticism  of  Winkelmann  had  rectfefi A| 
mistake,  one  fiction  was  called  in  to  support  unnlba^  l| 
was  the  same  fear  of  the  sudden  termination  of  pHMysM 
that  madeAmasis  king  ofEgypt  warn  his  friendPo^fvtfM 
ofSamos,  that  the  gods  loved  those  whose  lives  were  M^ 
quered  with  good  and  evil  fortunes.  Ncme^  w— mp^ 
posed  to  lie  in  wait  particularly  for  the  prndcnt:  ttfltli 
for  those  whose  cauSoa  rendered  them  accessible «a|f  4 
mere  accidents :  and  her  first  altar  was  raised  on  theiml 


*)  Suetonius  in  vit.  Augusti,  cap.  91. 
the  note,  refers  to  Plutarch's  lives  of  < 
JBmitivs  Paulus^  and  also  to  his  apophtbegan,farl 
character  ofthis  deity.The  hollowed  hand  % 
tlie  last  degreeof  degradation :  and  when  thcdendl 
of  the  praefectRufinos  was  borne  about  la  trimafi 
the  people,  the  indignity  was  increased  by  patsiagi 
hand  in  that  position. 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRUCAGB. 


731 


dif  AePhrjgioii  i£sepaa  bx^Adrastus,  prpbably  tbepriooe 
4f  that  name  who  killed  tlie  son  of  CroBsqs  bj  mistake. 
■fiMcc  the  goddess  was  called  Adrastea. 
'  The  Uoinan  Nemesis  was  sacred  and  august;  there  was 
Itemple  to  her  in  the  Palatine  under  the  name  of  Rham- 
luja:  so  great  indeed  was  the  propensity  of  the  ancients 
to  trust  to  the  revolation  of  events,  and  to  believe  in  the 
^inity  of  Fortune ,  that  in  the  same  Palatine  there  was 
%teinple  to  the  Fortune  of  the  day.  This  is  the  last  super- 
'M^B  wliioh  retains  its  hold  over  the  human  heart,  and, 
'%m  concentrating  in  one  object  the  credulity  so  natural 
Ivman,  has  always  appeared  strongest  in  those  unembar- 
Itised  by  otlier  articles  of  belief.  The  antiquaries  have 
iippoied  tills  goddess  to  be  synonymous  with  Fortune 
tod  withFate:  but  it  was  in  her  vindictive  quality  that  she 
9u  worshipped  under  the  name  of  Nemesis. 

Deal  round  to  happy  foolt  its  speechless  obloqutf* 

[p.44.SL13e. 
-"  Between  stanzas  cxxxv.  and  cxxxvL  we  find  in  the 
ir^final  MS.  the  following:  — 
*If  to  forgive  be  heaping  coals  of  fire  — 
M  God  hath  spoken — on  the  heads  of  foes, 

Se  should  be  a  volcano,  and  rise  higher 
a,  o'er  the  Titans  crush'd,  Olympus  rose, 
Or  Athos  soars,  or  blazing  Etna  glows :  — 
V^aethey  who  stung  were  creeping  things;  but  what 
Thao  serpents'  teeth  inflicts  with  deadlier  throes? 
The'Lion  may  be  goaded  by  the  Gnat. —  [Bat" 

Who  sucks  the  slumberer's  blood?— The Bagle?— No:  the 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie. 

[p.  44.  St  140 
Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this 
imge  beala(|uearian  gladiator,  which  in  spite  of  Winkei- 
maa's  criticism  has  been  stoutly  maintained,  or  whether 
it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  great  antiquary  positively 
isserted,*)  or  whether  it  is  to  bethought  a  Spartan  or 
kirbarian  shield-  bearer ,  according  to  the  opinion  of  his 
tbtiaa  editor;  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copy  of  that  mas- 
terpiece of  Ctesilaus  which  represented  '*a  wounded  man 
Ijiog,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  remained  of 
nemhioi,"**)  Mountfaucon  and  Jtfaffei  thought  it  the 
ideatical  statue;  but  that  statue  was  of  bronze.  The  gla- 
Bator  was  oace  in  the  villa  Ludovisi,  and  was  bought  by 
pfement  XIL  The  right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of 
uehael  Angelo. 

— — jfife,  their  sirot 
BtUchored  to  make  a  Roman  holiday, 

[p.  44.  St  141. 
Gladiators  were  of  twokinds,oompelledand voluntary; 
nd  were  supplied  from  several  conditions;  from  slaves 
old  for  that  purpose;  from  culprits;  from  barbarian  cap- 
ives  either  taken  in  war,  and,  after  being  led  in  triumph, 
et apart  for  the  games,  or  those  seized  and  condemned 
in^Kfls;  also  from  free  citizens,  some  fighting  for  hire 
wetorati)^  ofbersfrom  a  depraved  ambition:  at  lasteven 
nights  and  senators  were  exhibited,  a  disgrace  of  which 
le  first  tyrant  was  naturally  the  first  inventor.***)  In 


*)  Bi  ther  Polifontes,  herald  of  Latus,  kiUed  by  (Edi- 
pns;  or  Cepreas,  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed  by  the 
Athenians  when  he  endeavoured  to  drag  the  Hera- 
elidas  from  the  altar  of  Mercy,  and  in  whose  honour 
they  instituted  annual  games,  continued  to  the  time 
of  Hadrian;  or  Antbemocritus ,  tlie  Athenian  herald, 
killed  by  the  Megarenses,  who  never  recov^ed  the 
impiety. 

**)  Valneratnm  deficientem  fecit  in  quo  possit  Intel- 
ligi  quantum  restat  animse.  Plin.  Nat  Hist  xxxiv.8. 

***)  Julius  Cassar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aristo- 
ciacy,  brought  Furins  Leptinus  and  A.  Caleaus  upon 
the  arena. 


the  end,  dwarfs ,  and  even  women ,  fought;  an  enormity 
prohibited  by  Severus.  Of  these  the  most  to  be  pitied 
undoubtedly  were  the  barbarian  captives;  and  to  this 
species  a  Christian  writer  *)  justly  applies  the  epithet 
'<  innocent "  to  distinguish  them  from  the  professional 
gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius  supplied  great  numbers 
of  these  unfortunate  victims ;  the  one  after  his  triumph,  and 
the  other  on  the  pretext  of  a  rebellion.  No  war,  says  Lip- 
sius,  was  ever  so  destructive  to  the  human  race  as  these 
sports.  In  spite  of  the  laws  of  Constantine  and  Constans, 
gladiatorial  shows  survived  the  old  established  religion 
more  than  seventy  years ;  but  they  owed  their  final  extinc- 
tion to  the  courage  of  a  Christian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the 
kalends  of  January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows  in  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre  before  the  usual  immense  concourse 
of  people.  Almacliius  orTeiemachus,  an  eastern  monk,  who 
had  travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holy  purpose,  rushed 
into  the  midst  of  the  area,  and  endeavoured  to  separate  the 
combatants.  The  prsetor  Alypius,  a  person  Incredibly  at>- 
taohed  to  these  games ,  gave  instant  orders  to  the  gladia- 
tors to  slay  him;  and  Telemachus  gained  the  crown  of 
Diartyrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint,  which  surely  has  never 
either  before  or  since  been  awarded  for  a  more  noble  ex- 
ploit Honorius  immediately  abolished  the  shows,  which 
werenever  afterwards  revived.  The  story  is  told  by  Theo- 
doret  and  Cassiodorus,  and  seems  worthy  of  credit  not- 
withstanding its  place  in  the  Roman  martyrology.  Besides 
the  torrents  of  blood  which  flowed  at  the  funerals,  in  the 
amphitheatres,  the  circus ,  ihe  forums ,  and  other  public 
places,  gladiators  were  introduced  at  feasts,  and  tore  each 
other  to  pieces  amidst  the  supper-tables,  to  the  great  de- 
light and  applause  of  theguests.  Yc*  i^ipsi us  permits  him- 
self to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  dege- 
neracy of  mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the  abo- 
lition of  these  bloody  spectacles.  **) 

Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  It/e,  the  play- things  of  a  crowd, 

[p.  44.  St  149. 
When  one  gladiator  wounded  another,  he  shouted  *7i« 
has  Hi*  "hoc  habet/'  or  ''habet"  The  wounded  comba- 
tant dropped  his  weapon,  and  advancing  to  the  edge  of 
the  arena,  supplicated  the  spectators.  If  he  had  fought 
well,  the  people  saved  him;  if  otherwise,  or  as  they  hap- 
pened to  be  iuclined,  they  turned  down  their  thumbs,  and 
he  was  slain.  They  were  occasionally  so  savage  that  they 
were  impatient  if  a  combat  lasted  longer  than  ordinary 
without  wounds  or  death.  The  emperor's  presence  gene- 
rally saved  the  vanquished:  and  it  is  recorded  as  an  in- 
stance of  Caracalla's  ferocity^  that  he  sent  those  who  sup- 
plicated him  for  life,  in  a  spectacle  at  Nicodemia,  to  ask 
the  people;  in  other  words,  handed  them  over  to  be  slain. 
A  similar  eeremony  is  observed  at  the  Spanish  bull-fights. 
The  magistrate  presides;  and  after  the  horsemen  and  pic- 
cadores  have  fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps  forward 
and  bows  to  him  for  permission  to  kill  the  animaL  If  the 
bull  has  done  his  duty  by  killing  two  or  three  horses,  or 
a  man,  which  last  is  rare,  the  people  interfere  with  shouts^ 
the  ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is 
saved.  The  wounds  and  death  of  the  horses  are  acoompa- 


*)  Tertullian ,  '*certe  quidem  et  innocentes  gladia- 
tores  in  ludum  veniont,  at  voluptatis  pnbliese  hostisB 
fiant" 

**)  <*Quod?  non  tu  Lipsi  momentum  aliquod  ha- 
bttbse  censes  ad  virtutem  ?  Magnum.  Tempora  nostra, 
nosqueipsos  videamus.  Oppidum  ecc^^unum  alteram- 
ve  captum,  direptum  est;  tumultus  circa  nos,  non  in 
nobis;  et  tamen  ooncidimus  et  turbamur.  Ubi  robur, 
ubi  tot  per  annos  meditate  sapientiasstudia?  ubiille 
animus  qui  possit  dioere,  sifraetus  illahatwr^rbbr 
The  prototype  of  Mr.  Windham's  panegyric  on  bull- 
baiting*  * 


732 


NOTES  TO  CmLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIltfAGB. 


nled  with  the  loudest  acclamations,  and  many  giestores  of 
delight,  especially  from  the  female  portion  of  the  aadience, 
inolading  tiiose  of  the  gentlest  blood.  Every  thing  depends 
on  habit  The  author  of  Childe  Harold,  the  writer  of  this 
note,  and  one  or  two  other  Englishmen,  who  have  cer- 
tainly in  other  days  borne  the  sight  of  a  pitched  battle, 
were,  during  the  summer  of  1809,  in  the  governor's  box 
at  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Santa  Maria,  opposite  to  Ca- 
dis. The  death  of  one  or  two  horses  completely  satisfied 
their  curiosity.  A  gentleman  present,  observing  them  shud. 
der  and  look  pale,  noticed  that  unusual  reception  of  so 
delightful  a  sport  to  some  young  ladies,  who  stared  and 
smiled,  and  continued  their  applauses  as  another  horse 
fell  bleeding  to  the  ground.  One  bull  iLilled  three  horses 
off  hit  own  honu.  He  was  saved  by  acclamations,  which 
were  redoubled  when  it  was  known  he  belonged  to  a  priest 
An  Englishman  who  can  be  much  pleased  with  seeing 
two  men  beat  themselves  to  pieces,  cannot  bear  to  look  at 
a  horse  galloping  round  an  arena  with  his  bowels  trailing 
on  the  ground,  and  turns  from  the  spectacle  and  the  spec- 
tators with  horror  and  disgust 

Like  laurelt  on  the  hMftret  Oeear^s  head, 

[p.  44.  St  144. 
Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Cassar  was  particu- 
larly gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate,  which  enabled 
him  to  wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions.  He  was 
anxious,  not,  to  show  that  he  was  the  conqueror  of  thfe 
world ,  but  to  hide  that  he  was  bald.  A  stranger  at  Rome 
would  hardly  have  guessed  at  the  motive,  nor  should  we 
widiout  the  help  of  the  historian. 

While  sUndi  the  Colinum,  Rome  shall  ettmd. 

[p.  44.  St  146. 
This  is  quoted  in  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire. 

Spared  and  hleet  hy  time.  [p.  4&  St  146. 
Though  plundered  of  alt  its  brass,  except  the  ring  which 
was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture  above;  though  ex- 
posed to  repeated  fires,  though  sometimes  flooded  by  the 
river,  and  always  open  to  the  rain,  no  monument  of  equal 
antiquity  is  so  well  preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It  passed 
with  little  alteration  from  the  pagan  into  the  presentwor- 
ship;  and  so  convenient  were  its  niches  for  the  Christian 
altar,  that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of  ancient  beauty, 
introduced  their  design  as  a  model  in  the  Catholic  church. 

And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honouredforms,  whose  Busts  around  them 
close.  ,  [p.  45.  St  147. 

The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  the  busts 
of  modem  great,  or,  at  least,  distinguished  men.  The  flood 
of  light,  which  once  fell  through  the  laige  orb  above  on 
the  whole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  on  a  numerous 
assemblage  of  mortals,  some  one  or  two  of  whom  have 
been  almost  deified  b j  the  veneration  of  their  countrymen. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  m  whose  dim  drear  light. 

[p.  45.  St  148. 

This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of 

the  Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller  by 

the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  that  adventure  now  shown 

at  the  church  of  Saint  Nicholas  ta  e'arcere. 

Ihtm  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  reared  on  high, 

[p.  46.  St  153. 
The  castie  of  Saint  Angek>. 

Fp.  46.  St.  153. 
This  and  the  six  next  stanias  have  a  rdereoce  to  the 
church  of  St  Peter. 

1*#  strange  fate 

Which  tumhles  mightiest  sovereigns. 

^  [p.  47.  St  171. 

Mary  died  on  the  scaffold;  Elicabethof  a  broken  heart; 

Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in  means 

and  glory ;  Cromwell  of  anxiety ;  and  '*the  greatest  is  be- 


hind,'' Napoleon  lives  a  prisoner.  To  these  soTCfmlgns  t 
long  but  superfluous  list  might  be  added  of  names  eqmlly 
illustrious  and  unhappy, 

LOf  NenU  !  na»eUed  in  the  woody  hills. 

(p.47.Stl7aL 

The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arictan  retreat  of 
Egeria,  and,  from  the  shades  which  embosomed  the  temple 
of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive  appel- 
lation of  The  Grove.  Nemi  is  but  an  evening^'s  ride  from 
the  comfortable  inn  of  A  Ibano, 

''-"^And  e^ar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  Imoas 
The  Latian  coast.  [p.  47.  St  174. 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  oT  unrivalled 
beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  wUdi 
has  succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the  I^tian  Jupiter,  the 
prospect  embraces  all  the  objects  alluded  to  in  the  cited 
stanza;  the  Mediterranean ,  the  whole  scene  of  the  latter 
half  of  the  ^Eneid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  the  mouth 
of  the  Tiber  to  the  headhmd  of  Ciroeum  and  the  Cape  of 
Terracina. 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  may  be  supposed  either  at  the 
Grotta  Ferrata,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Lucian  Buonaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  years  ago  the  actual  site, 
as  may  be  seen  from  Middleton's  Life  of  Cicero.  At  pre- 
sent it  has  lost  something  of  its  credit,  except  for  the 
Domenichinos.  Nine  monks,  of  the  Greek  order ,  five 
there,  and  the  adjoining  villa  is  a  Cardinal's  summer- 
house.  The  other  villa,  called  Rufinella,  is  on  the  summit 
of  the  bill  above  Frascati,  and  many  rich  remains  of  Tus- 
culum have  been  found  there,  besides  -seveatytwo  sta- 
tues of  difl'erent  merit  and  preservation,  and  seven  hnMs. 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills, 
embosomed  in  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  RusCksu 
There  are  several  circumstances  which  tend  to  estahlid 
the  identity  of  this  valley  with  the  ^UsUca"'  of  Hcvace; 
and  it  seems  possible  that  the  mosaic  paremeat  wludi 
the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing  up  the  earth  of  a  vine- 
yard, may  belong  to  his  villa.  Rustica  ispronunoedsiiort; 
not  according  to  our  stress  upon  *<(7#ffe«e«&«iif»t."— It 
is  more  rational  to  think  that  we  are  wrong  than  that  tiie 
inhabitants  of  this  secluded  valley  have  changed  tiieir 
tone  in  this  word.  The  addition  of  the  consonant  pre- 
fixed is  nothing;  yet  it  is  necessary  to  be  aware  that 
Rustica  may  be  a  modern  name  which  the  peasants  may 
have  caught  from  the  antiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a  knoll  co- 
vered with  chcsnut  trees.  A  stream  runs  down  the  valley, 
and  although  it  is  not  true,  as  said  in  the  guide-book5» 
that  this  stream  is  called  IJoenza,  yet  there  is  a  ^Ili^» 
on  a  rock  at  the  head  of  the  valley  which  is  so  dew»- 
minated,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  name  from  the 
Digentia.  Licenza  contains  700  inhabitants.  On  a  peak  a 
little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  containing  300.  On  the 
banks  of  the  Anio,  a  littie  before  you  turn  up  into  Tafle 
Rustica ,  to  the  left,  about  an  hour  from  the  ri/l«,  is  a 
town  called  Yioo-varo,  another  (avouiable  coincklenBe 
with  the  Varia  of  the  poet  At  the  end  of  the  valley, 
towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a  bare  hill,  crowned  withafitfle 
town  called  Bardela.  At  the  foot  of  this  hill  the  rivniet  of 
Licenza  flows,  and  is  almost  absorbed  in  a  wideamdy 
bed  before  it  reaches  the  Anio.  Nothing  can  be  SMre 
fortunate  for  the  lines  of  the  poet,  whether  in  n  metaphor- 
ical or  direct  sense: 

Me  quoties  refidt  gelidus  Digentia  rirus, 
Quem  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigore  pagna. 
The  stream  is  dear  high  up  the  valley,  but  hefiite  it 
reaches  the  hill  of  Bardela  looks  green  and  yellow  fike  a 
sulphur  rivulet 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  roUied  village  in  the  hilla»  half  an 
hour's  walk  from  the  vineyard  where  the  pavement  is 
slio  wn,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  the  frine  of  VacBna»nd 
an  inscription  found  there  tells  that  this  tensple  of  Ike 


NOTES  TO  CHILDE  HAROLDnS  PILGRIUAGB. 


733 


Sabine  Tietorj  was  repaired  by  Vespasian.  Whit  these 
helps,  and  a  position  corresponding^  exactly  to  every  thing* 
which  the  poet  has  told  os  of  his  retreat,  we  mayfeel  tole- 
rably secore  of  our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Liicretilis  is  called  Campa- 
nile, and  by  following*  up  the  rimlet  to  the  pretended 
Bandusia,  yon  come  to  the  roots  of  the  higher  mountain 
Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the  only  spot  of  ploughed 
land  in  the  whole  yalley  is  on  the  knoll  where  this  Ban- 
dosia  rises, 

Tn  fHgus  amabile 

Fessis  vomere  tauris 

Prwbcs,  et  pecori  vago. 

The  peasants  show  anotlier  spring  near  the  mosaic  paye- 
ment,  which  they  call  "Oradina,"  and  which  flows  down 
the  hills  into  a  tank,  or  milldam,  and  thence  trickles  over 
Into  the  Digentia.  But  we  must  not  hope 

"  To  trace  the  Muses  upwards  to  their  spring" 
by  exploring  the  windings  of  the  romantic  valley  in 
search  of  the  Bandusian  fountain.  It  seems  strange  that 
any  one  should  have  thought  Bandusia  a  fountain  of  the 
Digentia;  Horace  has  not  let  drop  a  word  of  it;  and  this 
immortal  spring  has  in  fact  been  discovered  in  possession 
oftlie  holders  of  many  good  things  in  Italy,  the  monks. 
It  was  attached  to  the  church  of  St  Gervais  and  Protais 
near  Venusia,  where  it  was  most  likely  to  be  found.  We 
shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a  late  traveller  in  finding  the  oc- 
t€Mtonal  pme  still  pendent  on  tlie  poetic  villa.  There  is 
aot  a  pine  in  the  whole  valley,  but  there  are  two  cypress- 
es, which  he  evidently  took,  or  mistook,  for  the  tree  in 
the  ode.  The  truth  is,  that  the  pine  is  now,  as  it  was  in 
the  days  of  Virgil,  a  garden-tree,  and  it  was  not  at  all 
likely  to  be  found  in  the  craggy  acclivities  of  the  valley  of 
RiMtica.  Horace  probably  had  one  of  them  in  the  orchard 
dose  above  his  farm,  inunediately  overshadowing  his 
▼ilia,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  at  some  distance  from  his 
abode.  The  tourist  may  have  easily  supposed  himself  to 
hBTe  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the  above  cypresses ;  for  the 
orange  and  lemon  trees  which  throw  such  a  bloom  over 
his  description  of  the  royal  gardens  at  Naples,  unless  they 
luivebeen  since  displaced,  were  assuredly  only  acacias 
and  other  common  garden-shrubs.  The  extreme  disap- 

Snntment  experienced  by  choosing  the  Classical  Tour- 
t  as  a  guide  in  Italy  must  be  allowed  to  find  vent  in  a 
few  observations,  which,  it  is  asserted  without  fear  of 
contradiction,  will  be  confirmed  by  every  one  who  has 
•elected  the  same  conductor  through  the  same  country. 
This  author  is  in  fact  one  of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsatis- 
fiustory  writers  that  have  in  our  times  attained  a  tempo- 
wwrj  reputation,  and  is  very  seldom  to  be  trused  even 
when  he  speaks  of  objects  which  he  must  be  presumed 
to  have  seen.  His  errors,  from  the  simple  exaggeration  to 
the  downright  misstatement,  are  so  frequent  as  to  induce 
fi  suspicion  that  he  had  either  never  visited  the  spots  de- 
floribed,  or  had  trusted  to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers. 
Indeed  the  Classical  Tour  has  every  characteristic  of  a 
mere  compilation  of  former  notices,  strung  together  upon 
a.  ▼ery  slender  tiiread  of  personal  observation,  and  swelled 
oal  by  those  decorations  which  are  so  easily  supplied  by 
m  systematic  adoption  of  all  the  common-places  of  praise, 
gqppUed  to  every  thing  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

The  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and  cum- 
iM^oa,  and  unsuitable,  may  be  to  tlie  taste  of  others,  and 
piai^mayexperience  some  salutary  excitement  in  plough- 
iMMg  tiiroogh  the  periods  of  the  "Clasioal  Tour."  It  must 
ipc  said,  however,  that  polish  and  weight  are  apt  to  beget 
WkO  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst  the  pains  of  the 
damned  to  toil  up  a  climax  with  a  huge  round  stone. 

The  tourist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  there  was 
ISO  such  latitude  allowed  to  that  of  his  sentiments.  The 
|4>Te  of  virtue  and  of  liberty,  which  must  have  distin- 
e^iished  the  character,  certainly  adorns  the  pages  of  Mr. 
gmitftffj  and  the  gentlemanly  spirit,  so  recommendatory 


either  In  an  anthor  or  his  productions,  is  very  conspicuous 
throughout  the  Chuical  Tour.  But  these  generous  qua- 
lities are  the  foliage  of  such  a  performance,  and  may  be 
spread  about  it  so  prominentiy  and  profusely,  as  to  em- 
barrass those  who  wish  to  see  and  find  the  fruit  at  hand.The 
unction  of  the  divine  and  the  exhortations  of  the  moralist, 
may  have  made  this  work  something  moreand  better  than 
a  book  of  travels ,  but  they  have  not  made  it  a  book  of 
travels;  and  this  observation  applies  more  especially  to 
that  enticing  method  of  instruction  conveyed  by  the  per« 
petual  introduction  of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to  reel  and 
bluster  before  the  rising  generation,  and  terrify  it  into 
decency  by  the  display  of  all  the  excesses  of  the  revo- 
lution. An  animosity  against  atheists  and  regicides  m 
general,  and  Frenchmen  specifically,  may  be  honourable, 
and  may  be  useful,  as  a  record;  but  that  antidote  should 
either  be  administered  in  any  work  rather  than  a  tour, 
or,  at  least,  should  be  served  up  apart,  and  not  so  mixed 
with  the  whole  mass  of  information  and  reflexion,  as  to 
give  a  bitterness  to  every  page:  for  who' would  choose  to 
have  the  antipathies  of  any  man,  however  just,  for  his 
travelling  conpanions?  X  tourist,  unless  he  aspires  to  the 
credit  of  prophecy ,  is  not  answerable  for  the  changes 
which  may  take  place  in  the  country  which  he  describes; 
but  his  reader  may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  political  por* 
traits  and  deductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  the  mo- 
ment they  cease  to  assist,  and  more  particularly  if  they 
obstruct,  his  actual  survey. 

Neither  encomium  nor  accusation  of  any  government 
or  governors,  is  meant  to  be  here  ofiered ;  but  it  is  stated 
as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that  the  change  operated, 
either  by  the  address  of  the  late  imperial  system,  or  by 
the  disappointment  of  every  expectation  by  those  who 
have  succeeded  to  the  Italian  thrones,  has  been  so  con- 
siderable, and  is  so  apparent,  as  not  only  to  put  Bfr. 
Eustace's  Antigallican  philippics  entirely  out  of  date,  but 
even  to  throw  some  suspicion  upon  the  competency  and 
candour  of  the  author  himself.  A  remartuible  example 
may  be  found  in  the  instance  of  Bologna,  over  whose 
papal  attachments,  and  consequent  desolation,  the  tourist 
pours  forth  such  strains  of  condolence  and  revenge,  made 
louder  by  the  borrowed  trumpet  of  Mr.  Burke.  Now  Bo- 
logna is  at  this  moment,  and  has  been  for  some  years, 
notorious  amongst  the  states  of  Italy  for  its  attachment 
to  revolutionary  principles,  and  was  almost  the  only  dty 
which  made  any  demonstrations  in  favour  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Murat.  This  change  may,  however,  have  been 
made  since  Mr.  Eustace  visited  this  country ;  but  the 
traveller  whom  he  has  thrilled  with  horror  at  the  pro- 
jected stripping  of  the  copper  from  the  cupola  ofStPeter's, 
must  be  much  relieved  to  find  that  sacrilege  out  of  the 
power  of  the  French,  or  any  other  plunderers,  the  cupola 
being  covered  with  Uad,  *) 

If  the  conspiring  voice  of  otherwise  rival  critics  had 
not  given  considerable  currency  to  the  Classical  Tour,  it 
would  have  been  unneccessary  to  warn  the  reader,  that, 
however  it  may  adorn  his  library,  it  will  be  of  littie  or  no 
service  to  him  in  his  carriage;  and  if  the  judgment  of 
those  critics  had  hitherto  been  suspended,  no  attempt 
would  have  been  made  to  anticipate  th^r  decision.  As 
it  is,  those  who  stand  in  the  relation  of  posterity  to  Mr. 
Eustace  may  be  permitted  to  appeal  from  cotemporary 
praises,  and  are  perhaps  jnore  likely  to  be  just  m  pro- 


*)  ''What  then  will  be  the  astonishment,  or  rather 
the  horror,  of  my  reader,  when  I  inform  him  .  .  •  • 
....  the  French  Committee  turned  its  attention  to 
Saint  Peter's,  and  employed  a  company  of  Jews  to 
estimate  and  purehase  the  gold,  silver,  and  bronze 
that  adorn  the  inside  of  the  edifice,  as  well  as  the 
copper  that  covers  the  vaults  and  dome  on  the  oat- 
side."  The  story  about  the  Jews  Is  positively  denied 
at  Rome. 


734 


NOTES  TO  THB  GIAOUR. 


portion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred  are  the  fhrther 
removed.  This  appeal  had,  in  some  measure,  been  made 
before  the  above  remarks  were  written ;  for  one  of  the 
m6st  respectable  of  the  Florentine  pubfishers,  who  had 
been  persuaded  by  the  repeated  inquiries  of  those  on 
their  journey  southwards,  to  reprint  a  cheap  edition  of 
the  Classical  Tour,  was,  by  the  ooncorring  advice  of  rt- 


tornini^  travellers,  induced  to  abandon  his  dengn,  al- 
though he  had  ahready  ammged  his  types  and  paper,  and 
had  struck  off  one  or  two  of  the  first  sheets. 

The  writer  of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like 
Mr.  Gibbon)  on  good  terms  with  the  Pope  and  the  Car- 
dinals,  but  he  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  extend  the 
same  discjreet  silence  to  their  humble  partisans. 


NOTES  TO  THE  GIAOUR 


T^at  tomb  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff,      [p.  49, 
A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some 
supposed  the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 

Sultana  of  the  Nightingale.  [p.  49. 

The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a  well- 
known  Persian  fable.  If  I  mistake  not,  the  <<Bulbulof  a 
thousand  tales"  is  one  of  his  appellations. 

TMl  the  gay  mariner' i  guitar.  [p.  49. 

.  The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek 

sailor  by  night:  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a 

calm,  it  is  accompanied  always  by  the  voice,  and  often 

by  dancing. 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy,         [p.  50. 
*<Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

Measure  for  Measure,  Act  ill.  Sc.  1. 

Thefirsty  last  looh  by  death  reveaVd.  [p.  50. 
I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description, 
but  those  who  have,  will  probably  retain  a  painful  re- 
membrance of  that  singular  beauty  which  pervades,  with 
few  exceptions,  the  features  of  the  dead  a  few  hours,  after 
**the  spirit  is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  remarked  in  cases  of 
violent  death  by  gun-shot  wounds,  the  expression  is  al- 
ways that  of  languor,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  the 
sufferer's  character ;  but  in  death  from  a  stab  the  coun- 
tenance preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and  the 
mind  its  bias,  to  the  last 

SlaveS'-nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave.  [p.  60. 
Athens  Is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the  slave  of 
the  seraglio  and  guardian  of  the  women)  who  appoints 
the  Waywode.  A  pander  and  ennueh— these  are  not 
polite,  yet  true  appellations  —  now  governs  the  governor 
of  Athens  I 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaihe.  [p.  51. 

'^Tophaike,"  musquet —  The  Bairam  is  announced 
by  the  cannon  at  sunset ;  the  illumination  of  the  Mos- 
ques, and  the  firing  of  all  kinds  of  small  arms,  loaded 
with  baU^  proclaim  it  during  the  night 

Smft  as  the  hurled  on  highjerreed.  '  [p.  61. 
Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which 
is  darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision. 
It  ii  a  favourite  exercise  of  Uie  Mussulmans;  but  I  know 
not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manly  one,  since  the  most  expert 
in  the  art  are  the  black  Eunuchs  of  Constantinople.-- 1 
think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  Smyrna  was  the  most 
skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 


He  eame^  he  went^  Uke  the  Simoom.         [p.  51. 
The  blast  of  the  desert,  fotal  to  every  thing  living,  and 
often  alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry. 

7h  bless  the  soared  **hread  and  salt."        [p.  51 
To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your 
host,  insures  the  safety  of  the  guest;  even  thoQgfa  an  ene- 
my, his  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

Sinee  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infideFs  smbre. 

I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are 
the  first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet;  and  to  say  truth, 
very  generally  practised  by  his  disciples.  The  first  praise 
that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  chief  is  a  panegyric  on  hb 
bounty :  the  next,  on  his  valour. 

And  sUver^hemtked  ataghau  {|t5S. 

The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pislob  in  the 
belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver:  and,  among 
the  wealthier,  gilt,  or  of  gold. 

An  Emir  by  his  oarb  of  green.  [p.  5^ 

Green  b  the  privileged  colour  of  the  propbef  s  nume- 
rous pretended  descendants;  with  them,  as  here,  ftilh 
(the  family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede  the 
necessity  of  good  works :  they  are  the  worst  of  a  voy  la-  ' 
different  brood. 

Hot  who  art  thoul—thts  low  salasn^  [p.  5SL 
Salam  aleikoum !  aleikoum  salam !  peace  be  with  yoa; 
be  with  you  peace — the  salutation  reserved  for  the  ftitfa- 
ful:— to  a  Christian,  *'UrlaruJa,"  a  good  journey;  orsa- 
ban  hiresem,  saban  serula;  good  morn,  good  even;  and 
sometimes,  "may  your  end  be  happy;"  are  the  ofusl 
salutes. 

like  inseet-fuean  of  eastern  tpriny,         [p.  59- 
The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  moat  me 
and  beautiful  of  the  species. 

Or  live  Uhe  scorpion  girt  by  fire.  [p.  58. 

Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,so  placed 
for  experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  mpin**"* 
that  the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned  towards  the 
head,  is  merely  a  convulsive  movement;  but  others  have 
actually  brought  In  the  verdict  "Felode  sc".  The  scor- 
pions are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy  decision  of  the 
Suestion:  as,  if  on««  fairly  established  as  insect-Oilos, 
ley  will  probably  be  allowed  to  Uveas  long  aj  thej  think 
proper ,  without  being  martyred  for  the  sake  of  an  hypo- 
thesis. 


When  Rhamazan*s  last  sun  was  set 
The  cannons  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan. 


[pwsa. 


NOTES  TO  THR  GUOUR. 


735 


B^pmie  Pimffmft'i  Urtmhlmff  ligkt        [p.  53. 
Phingari,  the  moon. 

Briffht  a$  the  jewel  of  Giamsckid,  [p.  53. 
The  celebrated  ftibulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamscbid, 
the  embellisher  of  Istakhar:  from  its  splendour,  named 
Schebfcerag,  "the  torch  of  nig^ht;''  also,  the  "cap  of  tlie 
sun/'  —  In  the  first  edition  "Giamschid''  was  written  as 
a  word  of  three  syllables,  so  D'Herbelot  has  it ;  but  I  am 
told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissyllable,  and  writes 
**Jamshid.''  I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthography  of  the 
one  with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. 

no¥§k  on  Al'SHra^i  arek  I  stood.  [p.  63. 
Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth  less  than  the  thread  of 
a  Aunished spider,  over  which  the  Mussulmans  must  skate 
Into  Paradise,  to  which  it  is  the  only  entrance;  bat  this  is 
not  the  worst,  the  river  beneath  being  hell  itself,  into 
which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  onskilful  and  tender  of 
foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  *«fiBu;ilis  descensus  Averni," 
not  very  pleasiogin  prospect  to  the  nextpassengo-.  There 
is  a  shorter  cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

And  keep  that  portion  of  kU  creed*  [p.  53. 
A  vulgar  error;  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Pa- 
radise  to  well-behaved  women;  bothy  far  thegreater  num- 
ber of  Mussulmans  interpret  tiie  text  their  own  way,  and 
exclude  their  moieties  from  heaven.  Being  enemies  to 
Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "any  fitness  of  things"  in 
the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  oonoeiving  them  to  be  super- 
seded by  the  Houris. 

The  jfoung  pomegranaU^s  blossoms  strew, 

[p.  68. 
An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly 
stolen,  be  deemed  "plus  Arabe  qu'en  Arabic.'' 

Her  hair  in  kgacintkinejlow,  [p.  63. 

Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic,  "Sunbul,"  as  common  a  thought 
in  the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 

ne  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan.         [p.  53. 
*^rangueijtan,"  Circassia. 

Bismiltak  /  now  the  perils  past  [p.  64. 

Bismillah—  "In  the  name  of  God ;"  the  commencement 
of  all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayer 
and  thanksgiving. 

Then  eurPd  his  very  beard  with  ire.  [p .  64. 
A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussul- 
man. In  1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha's  wliiskers  at  a  diplo- 
matic audience  were  no  less  lively  with  indignation  than 
a  tiger-cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the  dragomans;  the  por- 
tentous mustachios  twisted,  they  stood  erect  of  their  own 
accord,  and  were  expected  every  moment  to  change  their 
colour,  but  at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which  pro- 
bably saved  more  heads  than  they  contained  hairs. 

Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !        (p.  64. 
"Amann,''  quarter,  pardon. 

I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye,  ^  [p.  64. 

The  "evil  eye,"  acommCMi  soperstition  in  the  Levant, 
sad  of  which  the  imaginary  rfiects  are  yet  very  singular 
on  those  who  conceive  themselves  affected. 

A  fragment  of  his  palampore,  Fp.  65. 

Thefloweredshawls  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 

His  ealvac  rent— -his  ce^on  red,  |p.  55. 

Tlie  "Calpau"  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre-part  of  thehead- 

dress ;  the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  andforms  the  turban. 

A  turban  carved  in  coarsest  stone,  f  p.  66. 

The  turban,  pillar,  and  Inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the 
tombs  of  the  Osmanlks,  wlicther  in  the  cemetery  or  the 
wilderness.  In  the  mountains  you  frequently  pass  simi- 
lar mementos ;  and  on  enquiry  you  arc  informed  that  they 
reeord  some  Wctim  of  rebellion,  plunder,  or  revenge. 


At  solemn  sound  of^AlU  Hur  [p.  55. 

*'AllaHu  \"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muenein  s  call 
to  prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the 
Minaret  On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine 
voice,  which  is  frequently  the  case,  the  eflect  is  solemn 
and  beautiful  beyond  all  tlie  bells  in  Christendom. 

They  come-'tkeir  kerckiefs  green  tkey  wave,  [p,  66i 

The  following  is  part  of  a  battle-song  of  the  Turks: — 

"I  see— I  see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves 

a  handkerchief,  a  kerchief  of  green ;  and  cries  aloud :  Come, 

kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee." 

Beneatk  avenging  Monkir^s  scythe,  [p.  66. 
Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  be* 
fore  whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  noviciate  and 
preparatory  training  for  damnation.  If  the  answers  are 
none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  up  with  a  scythe  and 
thumped  down  with  a  redhotmace  till  properly  seasoned, 
with  a  varietyof  subsidiary  probations.  The  oflice  of  these 
angels  is  no  sinecure;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number 
of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a  small  proportion  to  the 
remainder,  their  hands  are  always  full. 

To  wander  round  lost  EbH^  throne.        [p.  56. 
Eblis,  the  oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 

ButfirstfOnearthas  Vampire  sent,  [p.66. 
The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant . 
Honest  Tourncfort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.Southey, 
in  the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes  about  these  "Vroucolo* 
ohas,"  as  he  calls  them.  The  Romaic  term  is  "Yardou- 
lacha."  I  recollect  a  whole  family  being  terrified  by  the 
scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined  must  proceed  from 
such  a  visitation.  The  Greeks  never  mention '  the  word 
urithout  horror.  I  find  that  "Broucolokas"  is  an  old  legi- 
timate Hellenic  appellation— at  least  is  so  applied  to  Ar- 
senius,  who,  according  to  the  Greeks,  was  after  his  death 
animated  by  the  Devil.  The  moderns,  however,  use  the 
word  I  mention. 

Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip,    [p.  56. 
The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip  with 
blood  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.   The  sto- 
ries told  in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are 
singular,  and  some  of  them  most  incredibly  attested. 

It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird—  Fp.  57. 

The  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the  im- 
putation of  feeding  lier  chickens  with  her  blood. 

Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear.  [p.  58. 
This  superstition  of  a  second -hearing  (for  I  never  met 
with  downright  second-sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under 
my  own  observation.— On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Co- 
lonna,  early  in  1811,  as  we  passed  through  the  defile  that 
leads  from  the  hamlet  between  Keratia  andColonna,!  ob- 
served Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path,  and 
leaning  his  head  upon  bis  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode  up 
and  inquired.  „We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered.  "What 
peril?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania,  nor  in  the  passes  to 
Ephesns,  Messoluaghi,  or  Lepanto;  there  are  plenty  of 
ns,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  have  not  courage  to  be 
thieves,"— "True,  fiffendi;  but  nevertheless  the  shot  is 
ringing  in  my  ears."— "The  shotl  —  not  a  tophaike  has 
been  fired  this  morning."— "I  hear  it  notwithstanding— 
Bom— Bom— as  plainly  as  1  hear  your  voice."— "Psha!" 
—As  you  please,  Efiendi;  if  it  is  written ,  so  will  it  be."— 
I  left  this  quick  •>eared  predestinarian,  and  rode  up  to 
Basili ,  his  Christian  compatriot,  whose  ears,  thoagh  wrt 
at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means  relished  the  intelligence. 
We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  remained  some  hours,  and  re- 
turned leisurely,  saying  a  variety  of  brilliant  things,  in 
more  languages  than  spoiled  the  buildiag  of  Babel,  upon 
the  mistaken  seer ;  Romaic,  Arnaut,  Turkish,  Italian,  and 
English  were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the 
unfortunate  Mussulman.  While  we  were  contemplating 
the  beantiful  prospect,  Dervish  was  occupied  about  the 
columns.  I  thought  be  was  deranged  into  an  attttquariao  ^ 


736 


NOTES  TO  THB  BRIDB  OF  ABYDOS. 


and  asked  him  if  ho  had  beoome  a  ^^Palaocastro* 
^No,"  said  he,  '*but  these  pillars  will  be  useful  in  making 
a  stand  ;"and  added  other  remarks,  which  atieastevinced 
his  own  belief  in  his  troublesome  faculty  of  forehearing. 
On  our  return  to  Athens,  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prison- 
er set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of 
the  Mainotes,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking 
place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  tiarold,  Canto  2d.  I  was  at 
some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he  described  the 
dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  so  ac- 
curately, that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could  not 
doubt  of  hit  having  been  in  ''villanous  company,''  and 
ourselves  in  a  bad  neighbourboodLDervish  became  a  sooth- 
sayer for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now  hearing  more  mus- 
quetry  than  ever  will  be  fired ,  to  the  grea^  refreshment  of 
the  Arnauts  of  Berat,  and  his  native  mountains. — I  shall 
mention  one  trait  more  of  this  singular  race.  In  March 
18 U  a  remarkably  stout  and  active  Arnaut  came  (I  be- 
lieve the  60th  on  the  same  errand)  to  offer  himself  as  an 
attendant,  which  was  declined;  <*WeIl,  Bffendi,''  quoth 
be,  ''may  you  live!— you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I 
shall  leave  the  town  for  the  hills  to-morrow ;  in  the  winter 
I  return,  perhaps  you  will  then  receive  me." — Dervish, 
who  was  present,  remarked  as  a  thing  of  course ,  and  of 
no  consequence, '*in  the  mean  time  he  will  join  theKIeph- 
tes"  (robbers),  which  was  true  to  the  letter.— If  not  cut 
off,  they  oome  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested 
in  some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  wellknown  as  their 
exploits. 

Looki  not  to  prieitkoodfar  relief,  [p.  fid. 

The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have  had 
so  little  effect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  no  ho- 
pes from  the  reader.  It  may  he  sufficient  to  say  that  it 
was  of  a  customary  length  (as  may  be  perceived  from  the 
interruptions  and  uneasiness  of  the  patient) ,  and  was 
delivered  in  the  nasal  tone  of  all  orthodox  preachers. 


Andehinm^hikerwkiU^^mMr.  [p*A 

"Symar" —shroud. 

Thii  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 

Of  her  he  loved  or  him  he  slew*  [p*.^ 

The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  was 
not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago  the  wife 
of  Muchtar  Pacha  complained  to  his  &ther  of  his  son's 
supposed  infidelity ;  he  asked  with  whom,  and  she  had  the 
barbarity  to  give  in  a  list  oi  the  twelve  bandaomest  women 
in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  &stened  np  in  sacks*  and 
drowned  the  same  night!  One  of  the  guards  who  was  pre- 
sent informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a 
cry,  or  showed  asy  mptom  of  terror  at  so  sadden  a  ''wrench 
f^omall  we  know,  from  all  we  love."  Thcfate  of  FbroriK, 
the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Ro- 
maic and  Arnaut  ditty.  The  story  in  the  text  is  onefold 
of  a  young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  Ibr- 
gotten.  I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  theooi^ 
fee- house  story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and 
sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and  faileipo- 
lations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  distin^^oidied  fifom 
the  rest  by  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery;  and  I  regret  that 
my  memory  has  retained  so  few  fragments  of  the  original 
For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted 
partly  to  D'Herbelot,and  partly  to  that-most  eastern,  and, 
as  Mr.  Weber  justly  entitles  it,  <<sublime  tale,"  the  "Ca- 
liph Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source  the  antbor 
of  that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his  matcriab; 
some  of  his  incidents  are  to  befoundinthe  "Biblioth^ue 
Orientale;"  but  for  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  de- 
scription, and  power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all 
European  imitations ;  and  bears  such  marks  of  originality, 
that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  diffi- 
culty in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an 
Eastern  talc  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it ;  his  *'Happy  Val- 
ley" will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  the  '*UalJ  of  Ebiis." 


NOTES  TO  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


WaxfahU  o^er  theaardent  ofGulin  her  bloom. 

[p.  61. 
«<GuV' the  rose. 

Gm  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  donef 

[p.  61. 
Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 
With  whom  Revenge  is  Virtue. 

Young's  Revenge. 

IVith  Mefnmm's  tale,  or  Sadts  song.        [p.  62. 
Mejnonn  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East 
Sadi,  the  moral  poet  of  Persia, 

TUl  /,  who  heard  the  deep  tamhanr.        [p.  62. 
Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunnse, 
noon,  and  twilight 

He  is  an  Arab  to  mg  sights  [p.  62. 

The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compli- 
ment a  hundredfold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the 
Christians. 


The  mind,  the  Music  breathing  from  her  face, 

[p.  63. 
This  expression  has  met  with  objec^ns.  I  will  not 
refer  to  "Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  hot  mere* 
ly  request  the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the 
features  of  the  woman  whom  he  bdieves  to  be  the  okmC 
beautiful;  and  if  he  then  does  not  nomprehoid  fid^ 
what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line,  I  shall  ha 
sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the  latest 
work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps  of  any,  age, 
on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  compariaoii  excited 
by  that  analogy)  between  ''painting  andmusic"9ee  voLn. 
chap.  10.  De  l'Allemagne.  And  is  not  this  conneiiw 
still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy  ?  with  the 
colouring  of  Nature  than  of  Art?  After  all,  this  is  late 
to  be  felt  than  described ;  stiU  I  think  there  are  some  irt» 
will  understand  it,  at  least  they  would  have  done,  bad 
they  beheld  the  countenance  whose  speaking  haraMXiy 
suggested  the  idea;  for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from 
imagination  but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Aflidioa 
dashes  to  tiie  earth,  and,  looking  down  upon  the  fnc 
ments,  only  beholds  the  reflection  mmltipliedl 


NOTES  TO  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYOOS. 


737 


Bui  jfet  tke  Une  of  Carasman.  [p.  63. 

Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Oaman  Oglou,  is  the  prin- 
ipal  JaDclholcier  in  Turkey;  be  governs  Magnesia:  those 
rho,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition 
f  serTice,  are  called  Timariots:  they  serve  as  Spahis, 
iccording  to  the  extent  of  territory,  and  bring  a  certain 
lumber  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

And  teach  the  meuenffer  what/ate,  [p.  63. 
When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single 
nessenger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for 
U  death,  is  strangled  instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six, 
»ne  after  the  other,  on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of 
be  refractory  patient;  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or 
)yal,  he  bows,  kissed  the  Sultan's  respectable  signature, 
nd  is  bowstrung  with  great  complacency.  In  1810,  se- 
eral  of  these  presents  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of  the 
lerag-lio-gate;  among  others ,  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of 
lagda^  a  brave  young  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after 
desperate  resistance. 

7%rice  clapped  hit  hands,  and  called  hie  steed,    [p.  63. 
Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks 
ale  a  superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have 
o  belli. 

Resided  his  pem-^domed  Chibouque.      [p.  63. 

Chibouque,  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber 

louth-piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the 

!af,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of 

le  w^thier  orders. 

With  Maugrahee  and  Mamahtke,  [p.  63. 
Maugrabee,  Moorish  mercenaries. 

Ms  way  amid  his  Delis  tooh,  [p.  68. 

Deli,  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry 
td  always  beg^  the  action. 

Careering  cleave  the  folded feU.  [p.  63. 

A  twisted  fold  of  felt  is  used  for  scimitar-practice  by 
e  Turks,  and  few  butMussulman  arms  can  cut  through 
ataaiogle  stroke:  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used 
r  the  same  purpose.  The  jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  ja- 
tfinflly  animated  and  graoeftil. 

Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud  —  [p.  63. 
<K>llahs,''  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "Leilies,"  as  theSpanish 
«t8  call  them,  the  sound  is  Ollah;  a  cry  of  which  the 
irkjs,  for  a  silent  people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  parti- 
Jarly  during  the  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in 
tttle.  Their  animation  in  the  field,  and  gravity  in  the 
amber,  with  their  pipes  and  oomboloios,  form  an  amu- 
i^oontrast 

The  Persian  Atar-^fuVs  perfume.  [p.  63. 
<^Atar-guI/'  ottar  of  roses.  The  Persian  is  the  finest 

The  pictured  roof  and  marble  Jloor.  [p.  63. 

Tlie  oeiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mus- 
Iman  apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses, 
tfa  one  eternal  and  highly  coloured  view  of  Constan- 
kople,  wherein  the  principal  feature  is  a  noble  contempt 
perspective;  below,  arms,  scimitars,  are  in  general 
icifully  and  not  inelegantly  disposed. 

A  message  from  the  Bulhul  bears.  [p.  63. 
It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this 
jo^er  of  the  rose,"  are  sad  or  merry;  and  Mr.  Fox's 
marks  on  the  subject  have  provoked  some  learned  con- 
iTersy  as  to  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject 
ilare  not  venture  a  conjecture  on  the  point,  though  a 
tie  inclined  to  the  ^'errare  mallem,"  {f  Mr.  Fox  was 
0taken. 

Even  Axraelyfrom  his  deadly  quiver.        [p.  64. 
^^jxrael  —  the  angel  of  death. 

Within  the  eaves  oflstahar,  [p.  64. 

The  treasores  of  the  Preadamite  Sultans.  See  D'Her- 
ixyty  article  Istakar, 


Holds  njot  a  MusseUm's  control  [p.  64. 

Musselim,  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha; 
a  Waywode  is  the  third;  and  then  come  the  Agas. 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripof  [p.  64. 

Egripo  —  the  Negropont  According  to  the  proverb, 
the  Turks  of  Egripo,  theJews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Greeks 
of  Athens,  are  the  worst  of  their  respective  races. 

Ah!  yonder  see  Uie  Tchocadar.  [p.  66. 

'Tchocadar"  —  one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a 
man  of  authority. 

Thine  own  *^hroad  Hellespont*  still  dashes,  [p.  65. 
The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  <Hhe  broad  Helles- 
pont" or  the  "boundless  Hellespont,"  whether  it  means 
one  or  the  other,  or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyond 
all  possibility  of  deffcail.  I  have  even  beard  it  disputed  on 
the  spot;  and  not  foreseeing  a  speedy  conclusion  to  the 
controversy,  amused  myself  with  swimming  across  it  in 
the  mean  time,  and  probably  may  again,  before  the  point 
is  settled.  Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  truth  of  "the 
tale  of  Troy  divine"  still  continues,  much  of  it  resting 
upon  the  talismanic  word  "«;rci^o?:"  probably  Homer 
had  the  same  notion  of  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of 
time,  and  when  he  talks  of  boundless,  means  lialf  a  mile; 
as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure,  when  she  says  eternal  attach- 
ment, simply  specifies  three  weeks. 

Which  A  mmon's  son  ran  proudly  round,  [p.  66. 
Before  his  Persian  invasion;  he  crowned  the  altar  with 
laurel.  He.  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in  his 
race.  It  is  believed  that  the  last  also  poisoned  a  friend, 
named  Fcstus,  for  the  sake  of  new  Patroclean  games.  I 
have  seen  the  sheep  feeding  on  the  tombs  of  JBsietes  and 
Antilocbus;  the  first  is  in  the  centre  of  the  plain. 

0*er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran,  [p.  66 

When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume, 
which  is  slight,  but  not  disagreeable. 

Her  mother's  sainted  amulet  [p.  66. 

The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  Or  enclosed 
in  gold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn 
round  the  neck,  wrist,  or  arm  is  still  universal  in  the  East 
The  Koorsee-  fthrone)  verse  in  the  second  chapter  of 
the  Koran  describes  the  attributes  of  the  most  High,  and 
is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  worn  by  tlie  pious,  as  the 
most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  sentcnoes. 

And  hy  her  ComboUno  lies.  [p.  66. 

"Comboloio**  —  a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS.,  parti- 
cularly those  of  tlie  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and 
illuminated.  The  Greek  females  are  kept  in  utter  igno- 
rance; but  many  of  the  Turkish  girls  are  highly  acoom- 
plished,  though  not  actually  qualified  for  a  Christian  co- 
terie; perhaps  some  of  our  own  *'blues**  might  not  be  tlie 
worse  for  bleaching. 

In  him  was  some  young  GaUongSe.  fp.  66, 
"Galiong^"  —  or  Galioiigi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  lurhish 
sailor;  the  Gfeeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns. 
Their  dress  is  picturesque;  and  I  have  seen  the  Cap! tan 
Pacha  more  than  once  wearing  it  as  a  kind  of  incog.  Theit 
legs,  however,  are  generally  naked.  The  buskins  de- 
s<^bed  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with  silver,are  those 
of  an  Arnant  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he  had  quitted 
the  profession),  at  hisPyrgo,  nearGastouni  in  thcMorea; 
they  were  plated  in  scales  one  orer  the  other,  like  the 
back  of  an  armadillo. 

So  may  the  Koran  verse  displayed.  [p.  67. 

The  c&practers  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  some- 
times the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but 
more  generally  a  text  from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  gold. 
Amongst  those  in  my  possession  is  one  with  a  blade  of 
singular  construction;  it  is  very  broad,  and  the  edge 
notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  water, 
or  the  wavering  of  flame.  I  asked  the  Armenian  who  sold 
47 


738 


NOTJBS  TO  THB  CORSAIR. 


it,  what  poflsibje  use  sooh  a  ii^re  could  add :  he  said,  in 
Italian,  that  be  did  not  Icnow;  but  the  Mossulmans  had 
an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer  wound; 
and  liked  it  because  it  was  '*piu  ferooe."  I  did  not  much 
admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for  its  peculiarity. 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cmn,  [p.  67. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or 
personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or  Cain, 
is  equally  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew;  indeed 
the  former  profess  to  be  much  better  acquainted  with  the 
lives,  true  and  fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  war- 
ranted by  our  own  Sacred  Writ,  and  not  content  with 
Adam,  they  have  a  biography  of  Pre -Adamites.  Solo- 
mon is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a 
prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet  Zuleika  is 
the  Persian  name  of  Potip bar's  wife,  and  her  amour  with 
Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  their  lan- 
guage. It  is  therefore  no  violation  of  costume  to  put  the 
names  of  Cain,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 

And  PMWitn's  rebel  hordes  attest  [p.  67. 

Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widdin,  who  for  the  last 
years  of  his  life  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at 
defiance, 

Thc^  gave  their  horsetaUs  to  the  wind,      [p.  67. 
Horsetail,  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more  !  [p.  67. 
Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  not 
sure  wliich,  was  actuallv  taken  oft'  by  the  Albanian  Ali, 
in  the  manner  described  in  the  text,  Ali  Pacha,  while  1 
was  in  the  country,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim, 
some  years  after  the  event  had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in 
Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  in  the  cup 
of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  by  the 
bath-Keeper,  after  dressing. 

Isovffht  hy  turns,  and  saw  them  all        [p.  68. 
The  Turkish  notions  of  ahnost  all  islands  are  confined 
to  the  Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 

The  last  o/Lambro*s  patriots  there,  [p.  eS. 
Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in 
I7g9_90forthe  independenee  of  his  country :  abandoned 
by  the  Russians,  he  became  a  pirate,  and  the  Archipelago 
was  the  scene  of  his  enterprises.  He  is  said  to  be  still 
alive  at  Petersburgh.  He  and  lUga  are  the  two  most  ce- 
lebrated of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

7b  snatch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate,        [p.  68. 
*aUyah8"  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the 
**Haratch." 


Ay!  let  me  Uhe  the  oeean-neiirhrtk  rocm.    [p.  6& 
This  ttnt  of  voyages  is  one  or  the  few  vrith  wfam  te 
Mussulmans  profess  much  aoquaintanee. 

Or  only  hnow  on  land  the  Tartmr^e  home,  [jp.  6& 
The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Tmo- 
mans,  will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Easlaa 
travels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself  cu- 
not  be  denied,  A  young  French  renegado  ootdesKd  to 
Chateaubriand,  that  he  never  found  himself  alone^  gallop- 
ing in  the  desert,  without  a  sensation  approachiiig  to  iq»- 
ture,  which  was  indescribable. 

Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  Aiwr.       [p.  6B. 
''Jannat  al  Aden/'  the  perpetual  abode,  tbeMotsol- 
man  Paradise. 

And  momm'd  ahoee  his  iurhan^siona*        [P*  ^ 
A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  «  esen 
only. 

Theloud  Wul-wuUeh  warn  his  distamiemrl 

fp.7a 
The  death -song  of  the  Turkish  women.  The  ^aiient 
slaves"  are  the  men  whosenotions  of  deoonun  fotUd coa^ 
plaint  in /»it^Ac. 


«  Where  is  my  ehildf'-'anEcko  anmeere—  «  Wherer 

f^7l. 
'<I  came  to  the  pkoe  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  **ih6Wgaii$ 
of  my  youth,  where  are  theyf  and  anJScho  answaci, 
••Where  are  they  ?"  (Arabic  MS.) 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text 
is  taken)  must  be  already  familiar  to  every  reader^itis 
^ven  in  the  annotations  to  •^he  Pleasures  of  Mcnory/* 
a  poem  so  well  known  as  to  render  a  reference  almost  sd- 
perfluous;  but  to  whose  pages  all  will  be  deligliled  to 
recur. 

Into  Zuleika* s  name,  [p.  71. 

'<And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names.'' 

MlLTOH. 

For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhidMl  the  fonn 
of  birds,  we  need  not  travel  to  the  Bast  Lord  LytllelOB*s 
ghost-«tory,  the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kesdal,  that 
Geoi^ge  I.  flew  into  her  window  in  the  shape  of  a  nvcn 
(see  Orford's  Reminiscences),  and  many  otter  instaacts 
bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The  most  siagnkr 
was  the  whira  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  befieving  bcr 
daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a  singin^^  lurd,  fitoally 
furnished  her  pew  in  the  Cathedral  with  cages  fall  of  the 
kind;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  bene&ctress  in  bcaatifj- 
ing  the  church,  no  objection  was  made  to  her  hacnksy 
folly. 


NOTES  TO  THE  CORSAIR 


The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  oe- 
currcnces,  but  the  whole  of  the  i£gean  isles  are  within  a 
few  hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be 
kind  enough  to  Xak^  the  wind  as  I  have  often  found  it 

Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.      [p.  76. 

Orlando,  Furioso,  Canto  10, 

Around  the  waves*  phosphoric  brightness  hrohe,  [p.  78. 

By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke 
of  the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  Is  followed 
by  a  slight  flash  like  sheet  liglitning  fVom  the  water. 


— «Atf  sober  berry's  Juice.  [p.  5B- 

Cofiee. 

While  detnce  the  Almas  to  wild  minstrelsy.    [jp^l& 
Dandng  girls. 


A  captive  Dervise,from  thepiraWe  nesi 
Escaped,  is  here — himself  would  tali  tie  rwsL 


Escaped 

It  has  been  objected  fliat  Conrad's  eatering 
as  a  spy  is  out  of  nature. — Perhaps  so. — ^Ifind 
not  unlike  it  in  history. 


[P.78; 


NOTES  TO  TUB  COKSMR 


739 


'^Aaxiotti  to  ex(^lore  with  hU  own  eyes  the  State  of  tlie 
Mandate,  M^jorian  ventured ,  after  diagaisiog^  the  colour 
»f  his  hair,  to  Yiait  Carthage  in  the  character  of  his  own 
uahassador;  and  Genseric  was  afterwards  mortified  bj 
lie  discovery ,  that  he  had  entertained  and  dismissed  the 
Bmperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anecdote  may  be  re- 
ccted  as  an  improbable  fiction;  but  it  is  a  fiction  which 
vould  not  have  been  imagined  unless  in  the  life  of  a  licro." 
3nBON,  Bed,  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  180. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  nature 
L  shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  ooi^ddenoes 
vkkfa  I  have  met  with  since  writing  "The  Corsair.'' 

'*Booelin  prisoonier /'  dit  Rolandini,''s'enfennoit  dans 
IB  aileiice  mena^ant,  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  visage  f<§* 
Dee,  et  ne  donnoit  point  d'essor  k  sa  profonde  in€^a- 
ion.— I>e  tontes  parts  cependant  les  soldats  et  les  penp- 
es  acoouroient;  ils  vouloient  voir  cet  homme,  jadis  si 
Ntissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  telatoit  de  toutes  parts*'' 


'^Baoelin  ^toit  d'une  petite  laille;  mais  tout  Taspect  de 
m  personne,  tous  aes  mouvemens  indiquoient  un  soldat 
3on  langage  etoit  amer,  son  d^portement  superbe,  et  par 
Km  seul  regard ,  il  fhisoit  trembler  les  plus  bardis,"  Sis- 
■OM>i,  tome  III.  p.  219. 

'Hvioerlous  (Genseric,  king  of  ^Vandals,  the  oonque- 
tir  of  both  Carthage  and  Rome  ),  statura  mediocris,  et 
M|ni  easu  daudicaas,  animo  proftmdus,  sermone  rams, 
ojLiirissoontemptory  ira  turbidufi,  habendi  onpidns,  ad 
loliritandas  gentes  providentissimus.^'  Jornandbs  de  Re- 
ma  Getids,  c  83. 

I  beg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities  to  keep  In 
xNmtenaiioe  my  Giaour  and  Corsair. 


And  my  stem  vow  and  order's  hues  oppose. 


[p.  79. 


The  Dervises  are  io  colleges,  and  of  differrat  orders, 
IS  the  monks. 

Jluy^eue  that  Dervisel-^eize  on  Zatanail 

[p,79. 
Satan* 

He  tore  kis  heard,  and/oaminffjled  thefigkU 

[p.  80. 

A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  an- 

;er.  See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs  p.  24.  ''TheSeraskier 

eedved  a  wound  in  the  thigh ;  he  plucked  up  bis  beard 

ly  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare. 

[p.  80. 
Galnare,  a  female  name:  it  means,  literaUy,  the  flower 
)f  the  Pomegranate. 

TiU  even  the  scaffold  echoes  with  their  jest! 

[p.  82. 
In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  fiie  scaffold,  and 
bme  Boleyn  in  the  Tower ,  when  grasping  her  neck,  she 
emarked,  that  it  ''was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  heads- 
nan  much."  During  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution, 
i  became  a  feshion  to  leave  some  ''mot"  as  a  legacy ;  and 
he  quantity  of  focetious  last  words  spoken  during  that 
leriod  would  form  amelancholy  jest-book  of  considerable 
ixe. 

Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  he  run . .  • 
Thatfrown-^wheregeTUler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 


fp.83. 
,  little  ' 


Tbe  openinglines  of  Canto  IIL  have,  perhaps,  little  bu- 
iness  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though 
printed),  poem;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot  in  the 
pringof  1811,and— I  scarce  know  why--the  reader  must 
xcase  their  appearance  here  if  he  can.  (See  "Curse  of 
ilincrva.") 

JTuA  closed  their  murdered  saiga's  latest  dag  I 

[p.  8a 
Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset 
[tbelionr  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreaties 
ff  Jus  disdpies  to  wait  tUl  the  sua  went  down. 


7%e  qwen  of  night  asserts  her  sOeni  reign* 

[p.  8a. 

The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
country ;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of 
shorter  duration. 

ne  gleaming  turret  of  the  gag  Kiosk,  [p.  83. 
The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house;  the  palm  is 
without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  tem- 
ple of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  inter- 
venes.—  Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Uissus 
has  no  stream  at  all. 

His  onlg  hends  in  seeming  nfer  his  heads.      [p.  84. 
The  Comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary;  the  beads  are 
in  number  ninety-nine. 

And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain' d, 

[p.  88. 
In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  tiie 
bodies  of  the  dead^  and  in  the  hands  Qf  young  persons  to 
place  a  nosegay, 

Zink'dwnth  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand crmes. 


[p.  89. 
in 


That  the  point  of  honour  which  is  represented  in  one 
instance  of  Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried  beyond 
the  bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in  some  de- 
gree confirmed  by  the  following  anecdote  of  a  brother  buc- 
caneer in  the  present  year,  1814. 

Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise 
against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria;  but  few,  we  believe,  were 
inJformed  of  the  situation ,  history,  or  nature  of  that  esta- 
blishment For  tlie  information  of  such  as  were  unac- 
quainted with  it  we  liave  procured  fi-om  a  friend  the  fol- 
lowing interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of  which 
he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  whidi  cannot  fail  to  in- 
terest some  of  oar  readers. 

Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  galf  of  Mex- 
ico ;  it  runs  through  a  rich  Imt  very  flat  country,  until  it 
teaches  within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi  river,  fifteen  miles 
bdow  tbe  dty  of  New-Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches 
almost  innumerable,  in  which  persons  can  lie  concealed 
from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  communicates  with  three 
lakes  which  lie  on  the  southwest  side,  and  these  with  the 
lake  of  the  same  name,  which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea, 
where  there  is  an  island  formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this 
lalta  and  tbe  sea.  The  cast  and  west  points  of  this'is- 
land  were  fbr^cd  in  the  year  1811,  by  a  band  of  pirate?, 
under  the  command  of  one  Mr.  La  Fitte.  A  large  ma- 
jority of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  tlie  population 
of  the  state  of  Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St. 
Domingo  during  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in 
the  island  of  Cuba:  and  when  the  last  war  between  France 
and  Spain  oonunenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that 
island  with  the  abort  notice  of  a  few  days.  Without  cere- 
mony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of  them 
the  State  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they  had  pos- 
sessed in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Governor  of 
that  State  of  the  clause  in  the  constitution  which  forbade 
the  importation  of  slaves;  but,  at  the  same  time,  received 
the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that  he  would  obtain,  if 
possible,  tbe  approbation  of  tbe  general  Government  for 
their  retaining  this  property. 

The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  alM>nt  lat  39.  deg. 
16  min.  long  92. 30.  and  is  as  remarkable  for  its  health  as 
foi  the  superior  scale  and  shellfish  with  wliicli  its  waters 
abound.  The  chief  of  this  horde ,  like  Charles  Moor,  had 
mixed  with  his  many  vices  some  virtues.  In  the  year  1813 
this  party  had ,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness,  claimed 
the  attention  of  the  Governor  of  Louisiana;  and,  to  break 
up  the  establishment,  he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the 
head.  He  therefore  offered  a  reward  of  500  dollars  for  the 
head  of  Mr.  La  Fitte,  who  was  well  known  to  tlia  inhabi- 
tants of  the  city  of  New-Orleans,  from  his  immediate  con- 
nexion, and  his  once  liaving  been  a  fencing-master  in  that 
city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learnt  in  Buona- 
parte's army,  where  be  was  a  Captain.  The  reward  whioir 


740 


NOTB  TO  LIRA. 


was  offered  by  the  Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was 
answered  by  the  offer  of  a  reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000 
for  the  head  of  the  Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out 
a  company  to  march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island, 
and  to  barn  and  destroy  all  tlie  property,  and  to  brings  to 
the  city  of  New -Orleans  all  bis  banditti.  This  company, 
under  the  command  of  a  man  who  had  been  the  intimate 
associate  of  this  bold  Captain,  approached  very  near  to 
the  fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound, 
until  he  heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call. 
Then  it  was  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men 
who  had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led  into 
Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  modern  Charles  Moor  deve- 
loped his  few  noble  traits ;  for  to  this  man,  who  had  come 
to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he  not  only 
spared  liis  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would  have 
made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  his 
days ,  which  was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with  the 
approbation  of  his  captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This  cir- 
cumstance, and  some  concomitant  events,  proved  that 
this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land.  Our  na- 
val force  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  exer- 
tions for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment  could 
not  be  expected  from  them  until  augmented ;  for  an  officer 
of  the  navy ,  with  most  of  the  gun-boats  on  that  station, 
had  to  retreat  from  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fittc's. 
So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of  the  navy  authorised  an 
attack ,  one  was  nmde;  the  overthrow  of  this  banditti  has 
been  the  result;  and  now  this  almost  invulnerable  point 
and  key  to  New  -Orleans  is  clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a  strong  military 
force. — JProm  mn  American  Newspaper, 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographical 
Dictionary,  there  is  a  singular  passage  in  his  account  of 
archbishop  Blackbourne,  and  as  in  some  measure  con- 
nected with  the  profession  oi  the  hero  of  the  foregoing 
poem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting  it 

<*There  is  something  myiterioas  in  the  history  and 
character  of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  imper- 
fectly known ;  and  report  has  even  asserted  he  was  a 
buccaneer,  and  that  one  of  his  brethren  in  that  profession 


havbg  asked,  on  his  arrival  ib  Bogfaad,  wtet  fcad  be- 
come of  his  old  chum,  Blackboume,  was  answered,  heii 
Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed ,  that  Btaek- 
bonme  was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  in  1094,  whtoh 
office  he  resigned  in  1702:  but  after  his  sacocaao^ 
Lewis  Barnef  s,  death,  in  1704,  he  regaincsd  h.  In  tte 
following  year  he  became  dean;  and,  in  1714,  heldfrilk 
it  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  conatualrf 
bishop  of  Exeter,  February  24, 1716;  and  tranalated  to 
York,  November  28,  1724,  as  a  reward,  aooordiag  la 
court -scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the  Dodieasof 
Munster,  This,  however,appears  to  have  been  an  nnfoond- 
ed  calumny.  As  archbishop  he  behaved  with  great  pru- 
dence, and  was  equally  respectable  as  the  gmrdiaB  of  fte 
revenues  of  the  see.  Rumour  whispered  he  retained  the 
vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a  passion  for  tbe  fiJr  sex 
formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses;  but  so  ftr 
from  being  convicted  by  seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short, 
I  look  upon  these  aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mete  rnafioe. 
How  is  it  possible  a  boocaneer  should  have  been  so  good 
a  scholar  as  Blackbourne  certainly  was  ?  he  who  had  so 
perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  olasbs  (particularly  of  lie 
Greek  tragedians),  as  to  be  able  to  read  thetn  with  the 
same  ease  as  he  could  Shalupeare,  most  have  taken  great 
pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages,  and  have  had 
both  leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  nndoobfediy 
educated  at  Christ-chnrch-Ck>Ilege,  Oxford.  He  is  al- 
lowed to  have  been  a  pleasant  man:  this,  however,  was 
turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said:  *^lie gained  moR 
hearts  then  souls." 

^he  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  tibe 
MT&ge  (Alphonso  3d)  was  tliat  of  an  anuable  and  vir- 
tuous wiife,  the  sole  object  of  his  love :  the  voice  of  Doans 
Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the  duke  of  Savoy,  and  the 
grand-daughter  of  Philip  2d,  king  of  Spain. — Her  dying 
words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory;  his  fierce  spirit  melted 
into  tears;  and  after  the  last  embrace  Alphonso  retired 
into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his  farreparable  iossy  and  to 
meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human  fife.''  Gibbow. 


NOTE    TO    LARA. 


The  event  in  the  tatter  part  of  Canto  3d  was  suggested 
by  the  description  of  the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the 
DukeofGandia. 

The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  this  my- 
sterious event  is  given  by  Burchard,  and  is  in  substance 
as  follows:  **On  the  eighth  day  of  June  the  Cardinal  of 
Valensa,  and  the  Duke  of  Gandia ,  sons  of  the  Pope, 
supped  with  their  mother,  Vanosza,  near  tlie^ church  of 
&  Pietro  advmcula;  several  other  persous  being  present 
at  the  entertainment  A  late  hour  approaching,  and  the 
Cardinal  having  reminded  his  brother,  that  it  was  time 
to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they  mounted  their 
horses  or  mules,  with  only  afew  attendants,  and  proceeded 
together  as  far  as  the  palace  of  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza, 
when  the  Duke  informed  the  Cardinal,  that  before  he 
returned  home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of  pleasure.  Dis- 


missing therefore  all  his  attendants,  excepting  his  d^ 
fiero,  or  footman,  and  a  person  in  a  mask,  who  had  pvl 
him  a  visit  whilst  at  supper,  and  who,  during  the  apai» 
of  a  month,  or  thereabouts,  previous  to  this  time,  M 
called  upon  him  almost  daily,  at  the  apostolic  pslMet 
he  took  this  person  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  pi*- 
ceeded  to  the  street  of  the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  fl9* 
vant,  directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hoar; 
when,  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  tiie  police. 
TlieDuke  then  seated  theperson  in  the  mask  belund  UBi 
and  rode,  I  know  not  whither ;  but  in  that  night  he  was  st- 
sassinated,  and  thrown  into  tlie  river.  The  aervant,  after 
having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted  and  aiortslF 
wounded;  and  although  he  was  attended  with  great  csic 
yet  such  was  his  situation,  that  he  could  give  noinlstf- 
gible  account  of  what  had  befallen  his  maaler.  In  He 


NOTES  TO  THE  SIEGB  OF  CORINTH. 


741 


morttiog,  theDoke  aot  having  retarned  to  the  {wkuse^  his 
KrvantB  began  to  be  alarmed;  and  one  of  them  informed 
the  Pontiff  of  the  ovening-exoarsion  of  hia  sons,  and  that 
the  Bake  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  This  gave 
tiie  Pope  no  small  anxiety;  bat  he  conjectured  that  the 
]>ake  had  been  attracted  by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the 
night  with  her,  and  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open 
day,  had  waited  till  the  following  evening  to  return  home, 
^hen,  however,  the  evening  arrived,  and  he  found  him- 
self disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he  became  deeply 
afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from  dificrent 
persons,  whom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for  that  purpose. 
Amongst  these  was  a  man  named  Giorgio  Schiavoni, 
who,  having  discharged  some  timber  from  a  bark  in  the 
river,  had  remained  on  board  the  vessel  to  watch  it,  and 
being  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any  one  thrown 
into  the  river,  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied,  that  he 
saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  came  down  the  street,  and 
looked  diligently  about,  to  observe  whether  any  person 
was  passing.  That  seeing  no  one,  they  retarned,  and  a 
short  time  afterwards  two  others  came,  and  looked  around 
in  the  same  manner  as  the  former;  no  person  still  appear- 
ing, they  gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man 
came,  mounted  on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a 
dead  body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side, 
and  the  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse;  the  two  per- 
sons on  foot  supporting  the  body,  to  prevent  its  foiling. 
They  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part,  where  the  filth 
of  the  dty  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river,  and  turn- 
ing the  horse,  with  his  tail  towards  the  water,  the  two 
persons  took  the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and 
with  all  tiieir  strength  flung  it  into  the  river.  The  person 


on  horseback  then  asked  if  they  had  thrown  it  in,  to  which 
they  replied,  Sh'gnorj  si  (yes,  Sir).  He  then  looked 
towards  the  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on  the 
stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeared  blaek ;  to 
which  they  answered,  it  was  a  mantle;  and  one  of  them 
threw  stones  upon  it,  in  consequence  of  which  it  sunk. 
The  attendants  of  the  Pontiff  then  inquired  from  Giorgio, 
why  he  had  not  revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city ; 
to  which  he  replied,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  Imn- 
drcd  dead  bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  tlie  same  place, 
without  any  inquiry  being  made  respecting  them,  and 
that  he  had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of 
any  importance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then 
collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the  river ;  where,  on  the 
following  evening,  they  found  the  body  of  the  Duke,  with 
his  habit  entire,  and  thirty  ducats  in  his  purse.  He  was 
pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of  which  was  in  his  throat, 
the  others  in  his  head,  body,  and  limbs.  No  sooner  was 
the  Pontiff  informed  of  the  death  of  his  son,  and  that  he 
had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the  river,  than  giving 
way  to  his  grief,  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber  and 
wept  bitterly.  The  Cardinal  of  S^;ovia,  and  other  attend- 
ants, on  the  Pop<^  went  to  tlie  door,  and  after  many  hours 
spent  in  persuasions  and  exhortations,  prevailed  upon 
him  to  admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  till 
the  following  Saturday,  the  Pope  took  no  food;  nor  did 
he  sleep  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour  on 
the  ensuing  day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  to  the 
entreaties  of  liis  attendants ,  he  began  to  restrain  his 
sorrow,  and  to  consider  the  injury  which  his  own  health 
might  sustain,  by  .the  further  indulgence  of  his  grief.'*  — 
Roscob's  Leo  Tenth,  Vpl.  1,  p.  265. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


rp.M«. 

dd  patn^ 


T%e  Jhircoman  hatk  left  his  herd. 
The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  aft< 
rchal:  they  dwell  in  tents. 

Coumourffi  —  he  whose  closing  scene,  [p.  103. 
An  Coumourgi,  the  fovourite  of  three  sultans ,  and 
Grand  Vizier  to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  the  Pelo- 
ponnesus from  the  Venetians  in  one  compaign,  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Germans,  at  tlie 
battle  of  Peterwaradin  (in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz),  in 
Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He  died  of 
lus  wounds  next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  decapitation 
of  General  Brenner^  and  some  other  German  prisoners; 
and  his  last  words,  ''Oh  that  I  could  thus  serve  all  the 
Christian  dogs! "  a  speech  and  act  not  uonke  one  of  Ca- 
ligula. He  was  a  young  man  of  great  ambition  and  un- 
bounded presumption ;  on  being  told  thatPrince  Eugene, 
then  opposed  to  him,  ''was  a  great  general,"  he  said  "I 
gball  become  a  greater,  and  at  his  expense."* 

Tk  ere  shrinks  no  e^  m  that  tideless  sem.        [pw  1 05. 
The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  tiiat  there  are  no 
perceptible  tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 

And  their  white  tushs  crunch* d  o*er  the  whiter  skuN. 

[p.  105. 

This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath 

the  wall  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople ,  in  the  little 


cavities  worn  by  the  Bosphoras  in  the  rock,  a  narrow 
terrace  of  which  projects  between  the  wall  and  the  water. 
I  tliink  the  feet  is  also  mentioned  in  Hobhouse's  Travels. 
The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some  refractory  Jani- 
saries. 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair, 

fp.  106. 
This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  superstition  that 
Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  Paradise  by  it. 

Was  it  the  whuf,  through  sowu  hollow  stone  .... 

[p.ioa 

I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  anintentional, 
resembkince  in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  anr 
publislied  poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  '^Christabel."  it 
was  not  till  after  these  lines  were  written  that  I  heard  that 
wild  and  singularly  original  and  beautiful  poem  recited; 
and  the  MS.  of  that  production  I  never  saw  till  very 
recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge  himself  whd^ 
I  hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have  not  been  a  wilful  plagia- 
rist. The  original  idea  undoubtedly  pertains  to  Mr.  Co- 
leridge, whose  poem  has  been  composed  above  fourteen 
years.  Let  me  conclude  by  a  hope  that  he  will  not  longer 
delay  the  pubKcatioa  of  a  production,  of  which  I  can  only 
add  my  mite  of  approbation  to  the  applause  of  far  more 
competent  judges.  ("Christabel"  was  published  in  1816.) 


742 


NOTJBS  TO  PARISINA. 


Tk9re  is  a  Uyht  cloud  hjf  the  moon  — 
'  n  pnstinff  and  will  pats  full  soon  -^ 
If,  htf  the  time  its  vapoury  sail ....        [p.  107. 
I  have  been  told  that  (he  idea  expressed  in  tliese  lines 

has  been  admired  by  those  whose  approbation  is  valuable. 

i  am  ^lad  of  it:  but  it  is  not  ori^nal  —  at  least  not  mine ; 

it  may  be  found  much  better  expressed  in  '*Vathek"  a 

work  to  which  I  have  before  referred,  and  never  recur  to, 

or  read,  without  a  renewal  of  g^s^tification. 

The  horsetails  are  pluck* d  from  the  ground,  and 

the  sword  —  [p.  107* 

The  horsetail,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  Pacha's  standard. 


AMdsis^ethaday^  wkmrnthasis^  — 
.     ,  [p-WS. 

In  the  naval  battle  at  the  montli  of  the  Dardaiicllet» 
between  the  Venetians  and  the  Turks. 

TheJackaTs  troop,  in  gathered  cry, 

I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplut 
the  jackal  from  .\sia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard 
these  animals;  but  amon^  the  ruins  of  EphcMts  I  have 
heard  them  by  hundreds.  They  haunt  mins^  and  follow 
armies. 


NOTES  TO  PARISINA. 


It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  houghs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard. 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away,  fp*  1 12. 
These  fourteen  lines  were  printed  as  set  to  music  some 
time  since,  but  belonged  to  the  poem  where  they  now  ap- 
pear, the  greater  part  of  which  was  composed  prior  to 
"Lara,"  and  other  compositions  since  published. 

That  should  have  won  as  haught  a  crest* 

[p.  114. 
Haught— haii8;hty.^^Away,  hasight  man,  thou  art  in- 
salting  me."  SiLAKSPEjiBe,  Richard  IL 

Her  life  began  and  closed  m  woe,        [p.  117. 

''This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  people  of 
Ferrara,  for  there  occurred  a  very  tragical  event  in  the 
court  of  their  sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed  and 
in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  ofthe  unpolished  and 
negligent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one  other,  have  given  the 
following  relation  of  it,  from  which,  however,  are  nneoted 
many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of  Bandelu,  who 
wrote  a  century  afterwards,and  who  does  not  aoooid  with 
the  cotemporary  historians. 

'<By  the  above  mentioned  Stella  deir  Assassino,  the 
Ifarqnis,  in  the  year  1405,  had  a  son  called  Ugo,  a  beau- 
tiful and  ingenious  youth.  Pftrisina  Malatesta,  second 
wife  of  Niccolo,  like  thegenerality  of  stepmothers,  treated 
him  with  little  kindness ,  to  the  infinite  regret  of  the  Mar- 

r*s,  who  regarded  him  with  fond  partiality.  One  day 
asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a  certain 
journey,  to  which  he  oonsented,  but  upon  condition  that 
Ugo  should  bear  her  company;  for  he  hoped  by  tliese 
means  to  mduce  h»,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  tlie  obstinate 
aversion  which  she  had*  conceived  against  him.  And  in- 
deed this  intent  was  anoomplished  but  too  well,  since,  dur- 
ii^  the  journey ,  she  not  only  divested  herself  of  all  her 
hatred ,  but  fell  i«to  the  opposite  extreme.  After  their  re- 
turn ,  the  Harquis  had  no  longer  any  occasion  to  renew 
his  former  reproofii.  It  happened  one  day  that  a  servant 
of  the  Marquis,  named  Zo^  or,  as  some  call  him,  Gior- 
gio, passing  before  the  apartments  of  Parisina,  saw  going 
out  from  them  one  of  her  chambermaids,  alt  terrified  and 
In  tears.  Asking  the  reason ,  she  told  him  that  her  mis- 
tress, for  some  aU^^  offence,  had  been  beating  her;  and. 


giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she  added,  that  she  covM  easily 
be  revenged,  if  she  chose  to  malLc  known  the  oimmal 
familiarity  which  subsisted  between  Parisina  and  her 
step-son.  The  servant  took  note  ofthe  worda,  and  related 
them  to  his  master.  He  was  astounded  thereat,bnt  scaife- 
ly  believing  his  ears,  he  assured  himself  of  the  fact,  alas! 
too  clearly,  on  the  18th  of  May,  142&,  by  looking  throngh 
a  hole  made  in  the  ceiling  of  Ida  wife'schansber.  Instantly 
he  broke  into  a  furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  than, 
together  with  Aldobrandino  Ra^goni,  of  Modena,  her 
gentleman ,  and  also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  womoi  of 
her  chamber,  as  abettors  of  this  sinful  act  He  ordered 
them  to  be  brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desirii^  tiie  jud^ 
to  pronounce  sentence,  in  the  accustomed  forms,  upon 
the  culprits.  This  sentence  was  death.  Some  there  were 
that  bestirred  themselves  in  fhvour  of  thedelinqueflti,  and, 
amongst  others,  UgoodonContrario,  who  was  all-power- 
ful with  Nicoolo,  and  also  his  aged  and  much  dcaerriv 
minister  Alberto  dal  Sale.  Both  of  these,  their  tean  flow- 
ing down  their  cheeks,  and  upon  their  knees,  in^lnmi 
him  for  mercy:  adducing  whatever  reasons  they  coaid 
suggest  for  sparing  the  ofienders,  besides  thoae  molivw 
of  honour  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  In  eon- 
ceal  from  the  public  so  scandalous  a  deed.  But  ins  n^ 
made  him  inflexible,  and ,  on  the  instant,  he  ( 
that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

<*It  was ,  then ,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  _  _ 
in  those  frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  at  this  di^  ka^ 
neath  the  chamber  called  the  Aurora,  at  the  footof  Us 
Lion's  tower,  at  the  top  ofthe  street  Gioveoca,  that  on  As 
night  of  the  twenty-first  of  May  were  beheaded,  fii«t,|]^ 
and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  he  that  accused  her,  aa»- 
ducted  the  tatter  under  his  armtotheplaceof  fianiahaKii 
She,  all  along,  fhnded,  that  she  was  to  be  thrown  wlaa 
pit,  and  asked  at  every  step,  whether  she  was  yeC  ooai 
to  the  spot?  She  was  told  that  her  punishment  was  Iks 
axe.  She  inquired  what  was  become  of  Ugo,  and  lujJwi 
for  answer,  that  he  was  already  dead ;  at  the  which,  sigtiy 
grievously,  she  exdaimed.  ^'Now,  then,  I  wiah  mUM^aM 
to  live;"  and  being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped iBi^ 
self  with  her  own  hands  of  all  her  oniaments,  and  WM^ 
piuga  doth  round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fiUal  sicais 
which  terminated  the  cruel  scene.  Tlie  same  wna  dam 
with  Rangoni,  who,  together  with  the  others,  niiinnhf 
to  two  calendars  In  the  library  of  St  FnxKeaeo,  was  W 


i 


NOTES  TO  TH£  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


743 


riedin  theoemeteiy  of  that  eonyent  Nothlog^ebe  is  known 
respeeting  the  women. 

*The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful 
Bight,  and,  as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards, 
iaqnired  of  the  Captain  of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead  yet? 
who  answered  him,  Yp9.  He  then  gave  himself  up  to  the 
most  desperate  lamentations,  exclaiming',  ^Oh!  that  I  too 
were  dead,  since  I  have  been  hurried  on  to  resolve  thus 
against  my  own  Ugot"  And  then  gnawing  with  his  teeth 
a  cane  which  he  had  in  his  hand ,  he  passed  the  rest  of  the 
night  in  sighs  and  tears,  calling  frequently  npon  his  own 
dear  Ugo.  On  the  following  da^,  calling  to  mind  that  it 
would  be  necessary  to  make  public  his  justification,  seeing 
that  the  transaction  could  not  be  kept  secret,  he  ordered 
the  narrative  to  be  drawn  out  upon  paper,  and  sent  it  to 
all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

"On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Boge  of  Venice,  Fran- 
cesco Foscari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  his 


,  that  stop  should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a 
tournament,  which  under  the  auspices  of  the  Marquis, 
and  at  the  expense  of  the  city  of  Padua,  was  about  to  take 
place,  in  the  square  of  St  Mark,  in  order  to  celebrate  hta 
advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

**The  Marquis,  in  additionto  what  hehad  already  done, 
from  some  unaccountable  burst  of  vengeance,  commanded 
that  as  many  of  the  married  women  as  were  well  known 
to  him  to  be  fkithless,  like  his  Parbina ,  should ,  like  her, 
be  beheaded.  Amongst  others,  Barbarina,  or  as  some  call 
her,  Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the  court-judge,  underwent 
this  sentence,  at  the  usual  place  of  execution,  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  quarter  of  St  Giacomo,  opposite  the  present 
fortress,  beyond  St  Paul's.  It  cannot  be  told  how  strange 
appeared  this  proceeding  in  a  prince,  who,  considering  his 
own  disposition,  should ,  as  it  seemed,  have  been  in  such 
cases  most  indulgent  Some ,  however,  there  were,  who 
did  not  fail  to  commend  him."  Frizzi,  History  of  Ferrara. 


NOTES  TO  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


Bjf  Bonnivardl^Majf  nanethpse  nutrkt  efface  ! 

[p.  118. 

Fran9oisdeBonnivard,fils  de  Louis  deBonnivard,  ori- 
^naire  de  Seyssel  et  Seigneur  de  Lunes,  naquit  en  1496; 
il  fit  ses  etudes  4  Turin.  £n  1510  Jean  Aim^  de  Bonnivard, 
son  oncle,  lui  rcsigna  le  Prieure  deSt  Victor,  qui  aboutis- 
salt  aux  murs  de  Geneve,  ct  qui  formaitun  benefice  con- 
siderable. 

Ce  grand  homme  (Bonnivard  m^rite  ce  titre  par  la 
force  de  son  ame,  la  droiture  de  son  coeur,  la  noblesse  de 
scs  intentions,  la  sagesse  de  ses  conseils,  le  courage  de 
ses  demarches ,  Tetcndne  de  ses  connaissances  et  la  viva- 
cite  dc  son  esprit),  ce  grand  homme,  qui  excitera  Tadmi- 
ration  de  tons  ceux  qu'une  vertu  h^roique  pent  encore 
cmouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  reconnaissance 
dans  les  coeurs  des  Genevois  qui  aiment  Geneve.  Bonni- 
vard en  fut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermes  appuis :  pour  as- 
surer la  liberty  de  notre  Rdpublique,  il  ne  craignit  pas  de 
peidre  sonvent  la  sienne;  il  oublia  son  rcpos ;  il  m^prisa 
aes  richesses;  il  ne  ncgligearien  pour  afiermir  le  bonheur 
d'unc  patrie  qu'il  honora  de  son  choix:  d^s  ce  moment 
il  la  ch^rit  comme  le  plus  zeie  de  ses  citoyens;  il  hi  servit 
avec  rintr^pidit^  d'un  hdros,et  il  dcrivitson  histoire  avec 
|a  naivete  d'nn  philosophe  et  la  chaleur  d'nn  patriote. 

II  dit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  histoire  de  Ge- 
neve, que,  die  qu'il  eut  eommenei  de  lire  Vhieteire  dee  na^ 
tUme,  il  ee  serUit  entrain^  par  son  gout  pour  lee  RipahHquee, 
dont  U  ipouea  Ungoure  lee  intirSte:  c'est  ce  gout  pour  la 
liberty  qui  lui  fit  sans  doute  adopter  Geneve  pour  sa 
patrie. 

Bonnivard,  encore  jeune,  s'annon^hantement  comme 
Ic  d^fenseur  de  Geni^ve  contre  le  Duo  de  Savoye  et 
r£v6que. 

£a  1519,  Bonnivard  devint  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie:  le 
Duo  de  Savoye  ^tant  entr6  dans  Geneve  avec  dnq-oents 
bomines,  Bonnivard  craignit  le  ressentiment  du  Due;  il 
vonlat  se  retirer  k  Friboui*g  pour  en  dviter  les  suites ;  mais 
il  fut  trahipar  deux  hommes  qui  Taccompagnaient,  et  con- 


duit par  ordre  dn  Prince  k  Oroide,  oh  il  resta  prisonnier 
pendant  deux  aas.  Bonnivard  dtait  malheureux  dans  ses 
voyages;  comme  ses  malhenrs  n'avaient  point  ralenti 
son  zMe  pour  Geneve,  il  etait  toujours  un  ennemi  redou- 
tablc  pour  ceux  qui  la  mcna9aient,  et  par  consequent  il 
devait  dtre  expose  k  Icurs  coups.  II  fut  rencontrd  enl530 
sur  le  Jura,  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le  depouilldrent,  et  qui 
le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du  Due  de  Savoye:  ce 
Prince  le  fit  cnfernier  dans  le  Chfitcau  de  Chillon,  oik  il 
resta  sans  dtre  intcrrogejusqu'cn  1536;  ilfutalors  deli- 
vrd  par  les  Bernois,  qui  s'empar^rent  du  Pays  de  Yaud. 

Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  captivity,  cut  le  plaisir  de 
trouver  Geneve  libre  et  reformee:  la  republique  s'em- 
pressa  dc  lui  tcmoigner  sa  reconnaissance  et  de  le  dddom- 
mager  des  maux  qu'il  avait  soufferts ;  elle  le  re^nt  Bour- 
geois de  la  ville  au  mois  de  Juin  1536;  elle  lui  donna  la 
maison  habitee  autrefois  par  le  Yicaire- General,  et  elle 
lui  assigna  une  pension  dc  200  ecus  d'or  tant  qu'il  sdjour* 
nerait  k  Geneve.  II  fut  admis  dans  le  Consed  de  Deux- 
Centsenl537. 

Bonnivard  n'a  pas  finid'dtre  utile:  aprds  avoir  travai  lid 
j^rendre  Geneve  libre,  ilrdnssit&larendretoldrante.  Bon- 
nivard engagea  le  Conseil  k  accorder  aux  ecclesiastiqucs 
et  aux  paysans  un  tempssuffisant  pour  examiner  les  pro- 
positions qu'on  leur  foisait;  il  reussit  par  sa  douceur :  on 
prdche  toi^ours  le  Christianisme  avec  succis  quand  on 
le  prdche  avec  charitd. 

Bonnivard  fut  savant;  ses  manuscjrits,  qui  sont  dans  la 
biblioth^ue  publique,  prouvent  qu'il  avait  bien  lu  les 
auteursclassiques  latins,  et  q'uil  avait  approfondi  la  thco- 
logie  et  rhistoire.  Ce  grand  homme  aimait  les  sciences, 
et  il.croyait  qu'ellcs  pouvaient  faire  la  gloire  de  Geneve; 
aussi  il  ne  ncgligearien  pour  les  fixer  dans  oette  ville  nais- 
sante;en  1551  il  donnasa  biblioth&qne  au  public;  elle  fut 
le  commencement  de  notre  bibliotheque  publique;  et  ces 
livres  sont  en  partie  les  rares  et  belles  ^itions  du  quin- 
sitoe  siMe  qu'on  voit  dans  notre  collection.  Enfin,  pen- 
dant la  m6me  ann^,  ce  bon  patriote  institna  la  Rcpubli- 


744 


NOTBS  TO  DON  JUAN. 


que  son  iidriti^re,  k  condition  qa'elleemploieraitses  biens 
i  entretenir  le  coll^  dont  on  projetait  la  fondation. 

II  parait  qae  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570;  mais  on  ne 
peat  Tassurer,  parceqa'il  y  a  nae  laoune  dans  le  N^cro- 
loge  depuis  le  mois  de  Jniilet  1670  jusqa'en  1571. 

In  a  iingle  night  [p.  1 1 8. 

Ludovico  Sforza,  and  otlicrs.— The  same  is  asserted 
of  Marie  Antoinette's,  tbe  wife  of  Louis  XYL,  thoagh  not 
in  quite  so  short  a  period.  Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same 
effect:  to  such,  and  not  to  fear,  this  change  in  her's  was 
to  be  attributed. 

From  ChiUon's  tnow^whiU  battlement,   JpA  19. 

The  Chateau  dc  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens 
and  Yilleneuve,  which  last  is  atone  extremity  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and 
opposite  are  theheights  of  Meilierie  and  the  range  of  Alps 
above  Boveiet  and  St.  Gingo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent;  below  it,  washing 
its  walls ,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  600 
feet  (French  measure) ;  within  it  are  a  range  of  dungeons, 
in  which  the  early  reformers,  and  subsequently  prisoners 
of  state,  were  confined.  Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam 
black  with  age ,  on  which  we  were  informed  that  the  con- 
demned were  formerly  executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven 
pillars,  01,  rather^  eight,  one  beinghalf  merged  io  the  wall. 


in  some  of  these  are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  flie  fetteni; 
in  the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  lefttfacir  tah 
ocs — ^be  was  confined  here  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  that  Rooaseao  has  fixed  the  ca* 
tastrophe  of  his  Heloise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  ber  chil- 
dren by  Julie  from  tbe  water;  the. shock  <^  wliicfa,  and 
the  illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  tiie  canae  of  ker 
death 

Tbe  ohatean  isbuge,and  seen  ak>Qg  tlie  Ukky  lor  agmt 
distance.  The  walls  are  white. 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,  [p.  121. 

Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  ViDcacovc^ 
not  far  from  Chillon ,  is  a  very  small  island :  the  only  one 
I  could  perceive,  in  my  voyage  round  and  over  tfie  b&c^ 
within  its  circumference.  It  contains  a  few  trees  (I  think 
not  above  three)  ,and  from  its  singleness  and  diminntive 
size  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the  view. 

When  theforegoingpoem  was  composed  I  was  notsnf- 
ficiently  aware  of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should 
have  endeavoured  to  dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt  to 
celebrate  his  courage  and  his  virtues.  Some  accoontof  his 
life  will  be  found  in  the  above  note  to  the  '^Sonnet  oa 
Chillon,"  with  which  I  have  been  fru^nished  by  the  kiad- 
ness  of  a  citizen  of  that  Republic  which  is  still  proud  of 
the  memory  of  a  man  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  i 
freedom. 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


SOME  .OBSERVATIONS  UPON   AN  ARTICLE  IN  BLACK WOOD9 

MAGAZINE, 

AUGUST,    1819. 


"Why,  how  now,  Hcntef  yon  look  angrily." 

Macbsth. 


TO 

J.  DISRAELI,  ESQ. 

TH£  AMUBLB  AND  IMGENIOUS  AUTHOR 

ov 

'<THB  calamities"  AND  *^ QUARRELS  OP  AUTHORS;'' 

THIS  ADDITIONAL  QUARREL  AND  CALAMITY  IS  INSCRIBED 

BY 

ONE  OF  THE  NUIIBER. 

Raveooa,  March  15,  18M. 

'The  life  of  a  writer"  has  been  said,  by  Pope,  I  believe, 
to  be  **a  warfare  voon  earth."  As  far  as  my  own  expe- 
rience has  gone,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  pro- 


position; and,  like  the  rest,  haviog  onoe  plangcd  M 
this  state  of  hostility,  most,  however  reluctantly,  < 
on.  An  article  has  appeared  in  a  periodical  work,  c 
^Remarks  on  Don  Jnan,''  which  has  been  so  full  ( 
spirit,  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  as  to  require  some  < 
vations  on  mine.  ^ 

~  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  aware  by  what  rjglrtli 
writer  assumes  this  work,  which  is  anonymous.  t»li 
my  production.  He  will  answer,  that  there  is  InttM 
evidence:  that  is  to  say,  that  there  are  passages  wA 
appear  to  be  written  in  my  name,  or  in  my  manner.  M 
might  not  this  have  been  done  on  purpose  by  anctep 
He  willsay,  why  not  then  deny  it?  To  this  I  could  9atm^ 
that  of  ail  the  things  attributed  to  me  within  the  last  iff. 
years,  —  Pilgrimages  to  Jerusalem,  Deaths  upon  M^ 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


745 


ane&y  Odes  to  the  Land  of  the  Gaul,  Adieus  to  Eng- 
Ad,  SoQgs  to  Madame  Lavalette,  Odes  to  St  Helena, 
ampiresy  aad  what  not,—  of  which,  God  knows,  I 
S¥er  composed  nor  read  a  syllable  beyond  their  titles 
I  adTertisements,  —  I  never  thought  it  worth  while  to 
is&vow  any,  except  one  which  came  linked  with  an  ao- 
mot  of  my  ^'residence  in  the  Isle  of  Mitylene,"  where  I 
ewer  resided,  and  appeared  to  be  carrying  the  amuse- 
tent  o€  those  persons,  who  think  my  name  can  be  of  any 
se  to  them,  a  little  too  far. 

I  should  hardly,  therefore,  if  I  did  not  take  the  trouble 
»  disavow  these  things  published  in  my  name ,  and  yet 
ot  mine,  go  out  of  my  way  to  deny  an  anonymous  work : 
Tbich  mi^t  appear  an  act  of  supererogation.  With  re- 
ird  to  £H>n  Juan,  I  neither  deny  nor  admit  it  to  be  mine 
-  every  body  may  form  their  own  opinion ;  but,  if  tliere 
e  any  who  now,  or  in  the  progress  of  that  poem,  if  it  is 
>  he  (continued,  feel  or  should  feel  themselves  so  ag- 
rieved  as  to  require  a  more  explicit  answer,  privately 
nd  personally,  they  shall  liave  it 
I  hxwe  never  shrunk  form  the  responsibility  of  what  I 
ave  written,  and  have  more  than  once  incurred  obloquy 
f  n^ectii^  to  disavow  what  was  attributed  to  my  pen 
itboat  foundation. 

The  greater  part,  however,  of  the  "Remarks  on  Don 

oan"  contain  but  little  on  the  work  itself,  which  receives 

B  extraordinary  portion  of  praise  as  a  composition. 

ITidi  the  exception  of  some  quotations,  and  a  few  ind- 

ental  remarks,  the  rest  of  the  article  is  neither  more  nor 

«•  than  a  personal  attack  upon  the  imputed  author.  It 

I  not  the  first  in  the  same  publication:  for  I  recollect  to 

ave  read,  some  time  ago,  similar  remarks  upon  *'Beppo'' 

odd  to  have  been  written  by  a  celebrated  northern 

reaoher);  in  which  the  conclusion  drawn  was,tliaf 'Childe 

Earold,  ByroD,  and  the  Cotmt  in  Beppo  were  one  aad 

be  aame  person;"  thereby  making  me  turn  out  to  be,  as 

Era.  Malaprop  says,  " Uke  Cerhenu,  three gentlevMn  at 

mem*'  That  article  was  signed  **  Presbyter  Anglicanus;" 

rfaifih,  I  presume,  being  interpreted,  means  Scotch  Pres- 

yterian.  I  mast  here  observe,  —  and  it  is  at  once  ludi- 

tons  and  vexatious  to  be  compelled  so  frequently  to 

Epeat  ttie  same  thing,  —  that  my  case,  as  an  author,  is 

eculiarly  hard,  in  being  everlastingly  taken,  or  mistaken, 

>r  my  own  protagonist  It  is  unjust  and  part^cnjar-  1 

ever  hear4  ^^^  PT  *Virnf1  M^ice  was  set  down  for  a 

re-worshipper  on  account  of  his  Quebre:  that  Scott  was 

tentified  witn  KooericK  Phn,  or  with  Balfour  of  Burley ; 

r  mu,  iidlWllllMkudlllg  idl  the  magicians  in  Thalaba, 

ny  body  has  ever  taken  Mr.  Sonthey  for  a  conjuror; 

rhereas  I  have  had  some  difficulty  in  extricating  me  even 

rom  Manfired,  who,  as  Ifr.  Southey  stily  observes  in  one 

f  his  artldes  in  the  Quarterly,  <'met  the  devil  on  the 

angfrau,  and  bullied  him:"  and  I  answer  Mr.  Southey, 

rho  has  apparently,  in  his  poetical  life,  not  been  so  sue- 

essAil  agaiast  the  great  enemy,  that,  in  this,  Manfred 

xactly  followed  the  sacred  precept,  —  '^Rerist  the  devil, 

ad  he  vnll  flee  from  yon."  —  I  shall  have  more  to  say  on 

W  subject  of  this  person  —  not  the  devil,  but  his  most 

amble  servant  Mr.  Sonthey  —  before  I  conclude;  bat, 

ir  the  present,  I  mast  return  to  the  article  in  the  £din« 

xss^  Magazine. 

In  the  course  of  this  article,  amidst  some  extraordinary 
bservations,  there  occur  the  following  words:  —  ''It 
ppears,  in  short,  as  if  this  miserable  man,  having  ex- 
mnsted  every  tpecUe  of  sensual  gratification,  ->  having 
iraiiBed  the  cup  of  sin  even  to  its  bitterest  dregs,  were 
evolved  to  show  us  that  he  is  no  longer  a  human  being 
yen  in  his  frailties,  —  but  a  cool,  unconcerned  fien«^ 
vagbmg  with  a  detestable  glee  over  the  whole  of  the 
letter  and  worse  elements  of  which  human  life  is  com* 
loaed.''  In  another  place  there  appears,  ''the  lurking- 
tece  of  his  selfish  and  polluted  exile."  ^  **Bj  my  troth, 
beae  be  bitter  words! "  —  With  regard  to  the  first  sen- 
eiftoe,  I  shall  content  myself  with  observing,  that  it  ap- 
lean  to  have  been  composed  for  Sardanapalus,  Tiberius, 


the  R^;ent  Duke  of  Orleans,  or  Louis  XY.;  and  tliat  I 
have  copied  it  with  as  much  inditference  as  I  would  a 
passage  from  Suetonius,  or  from  any  of  the  private  me- 
moirs of  the  regency, conceiving  it  to  be  amply  refuted  by 
the  terms  in  which  it  is  expressed,  and  to  be  utterly  inap- 
plicable to  any  private  individual.  On  the  words,  'Uurking- 
place,"  and  ^selfish  and  polluted  exile,"  I  have  some- 
thing more  to  say.  —  How  far  the  capital  city  of  a  govern- 
ment, which  survived  the  vicissitudes  of  thirteen  hundred 
years,  and  might  still  have  existed  bat  for  the  treachery 

of  Buonaparte,  and  the  iniquity  of  his  imitators, a  city, 

which  was  the  emporium  of  Europe  when  London  and 
Edinburgh  were  dens  of  barbarians,  —  may  be  termed 
a  '4urkiag-place,"  I  leave  to  those  who  have  seen  or 
heard  of  Venice  to  decide.  How  far  my  exile  may  have 
been  ''polluted,"  it  is  not  for  me  to  say,  because  the  word 
is  a  wide  one,  and,  with  some  of  its  branches,  may  chance 
to  overshadow  the  actions  of  most  men;  but  that  it  has 
been  ''teljuh"  I  deny.  If,  to  the  extent  of  my  means  and 
my  power,  and  my  information  of  their  calamities,  to  have 
assisted  many  miserable  beings,  reduced  by  the  decay  of 
the  place  of  their  birth,  and  their  consequent  loss  of  sub- 
stance —  if  to  have  never  rejected  an  application  whicii 
appeared  founded  on  truth  ->  if  to  have  expended  in  this 
manner  sums  far  outof  proportion  tomy  fortune,there  and 
elsewhere,  be  seifish,  then  have  I  been  selfish.  To  have 
done  such  things  I  do  not  deem  much ;  but  it  is  hard  indeed 
to  be  compelled  to  recapitulate  them  in  my  own  defence, 
by  such  accusations  as  that  beforeme,  like  a  panel  befbre  a 
jury  calling  testimonies  to  his  character,  or  a  soldier  re- 
cording his  services  to  obtain  his  discharge.  If  the  person 
who  has  made  the  charge  of  "selfishness"  wishes  to  in- 
form himself  further  on  the  subject,  he  may  acquire,  not 
what  he  would  wish  to  find,  but  what  will  suenoe  and 
shame  him,  by  applying  to  the  Consul -General  of  our 
nation,  resident  in  the  pfaioe,  who  will  be  in  the  case  either 
to  confirm  or  deny  what  I  have  asserted. 

I  neither  make,  nor  have  ever  made,  pretensions  to 
sanctity  of  demeanour,  nor  regularity  of  conduct;  but  my 
means  have  been  expended  principally  on  my  own  gra- 
tification, neither  now  nor  heretofore,  neither  in  England 
nor  out  of  it;  and  it  wants  but  a  word  from  me,  if  I 
thought  that  word  decent  or  necessary,  to  call  forth  the 
most  willing  witnesses,  and  at  once  witnesses  and  proofs, 
in  England  itself  to  show  that  there  are  those  who  have 
derived  not  the  mere  temporary  relief  of  a  wretched  boon, 
but  the  means  which  led  them  to  immediate  happiness 
and  ultimate  independence,  by  my  want  of  that  very 
**e9lfiekness,"  as  grossly  as  fiOsely  now  imputed  to  my 
conduct 

Had  I  been  a  selfish  man  —  had  I  been  a  grasping 
man — had  I  been,  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  word,  ejea 
ti prudent  man,  —  I  should  not  be  where  I  now  am;  I 
should  not  have  taken  the  step  which  was  the  first  that 
led  to  the  events  which  have  sunk  and  swoln  a  gulf  be- 
tween me  and  mine ;  but  in  this  respect  the  truth  will  one 
day  be  made  known:  in  the  mean  time,  as  Durandearte 
says,  in  the  Cave  of  Montesinos,  ''Patienoe,  and  shuffle 
the  cards." 

I  bitterly  feel  the  ostentation  of  this  statement,  the  first 
of  the  kind  I  have  ever  made:  I  feel  the  degradation  of 
being  compelled  to  make  it;  but  I  also  feel  its  truth ,  and 
I  trust  to  feel  it  on  my  death-bed,  should  it  be  my  lot  to 
die  there.  I  am  not  less  sensible  of  the  ^^tism  of  all  this ; 
but,  alas !  who  have  made  me  thus  egotistical  in  my  own 
defence,  if  not  they,  who  by  perversely  persisting  in  refer* 
ring  fiction  to  DrntMnd  tracing  poetry  to  life,and  regard- 
ing characters  of  imagination  as  creatures  of  existence, 
have  made  me  personally  responsible  for  almost  every 
poetical  delineation  which  fancy,  and  a  particular  bias  of 
thought,  may  have  tended  to  produce? 

The  writer  continues:  —  **  Those  who  are  acquainted, 

as  who  it  not?  with  the  wudn  incidents  of  the  private  life 

of  Lord  B.,"  etc*  Assuredly,  whoever  may  be  acquainted 

with  these  "main  incidents,"  the  writer  of  the  ^'Remnrks 

47* 


746 


NOTfiS  TO  DON  JUAK. 


on  Don  Juan"  is  not,  or  he  woald  use  a  very  different 
biOguBge.  That  which  I  believe  he  alludes  to  as  a  ''main 
Incident/'  happened  to  be  a  very  subordinate  one,  and 
the  natural  and  almost  inevitable  oonseqaenoe  of  events 
and  circumstances  long  prior  to  the  period  at  which  it 
ooourred.  It  is  the  last  drop  which  makes  the  cup  run 
over,  and  mine  was  already  full.  —  But,  to  return  to  this 
man's  charge:  he  accuses  Lord  B,  of  "an  elaborate  satire 
on  the  character  and  manners  of  his  wife.''  From  what 
parts  of  Don  Juan  the  writer  has  inferred  this  he  himself 
ft^est  knows.  As  far  as  I  recollect  of  the  female  characters 
in  that  production,  there  is  but  one  who  is  depicted  in 
ridiculous  colours ,  or  that  eould  be  interpreted  as  a  satire 
upon  any  body.  But  here  my  poetical  sins  are  again 
visited  upon  mo,  supposing  that  the  poem  be  mine.  If  I 
depict  a  corsair,  a  misanthrope,  a  libertine,  a  chief  of 
insurgents,  or  an  infidel,  he  Is  set  down  to  the  author; 
and  if,  in  a  poem  by  no  meana  ascertained  to  be  my  pro- 
duction, there  appears  a  disagreeable,  casuisdcal,  and  by 
no  means  respectable  female  pedant,  it  is  set  down  for  my 
wife.  Is  there  any  resemblance!  If  there  be,  it  is  in  those 
who  make  it:  I  can  see  none.  In  my  writings  I  have 
rarely  described  any  character  under  a  fictitious  name: 
those  of  whom  I  have  spoken  have  had  their  own  —  In 
many  cases  a  strooger  satire  in  itself  than  any  which  eould 
be  appended  to  it  But  of  real  ciroumstanoes  I  have  avail- 
ed myself  plentiAiIly,  both  in  the  serious  and  the  ludi- 
crous ~  they  are  to  poetry  what  landscapes  are  to  the 
painter;  bat  my  JbpurtM  are  not  portraits.  It  may  even 
have  happened,  that  I  have  seised  on  some  events  that 
have  occurred  under  my  own  observation,  or  in  my  own 
femily,  as  I  would  paint  a  view  ftom  my  grounds,  did  it 
harmonise  with  my  picture;  but  I  never  would  introduoe 
the  likenesses  of  its  living  members,  unless  tbefar  features 
oonid  be  made  as  jEhvourable  to  themsel  v  es  as  to  the  eAlMst ; 
which,  In  theaboveinstanoe,  would  be  extremely  ditfioult 

My  learned  brother  proceeds  to  observe,  that  <*it  Is  in 
min  for  Lord  B.  to  attempt  in  any  way  to  Justify  his  own 
behaviour  in  that  affidr;  and  now  that  he  has  so  opwnly 
and  autUieifnufy  invited  enquiry  and  reproach,  we  do  not 
see  any  good  reason  why  be  should  not  be  plainly  told 
so  by  the  voice  of  his  countrymen."  How  Ht  the  'H>pen<' 
ness"  of  an  anonymous  poem,  and  the  'Audacity"  of  an 
imaginary  character,  which  the  writer  supposes  to  be 
meant  for  Lady  B.,  may  be  deemed  to  merit  this  formi- 
dabte  deaanoiation  from  their  '^most  sweet  voices,"  I 
neither  know  nor  oare;  but  when  he  tells  me  tiMt  I  can- 
not ''in  any  way/w^my  own  behavioar  in  that  ailair," 
I  aequiesoe,  because  no  man  can  '^'t»fi^  himself  until 
he  knows  of  what  he  is  accused;  and  I  have  never  had  •— 
and ,  God  knows,  my  whole  desire  has  ever  been  to  ob- 
tain it  *^  any  specific  chaige,  In  m  tangible  shape,  sub* 
.  mitted  tome  by  the  adversary,  nor  by  others,  unless  the 
atrocities  (^public  rumour  and  the  mysterious  silence  of 
the  lady's  1^1  advisers  BMiy  be  deemed  such.  Bat  is  not 
the  writer  content  with  what  has  been  already  said  and 
done?  Has  not  '*the  general  voice  of  his  countrymen'' 
long  ago  pronoottoed  upon  the  sobject— sentence  withoat 
trial,  and  condemnation  without  a  charge?  Have  I  not 
been  exiled  by  ostracism,  except  that  the  shells  which 
proscribed  me  were  anonymous?  Is  the  writer  q^orant  of 
tlie  public  opinion  and  the  public  oonduot  upon  that  oo- 
easion?  If  he  is,  I  am  not:  the  public  will  foiget  both,  long 
before  I  shall  cease  to  remember  either* 

The  man  who  is  exiled  by  a  fhction  has  the  consola- 
tion of  thinking  that  he  Is  a  martyr;  he  Is  upheld  by  hope 
andthedignity  of  his  cause,  real  or  imaginary:  he  who 
withdraws  fkywi  the  pressure  of  debt  may  indulge  In  the 
thought  that  time  and  prudenee  will  retrieve  his  dream- 
stances :  he  who  is  condemned  by  the  law,  has  a  term  to 
his  banishment,  or  a  dream  of  its  abbreviation ;  or,  it  may 
be,  the  knowledge  or  the  belief  of  some  injustioe  of  the 
law,  or  of  its  administration  in  his  own  particular;  but 
he  who  is  outlawed  by  general  opinion,  without  the  inter- 
veat&oQOfhostilepofitiea,lllegaljadgment^embarrassed 


circumstances,  whetlier  he  be  Innooent  or  guilty,  bmII 
undergo  all  the  bitterness  of  exile,  withoat  bope^  wilhoirt 
pride,  withoat  alleviation.  This  case  was  mine.  Dpei 
what  grounds  the  public  founded  their  a|»ioioii,J  amMI 
aware;  but  it  was  general,  and  it  was  dcoiaive.  Of  ma 
or  of  mine  they  knew  little,  except  that  I  bad  wtiMn 
what  is  called  poetry,  was  a  nobleman,  bad  married,  ta» 
came  a  father,  and  was  involved  in  differenoes  with  ay 
wife  and  her  relatives,  no  one  knew  why,  beoanae  tlie  p»» 
sons  complaining  refused  to  state  their  grievaoees.  The 
fashionable  world  was  divided  into  parties,  mine  eoa- 
sisting  of  a  very  small  minority:  the  reasonable  wmM 
was  naturally  on  the  stronger  side,  which  boppeacd  Id 
be  the  lady's,  as  was  most  proper  and  polite.  ThepMv 
was  active  and  scorrilous;  and  soch  was  the  rage  of  Ihe 
day,  that  the  unfortunate  puUioation  of  two  co(nes«f 
verses ,  rather  complimentary  than  otherwise  to  iht  sab- 
jects  of  both,  was  tortured  into  a  q>eote8  of  crim^  or  eoa« 
structive  petty  treason*  I  was  accused  of  every  moo* 
strousvice  by  public  rumour  and  private  ranoour:  nqr 
name,  which  had  been  a  knightly  or  a  noble  one  sinee  sij 
fathers  helped  to  conquer  the  kingdom  for  WiUiam  Ha 
Norman,  was  tainted,  I  felt  that,  if  what  was  whispcie^ 
and  mattered,  and  murmured,  was  trae»  I  was  o:^  Ibr 
England ;  if  fiilse,  England  was  unfit  for  me.  I  wiMieir: 
but  this  was  not  enough.  In  other  coantriea,  in  Switaer- 
Und,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Alps,  and  by  the  bioe  depth  «f 
the  lakes,  I  was  punned  and  breathed  opoa  by  the  suae 
blight  I  crossed  the  moantaiua,  but  it  was  tbe  aame;  so 
I  wenta  little  fhrtber,  and  settled  myself  by  tbe  wavfs  of 
the  AdrUtic,  like  the  stag  at  bay,  who  betakes  Um  to  Ihe 
waters. 

If  I  may  judge  by  the  stateanents  of  the  few  firiends  who 
gathered  round  me,  the  outcry  of  the  period  to  whiehl 
allude  was  beyond  all  precedent,  all  parallel,  even  in  Asm 
oases  where  political  motives  have  sharpened  siaader 
and  doubled  enmity.  I  was  advised  not  to  go  to  tbe  thai* 
tres,  lest  I  should  be  hissed,  nor  to  my  daty  InparfiaBKBl, 
lest  I  should  be  insalted  by  the  way;  even  on  the  di^et 
my  departure,  my  most  intimate  friend  told  aaeaflerwaidi^ 
that  he  was  under  apprehensions  of  violenoe  from  fin 
people  who  might  be  assembled  at  the  door  oftbecaniaieb 
However,  I  was  not  deterred  by  theseoonnseisfromsMjag 
Kean  in  his  best  characters,  nor  from  voting acooidng 
to  my  principles ;  and  with  rqj^ard  to  the  thir4aad  lasls^ 
prehensions  of  my  friends ,  I  ooold  not  share  in  tben,  ast 
being  made  acquainted  with  their  extent  till  somelimB 
after  I  had  crossed  the  Channel.  Even  aft  had  beensa,! 
am  not  of  a  nature  to  be  much  affected  by  Bnea'aaa^Vt 
though  I  may  fed  hurt  by  their  avetslonL  Againalaffla^ 
dividual  outrage,  i  could  protect  or  redress  myadf ;  sad 
against  that  of  a  crowd,  I  sbooid  probably  have  been  fna> 
bled  to  defendmyseU;  with  the  assislanoe  of  otbcn^  as  has 
b^ea  done  on  similar  oooasioBS. 

V  I  retiredfrom  theuountry,  perceiving  that  I  was  ftaob- 
jeot  of  general  obloquy;  I  did  not  indeed  Imagine,  fifce 
Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  that  all  mankind  was  in  aeon* 
spiracy  against  me,  thoagb  i  had  perhaps  as  goodganaril 
for  such  a  chimera  as  ever  he  had:  bat  I  pereeh^  flail 
had  to  a  great  extent  bcaome  pcrsooally  obnoxinaili 
England,  perhaps  through  my  own  fhult,  bwt  the  JbsfM 
indisputable;  the  paUte  in  general  would  bardBf  hm 
been  so  maoh  excited  agaiast  a  more  popular  thaiiin, 
withoat  at  least  an  aocosation  or  a  chaige  of  nnwm  iW 
actually  expressed  or  substantiated ,  for  I  can  ImV 
eonoeive  that  the  common  and  every-day  nrmiinanarf 
a  separation  between  man  and  wifie  eonid  in  Maff 
produce  so  great  a  ferment  I  shall  aay  MMbisv^-^ 
asual  comphiints  of  ^bcing  preiadged  ,"* 
unheard,"  ««aafiuroess,"  «<p«rtiality,"  and  m 
the  usual  changes  rmig  by  parties  who  have  bad, 
to  have,  a  trial;  but  I  was  a  Utde  ampiiacd  to  fttffl^ 
self  condemned  withoat  betng  fiivoared  wdlb  tbe«^«f 
accusation,  and  to  perceive  in  tbe  absenoa  of  Ais  portnub 
o«s  chaige  or  ehttges,  iriMtever  it  or  tbay  wcint»l% 


MOTBS  TO  DON  JUAN. 


747 


101  every  poitlble  or  impOMible  crime  wea  nmKwred 
>  wppiy  itsplaoe^and  taken  for  gnuited.  This  could  only 
ecar  ID  the  case  of  a  person  very  macb  disliked,  and  I 
new  DO  remedy,  having  already  used  to  their  extent 
rbalever  little  powers  I  mi^ht  possess  of  pleasing  in  sO' 
kty.  1  had  no  party  in  fiuhion,  thongh  I  was  afterwards 
M  that  there  was  one— but  it  was  not  of  my  formadon, 
or  did  1  then  know  of  its  existence—none  in  literature; 
nd  in  poUticsIhad  voted  with  the  Whigs ,  with  precisely 
bat  importance  which  a  Whig  vote  possesses  in  these 
'ory  days,  and  with  such  personal  acquaintance  with 
be  leaders  in  both  houses  as  the  society  in  which  I  lived 
anctionedf  but  without  claim  or  expectation  of  any  thing 
ike  friendship  from  any  one,  except  a  few  young  men  of 
By  own  age  and  standing,  and  a  few  others  more  advanc- 
d  in  life,  which  last  it  had  been  my  fortune  to  serve  incir- 
vmstances  of  difficulty.  This  was, in  fact,  to  standalone: 
nd  I  recollect,  some  time  after,  Madame  de  Sta'elsaid to 
nein  Switzerland,  ''You  should  not  have  warred  with  the 
rorld— it  will  not  do— it  is  too  strong  always  for  any  in- 
fividual :  I  myself  once  tried  it  in  early  life,  but  it  will  not 
\oJ'  I  pcarfecUy  acquiesce  in  the  truth  of  this  remark;  but 
he  world  had  done  me  the  honour  to  begin  the  war;  and, 
issnrediy,  if  peace  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  courting  and 
laying  tribute  to  it,  I  am  not  qualiiied  to  obtain  its  coun- 
enaiiQe.  I  thought,  in  the  words  of  Campbell, 
"Then  wed  thee  to  an  exiled  lot; 
And  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not. 
Its  absence  may  be  borne." 

Ireoolleet,  however,  tba^  having  been  much  hart  by 
lomiUy's  conduct,  (he,  having  a  general  retainer  for  me, 
tad  acted  as  adviser  to  the  adversary,  alleging,  on  being 
VBunded  of  his  retainer ,  that  he  had  forgotten  it,  as  his 
Jerk  had  so  many,)  I  observed  that  some  of  those  who 
cere  now  eagerly  laying  the  axe  to  my  roof-tree,  might 
lee  their  own  shaken,  and  feel  a  portion  of  what  they  bad 
nOicted.-- His  fell,  and  crushed  him. 

1  have  heard  of,  and  believe^  that  there  are  human  Innings 
10  eooaiituted  as  to  be  insensible  to  injuries;  but  I  believe 
hat  the  best  mode  to  avoid  taking  vengeance  is  to  get  out 
if  the  way  of  temptation.  1  hope  that  I  may  never  have 
he  o|H?ortunity ,  for  1  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  could  re- 
isi  it»  having  derived  from  my  mother  something  of  the 
'p^ifgrvidum  ingembtm  SeotarumJ'  I  have  not  sought, 
nd  ahall  not  seek  it»  and  perhaps  it  may  never  come  in 
^y  path.  1  do  not  in  this  allude  to  the  party,  who  might 
le  ngbt  or  wrong;  but  to  many  who  made  her  cause  the 
wvtext  of  their  own  bitterness*  8he,  indeed,  must  have 
QOg  avenged  me  in  her  own  feelings;  for  whatever  her 
casoBS  may  have  been  (and  she  never  adduced  them  to 
■e  at  least),  she  probably  neither  contemplated  nor  oon- 
lelved  to  what  she  became  the  means  of  conducting  the 
ather  of  her  child,  and  the  husband  of  her  choice. 

So  mueh  for  '^the  general  voice  of  liis  countrymen  :*'  I 
vUl  jiow  speak  of  some  in  particular. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1817,  an  article  appeared 
a  the  Quarterly  Beview,  written,  I  believe,  by  Walter 
leott,  doing  great  honoor  to  him ,  and  no  disgrace  to  me, 
hoagb  both  poetically  and  personally  more  than  suffi- 
ileiilly  favourable  to  the  work  and  the  author  of  whom  it 
naled.  It  was  written  at  a  time  when  aselfish  man  would 
loty  anda  timid  one  dared  not,  have  saida  word  in  ihvour 
{father;  it  was  written  by  one  to  whom  temporary  pub* 
ID  opinion  had  elevated  me  to  therank  of  a  rival— a  proud 
Ba<inotioB,  and  unmerited;  but  which  has  not  prevented 
■e  from  feeling  as  a  friend,  nor  him  from  more  than  cor* 
e^ponding  to  that  sentiment  The  article  in  question  was 
Viittea  upon  the  Thfrd  Canto  of  Childe  Harold ;  and  after 
nany  observations, whiohitwouldas  ill  beoomeme  to  re* 
leat  as  to  forged  concluded  with  "a  hope  that  I  might  yet 
«tam  to  Bnglaad."  How  tliis  expression  was  receivedin 
Bsglanditself  lamaotanqnainted,  butitgavegreatoffence 
itBome  to  the  respectable  ten  or  twenty  thousand  English 
vweilers  thenand  there  assembled.  I  did  not  visit  Rome 
illMflietimeafleryfoth^tlhadttOopportaaity  of  knowing 


theftet;  bat  I  wMinfomiedJoflt afterwards,  tetOegreat* 
est  indignation  had  been  manifested  in  the  enlightened 
Anglo -cirde  of  that  year,  which  happened  to  comprise 
withinit--amidst  aoonsiderable leaven  of  Welbnsk  Street 
and  J>evottsbire  Place,  broken  loose  upon  their  travds— ^ 
several  really  well-born  and  well-bred  families,  who  did 
not  the  less  participate  in  the  fisding  of  the  hour.  "  \¥hf 
should  he  return  to  £ngbmdr  was  the  general  exelama- 
tion— I  answer  wk^ft  It  is  a  question  I  have  occasionally 
asked  myself,  and  I  never  yet  could  give  it  a  satisi^ory 
reply.  I  had  then  no  thoughts  of  returning,  and  if  I  have 
any  now,  they  areof  business,  and  not  of  pleasure.  Amidst 
the  ties  that  have  been  dashed  to  pieces ,  tliere  are  links 
yet  entire,  thoiightbe  chain  itself  be  broken.  There  are 
duties,  andconnectioas,  which  may  one  day  require  my 
presence—and  I  am  a  fiither.  I  have  still  some  friends 
whom  I  wish  to  meet  again,  and  it  may  be,  an  enemy. 
These  things,  and  those  minuter  details  of  business,  which 
time  accumulates  during  absence.  In  every  man's  affairs 
and  property,  may,  and  probably  will,  recall  me  io  Eng. 
Und;  but  I  shall  return  with  the  same  feelings  with  which 
I  left  it,  in  respect  to  itself,  though  altered  with  regard  to 
individuals,  as  I  have  been  more  or  less  infbrmed  of  their 
oonductsincemy  departure;  for  it  was  only  aeonsiderable 
time  after  it  that  I  was  made  acquainted  with  the  real 
facts  and  full  extent  of  some  of  their  proceedings  and  lan- 
guage. My  friends,  like  other  friends,  from  oonciliatory 
motives,  withheld  from  me  much  that  they  could,  and 
some  things  which  they  $hwld  have  unfolded;  however, 
that  which  is  deferred  is  not  lost—  but  it  has  l^n  no  fault 
of  mine  that  it  has  been  deferred  at  all. 

I  have  alluded  to  what  is  said  to  have  passed  at  Rome^ 
merely  to  show  that  the  sentiment  which  I  have  described 
was  not  confined  to  the  English  in  England  and,  as  form- 
ing part  of  my  answer  to  the  reproach  east  upon  what  has 
been  called  my  **selfish  eiaXe"  and  my  "voluntary  exile." 
'^  Voluntary"  it  has  been;  for  who  would  dwell  among  a 
people  entertaining  strong  hostility  against  him?  How  far 
it  has  been  "selfish"  has  been  already  explained. 

I  hare  now  arrived  at  a  passage  describing  me  as  having 
vented  my  "spleen  i^inst  the  lofty-minded  and  virtuous 
men,"  men  "whose  virtues  few  indeed  can  equal;"  mean- 
ing, 1  humbly  presume,  the  notorious  triumvirate  known 
by  the  name  of  "Lake  Poets"  in  their  aggregate  capacity, 
and  by  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  when  taken 
singly.  I  wish  to  say  a  word  or  two  upon  tlie  virtoes  of 
one  of  those  persons,  public  and  private^  for  reasons  which 
will  soon  appear. 

WbenllefiEngland  in  April,  1816,  ill  innund,  hibody, 
and  in  circumstances,  I  took  up  my  residence  at  Coligay, 
by  the  lakeof  Geneva.  The  sole  companion  of  my  journey 
was  a  young  physician,  who  had  to  make  his  way  in  tlie 
world,  and  having  seen  very  little  of  it,  was  naturally  and 
laudably  desirous  of  seeing  more  societv  than  suited  my 
present  habits  or  my  past  experience.  I  therefore  present- 
ed him  to  those  ^ntlemca  of  Geneva  for  whom  I  had  let- 
ters of  introduction ;  and  having  thus  seen  him  in  a  sitoa- 
tion  to  make  his  own  way  ^  retired  for  my  own  part  en- 
tirely from  society,  with  the  exception  of  one  English  fa- 
mily, living  at  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile's  distance  from 
DiocUiti,  and  with  the  further  exception  of  some  occasional 
intercourse  withCoppet,at  the  wish  of  Madame  de  StaeL 
The  English  family  to  which  I  allude  consisted  of  two  la- 
dies, a  gentleman  and  his  son,  a  boy  of  a  year  old. 

One  of  "Me#«  Irfty-mindtd  and  virhunu  nun/'  in  the 
words  of  the  Edinburgh  Magazine,  made,  I  understand, 
about  this  time,  or  soon  after,  a  tour  in  Switzerland.  On 
his  return  to  Eogkind  be  circulated— and  for  any  thing  I 
know ,  invented  —  a  report,  that  the  gentleman  to  whom 
I  have  alluded  and  myself  were  living  in  promiscuous  in- 
tercourse with  two  sisters,  "having  formed  a  league  of  in- 
cest" (I  quote  the  words  as  they  were  stated  to  me) ,  and 
indulged  himself  in  the  natural  comments  upon  such  a 
conjunction,  which  are  said  to  have  been  repeated  public- 
ly^  with  great  comphicencyy  by  anotkn-  of  that  poetical 


748 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


ffftternitjr,  of  whom  I  shall  say  only,  that  even  had  the 
story  been  trae,  he  should  not  have  repeated  it,  as  for  as 
itreg:arded  myself,  except  in  sorrow.  The  tale  itself  re- 
qnires  bat  a  word  in  answer — ^the  ladies  were  noi  sisters, 
nor  in  any  degree  connected,  except  by  the  second  mar- 
riage of  their  respective  parents,  a  widower  with  a  widow, 
both  being  the  offspring  of  former  marriages ;  neither  of 
them  were,  in  1816,  nineteen  years  old.  '^Promiscuous 
intercourse*'  could  hardly  have  disgusted  the  great  pa- 
tron of  pantisocracy ,  (does  Mr.  Southey  remember  such 
a  scheme?)  but  there  was  none. 

How  far  this  man,  who,  as  author  of  Wat  Tyler,  has 
been  proclaimed  by  the  Lord  Chancellor  guilty  of  a  trea- 
sonable and  blasphemous  libel,  and  denounced  in  the 
House  of  Commons ,  by  the  upright  and  able  member  for 
Norwich,  as  a  '^rancorous  renegado,"  be  fit  for  sitting 
as  a  judge  upon  others,  let  others  judge.  He  has  said  that 
for  this  expression  **hc  brands  William  Smith  on  the  fore- 
head as  a  calumniator,"  and  that '*the  mark  will  outlast 
his  epitaph.''  How  long  William  Smith's  epitaph  will 
last,  and  in  what  words  it  will  be  written,  1  know  not;  but 
William  Smith's  words  fdrm  the  epitaph  itself  of  Robert 
Southey.  He  has  written  Wat  Tyler,  and  taken  the  office 
of  poet  laureate— he  has,  in  the  Life  of  Henry  Kirke  White, 
denominated  reviewing  ^Hhe  ungentle  craft,"  and  has  be- 
come a  reviewer— he  was  one  of  the  projectors  of  a  scheme, 
called  "pantisocracy,"  for  having  all  things,  including 
women,  in  common >  {query,  common  women?)  and  he 
sets  up  as  a  moralist— he  denounced  the  battle  of  Blen- 
heim ,  and  he  praised  the  battle  of  Waterloo— he  loved 
Mary  Wollstoncraft,  and  he  tried  to  blast  the  citaracter  of 
her  daughter  (one  of  the  young  females  mentioned)— he 
wrote  treason,  and  serves  the  king— he  was  the  butt  of  the 
Anti-jacobin,  and  he  is  the  prop  of  the  Quarterly  Review; 
licking  the  hands  that  smote  him ,  eating  the  bread  of  his 
cnemies,and  internally  writhing  beneath  his  own  contempt 
—  he  would  fain  conceal,  under  anonymous  bluster,  and 
a  vain  endeavour  to  obtain  the  esteem  of  others,  after  hav- 
ing for  ever  lost  his  own,  his  leprous  sense  of  his  own  degra- 
dation. What  is  there  in  such  a  man  to  "envy?"  Whoef  er 
envied  the  envious?  Is  it  his  birth,  bis  name,  his  fiune,  or 
his  virtues,  that  1  am  to  "envy?"  I  was  born  of  the  aristo- 
cracy, which  he  abhorred;  and  am  sprung,  by  my  mother, 
from  the  kings  who  preceded  those  whom  be  has  hired  him- 
self to  sing.  It  cannot,  then,  be  his  birth.  As  a  poet,  I  have, 
for  the  past  eight  years,  had  nothing  to  appprehend  from  a 
competition ;  and  for  the  future,  "that  life  to  come  in  every 
poet's  creed,"  it  is  open  to  alL  I  will  only  remind  Mr. 
Southey,  in  the  words  of  a  critic,  who,  if  still  living,  would 
haveannihilatedSouthey's  literary  existence  now  and  here- 
after, as  the  sworn  foe  of  charlatans  and  impostors ,  from 
Macphcrson  downwards,  that  "those  dreams  were  Settle's 
once  and  Ogilby's;"  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  assure  him, 
that  whenever  he  and  his  sect  are  remembered ,  I  shall  be 
proud  to  be  "forgot."  That  he  is  not  content  with  his  suc- 
cess as  a  poet  may  reasonably  be  believed— he  has  been 
the  nine-pin  of  reviews ;  the  Edinburgh  knocked  him  down, 
and  the  Quarterly  set  him  up;  the  government  found  him 
nseful  in  the  periodical  line,  and  made  a  point  of  recom- 
mending his  works  to  purchasers,  so  that  he  is  occasional- 
ly bought,  (I  mean  his  books,  as  well  as  tlie  author,)  and 
may  be  found  on  the  same  shelf,  if  not  upon  the  table,  of 
most  of  the  gentlemen  employed  in  the  different  offices. 
With  regard  to  his  private  virtues ,  I  know  nothing — of 
his  principles,  I  have  heard  enough.  AsiWr  as  having  been, 
to  the  best  of  my  power,  benevolent  to  others,  I  do  not  fear 
thecompariison;  and  for  the  errors  of  the  passions ,  was 
Air.  Southey  alwayt  so  tranquil  and  stainless  ?  Did  be 
never  covet  his  neighbour's  wife?  Did  he  never  calum- 
niate his  neighbour's  wife's  daughter,  the  offspring  of 
her  he  coveted?  So  much  for  the  apostle  of  pantisocracy. 

Of  the  "lofty -minded,  virtuous"  Wordsworth,  one 
anecdote  will  suffice  to  speak  his  sincerity.  In  a  conver- 
sation with  Mr. upon  poetry,  heconcluded  with,  "Af- 
ter all>  I  would  not  give  five  sliiUings  f6r  all  that  Sonthey 


has  «ver  written."  Perhapji  tMs  ealenlatioa  i 

sliow  his  esteem  for  five  shillings  tlian  his  low  < 

Dr.  Southey ;  but  considering  that  wheo  be  ^ 

need .  and  Southey  had  a  shilling,  WordaworHi  is  said  fa 

have  had  generally  sixpence  oat  of  it ,  it  has  an  awkmd 

sound  in  the  way  of  valuation.  This  ancodote  was  laid 

me  by  persons  who,  if  quoted  by  name,  would  prove  that 

its  genealogy  is  poetical  as  well  as  true.  I  can  give  aqr 

authority  for  this ;  and  am  ready  to  adduce  it  also  fiir 

Mr.  Southey's  circulation  of  the  falsehood  lielbre  mea- 

tioned. 

Of  Coleridge,  I  shall  say  nothing—wAy,  he  naydiviae. 

I  have  said  more  of  these  people  than  I  intended  ia  tUs 
^laoe,  being  somewhat  stirred  by  the  reoMuto  which  la- 
duced  me  to  commence  upon  the' topic.  I  aee  notbiagiB 
these  men  as  poets,  or  as  individuals— little  in  theirlalenls, 
and  less  in  their  characters,  to  prevent  honeat  men  frma 
expressing  for  them  considerable  contempt,  ia  prooeor 
rhyme,  as  it  may  happen.  Mr.  Soatfaey  baa  the  Qmrlerly 
for  his  field  of  rejoinder,  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  his  post- 
scripts to  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  where  the  two  great  iastaa- 
ces  of  the  sublime  are  taken  from.  hinaselT  and  Ifiltoa. 
"Over  her  own  sweet  voice  the  stockdove  broods;"  tint  is 
to  say,  she  has  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  herself  in  oo 
mon  with  Mr.  Wordsworth  upon  most  of  his  pnbiie  i 
pearanoes.  "What  divinity  doth  hedge"  these  petsoas. 
that  we  should  respect  them?  Is  it  Apollo?  Are  they  not 
of  those  who  called  Dryden's  Ode  '^dmaken  song  r  who 
have  discovered  that  Gray's  Elegy  is  fall  of  faolts,  (see 
Coleridge's  Life,  vol.  i.  note, for  Wordsworth's  icyMlaf— 
in  pointing  this  out  to  him,)  and  have  pabiished  what  ii 
allowed  to  be  the  very  worst  prose  that  ever  was  writlea, 
to  prove  that  Pope  was  no  poet,  and  tliat  William  Words- 
worth is? 

y  In  other  points,  are  they  respectable,  or  respected?  Is 
^it  on  the  open  avowal  of  apostasy,  on  the  patronage  of 
government,  that  their  claim  is  founded?  Who  k  there 
w  bo  esteems  those  parricides  of  their  own  principles  ?  They 
are,  in  fact,  well  aware  that  the  reward  of  their  ^aagefcn 
been  any  tiling  but  honour.  The  times  have  preserved  a 
respect  for  political  consistency,  and,  even  thoughcfaange- 
able,  honour  the  unchanged.  Look  at  Moore:  it  irillhe 
long  ere  Southey  meets  with  sncli  a  triumph  in  Loadea 
as  Moore  met  witii  in  Dublin,  even  if  tliegovenmentsnb- 
scribe  for  it,  and  set  the  money  down  to  secret  servioe.  II 
was  not  less  to  the  man  than  to  the  poet,  to  the  leaq^ted 
but  unshaken  patriot,  to  thenotopulentbut  inoorraptUiie 
fellow-citizen,  that  the  warmhearted  Irish  paidlhe|Nroad- 
est  of  tributes.  Mr.  Southey  may  applaud  himsdf  to  the 
world,  but  he  has  t>is  own  heartiest  contempt;  and  the 
fury  with  which  he  foams  against  all  who  stand  in  the  pha- 
lanx which  he  forsook,  is,  as  William  Smith  described  it, 
"the  rancour  of  theren^^do,"  Uie  bad  language  of  te 
prostitute  who  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and 
showers  her  shing  upon  all  except  those  who  aiay  haw 
bestowed  upon  her  her  "little  shilling." 

Hence  his  quarterly  overflowings,  political  and  fitemy, 
in  what  he  has  himself  termed  "thenngentie  cniSi^miA 
his  especial  wrath  against  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  notwitMaatf- 
ing  that  Hunt  has  done  more  for  Wordswor^'s  repaii- 
tion,  as  a  poet  (such  as  it  is), than  all  the  Lakers  oaahlk 
their  interchange  of  self-praises  for  the  last  twea^p-five 
years. 

A  nd  herel  wish  to  say  a  few  words  on  die  preaeatsMesf 
Bnglish  poetry.  That  this  is  the  ageof  tiM  dediae  of  fll^- 
lish  poetry  will  be  doubted  by  few  who  have  calarigreoaah 
dered  the  subject  That  thereare  men  of  genhia  anioi^tk 
present  poets  makes  little  against  the  &ct,  becanseiliai 
been  well  said,  that  "next  to  him  who  fbrms  thetasls«f 
his  country,  the  greatest  genius  is  he  whocorraplsiL* 
No  one  has  ever  denied  genius  to  Marino,  who  loui^piii 
not  merely  the  taste  of  Italy,  but  that  of  all  JBare|ialhi 
nearly  a  century.  The  great  cause  of  the  preseat  Apfc 
rable  state  of  English  poetry  is  to  be  attrihoted  to  tlMtah- 
siird  and  systematie  depredatioo  of  Pope,  in  vtUdi,lar 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


749 


he  iMtlbw  yc«n,tlicrehB»beenakiBdof  epidemiMloQB* 
nrreiioe.  Meo  of  the  most  opposite  opinions  have  united 
Ipon  this  topic  Warton  and  Churohili  began  it,  having 
lorrowed  the  hint  probably  from  the  heroes  of  the  Don- 
lady  and  their  own  internal  oonviotion  that  their  proper 
q>Btation  can  be  as  nothing  till  the  most  perfect  and  bar- 
■oaious  of  poets^he  who,  having  no  fiialt,  has  had  rba- 
ON  made  iiis  reproach  —  was  reduced  to  what  they  con* 
eived  to  be  his  level;  but  even  tke^  dared  not  degrade 
Am.  below  Dryden*  Goldsmith,  and  Rogers,  and  Camp- 
iell,his  most  socoessfol  disciples;  and  Hay  ley,  who,how- 
jver  feeble,  has  left  onepoem  '<that  will  not  be  willingly 
Bt  die''  (the  Triumphs  of  Temper),  kept  up  the  reputa- 
boa  of  that  pure  and  perfect  style;  and  Crabbe ,  the  first 
if  living  poets,  hasalmostequalledthemaster.  Then  came 
)arwin,  who  was  put  down  by  a  single  poem  in  the  Anti- 
■eobin;  and  theCruscans,  from  Merry  to  Jerningham, 
vho  were  annihilated  (if  Nothing  can  be  said  to  be  anni- 
itlated)  by  Giflford,  the  last  of  the  wholesome  satirists. 

At  the  same  timeMr.Sonthey  was  favouring  tiie  public 
f  ith  Wat  Tyler  and  Joan  of  Arc,  to  the  great  glory  of  the 
Drama  and  Epos.  I  b^  pardon,  Wat  Tyler,  with  Peter 
Sell,  was  still  in  MS.,  and  it  was  not  till  after  Mr.  Soutliey 
lad  received  his  Malmsey  butt,  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  be- 
•ame  qualified  to  gauge  it,  that  the  great  revolutionary 
ragedy  came  before  the  public  and  the  Court  of  Chancery. 
KVords  worth  was  peddling  bis  lyrical  ballads,  and  brood- 
Bg  a  prefece,  to  be  succeeded  in  due  course  by  a  post- 
icnpt;  both  couched  in  such  prose  as  must  give  peculiar 
leHght  to  tliose  who  have  read  the  prefaces  of  Pope  and 
[Iryden;  scarcely  less  celebrated  for  the  beauty  of  their 
Hpose,  than  for  the  charms  of  their  verse.  Wordsworth  is 
he  reverse  of  Moli^re's gentleman  who  had  been  '^talking 
iroseall  his  life,  without  knowing  it;''  for  he  thinks  that 
lebas  been  all  his  life  writing  both  prose  and  verse,  and 
leither  of  what  he  conceives  to  be  such  can  be  properly 
aid  to  be  either  oneor  the  other.  Mr.  Coleridge,  the  future 
(cfM,  poet  and  seer  of  the  Morning  Post,  (an  honour  also 
lainied  by  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  of  the  "Rejected  Addresses," 
vho  ultimately  prophesied  the  downfall  of  Buonaparte, 
o  which  he  him«elf  mainly  contributed,  by  giving  him  the 
uckname  of  ^ the  Cornean,"  vt?a  then  employed  in  predi- 
sating  the  damnation  of  Mr.  Pitt,  and  the  desolation  of 
Bngland,  in  the  two  very  best  copies  of  verses  he  ever 
Nrrote:  to  wit,  the  infernal  eclogue  of  '^Fire,  Famine,  and 
Slaughter,"  and  the  '*Ode  to  the  departing  Year." 

These  three  personages,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and 
Coleridge,  had  all  of  them  a  very  natural  antipathy  to 
Pope;  and  1  respect  them  for  it,  as  the  only  original  feeling 
nr  principle  which  they  haveoontrived  to  preserve.  But 
iiey  have  been  joined  in  it  by  thosewho  have  joined  them 
A  nothing  else ;  by  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers ,  by  the 
irhole heterogeneous  mass  of  living  Englishpoets,except- 
iig Crabbe, Rogers,  Giflbrd,  and  Campbell,  who,  both 
ly  precept  and  practice,  have  proved  their  adherence;  and 
>y  me,  who  have  shamefully  deviated  in  practice,  but  have 
nrer  loved  and  honoured  Pope's  poetry  with  my  whole 
K)ul,  and  hope  to  do  so  till  my  dying  day.  I  would  rather 
lee  all  I  have  ever  written  lining  the  same  trunk  in  which 
E  actually  read  the  eleventii  book  of  a  modern  epic  poem 
It  Malta,  in  1811,  (I  opened  it  to  take  out  a  change  after 
iie  paroxysm  of  a  tertian,  in  the  absence  of  my  servant, 
ind  found  it  lin^  with  thenameof  the  maker,  Byre,  Cock- 
ipur  Street,  and  with  the  epicpoetry  alluded  to,)  than  sa- 
nrifice  what  I  firmly  believe  in  as  the  Christianity  of  Eng- 
iiab  poetry,  the  poetry  of  Pope. 

But  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  and  the  Lakers,  and 
Bunt  and  his  school,  and  every  body  cbe  with  their 
inhool,  and  even  Moore  without  a  school,  and  dilettanti 
lecturers  at  institutions ,  and  elderly  genUemen  who 
translate  and  imitate,  and  young  ladies  who  listen  and 
repeat,  baronets  who  draw  indifi'erent  frontispieces  for 
bad  poets,  and  noblemen  who  let  them  dine  with  them  in 
the  oountry,  the  small  body  of  the  wits  and  the  great  body 
of  the  blues,  have  latterly  united  in  a  depreciation,  of 


wMeb  diek  ftthers  would  have  been  as  ] 
as  their  children  will  be.  In  the  mean  time,  what  have 
we  got  instead 7  The  Lake  sehool,  which  begun  with 
an  epio  poem,  ''written  in  six  weeks"  (so  Joan  of  Arc 
proebiimed  herself),aad  finished  with  a  ballad  composed 
in  twenty  years,  as  ''Peter  Bell's"  creator  takes  care  to 
inform  the  few  who  will  enquire.  What  have  we  got  in- 
stead? A  deluge  of  flimsy  and  unintelligible  romances, 
imitated  from  Scott  and  myself,  who  have  both  made  the 
best  of  our  bad  materials  and  erroneous  system.  What 
have  we  got  instead  ?  Madoc,  which  is  neither  an  epio  nor 
any  thing  else;  Thalaba,  Kchama,  Gebir,  and  such  gib- 
berish, written  in  all  metres  and  in  no  language.  Hunt, 
who  had  powers  to  have  made  ''the  Story  of  I&mini"  as 
perfect  as  a  fable  of  Dryden,  has  thought  fit  to  sacrifice 
his  genius  and  his  taste  to  some  unintelligible  notions  of 
Wordsworth,  which  1  defy  him  to  explain.  Moore  has — 
>  But  why  continue  ?  —  All ,  with  the  exception  of 
Crabbe,  Rogers ,  and  Campbell ,  who  may  be  considered 
as  having  taken  their  station,  will,  by  tiie  blessing  of  God, 
survive  their  own  reputation,  without  attaining  any  very 
extraordinary  period  of  longevity.  Of  course  there  must 
be  a  still  further  exception  in  favour  of  thosewho,  having 
never  obtained  any  reputation  at  all,  unless  it  be  among 
provincial  literati ,  and  their  own  families,  have  none  to 
lose;  and  of  Moore,  who,  as  the  Burns  of  Ireland*  pos- 
sesses a  fame  which  cannot  be  lost 

The  greater  part  of  the  poets  mentioned,  however,  have 
been  able  to  gatlier  together  a  few  followers.  A  paper  of 
tiic  Connoisseur  says,  that  *'it  is  observed  by  the  Freneh, 
that  a  cat,  a  priest,  and  an  old  woman,  are  sufficient  to 
constitute  a  religious  sect  in  England."  The  same  num- 
ber of  animals,  with  some  difference  in  kind,  will  suffice 
for  a  poetical  one.  If  we  take  Sir  George  Beaumont  in- 
stead of  the  priest,  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  for  the  old  wo- 
man, we  shall  nearly  complete  the  quota  required ;  but  I 
fear  that  Mr.  Southey  will  but  indifferently  represent  the 
CAT,  having  shown  himself  but  too  distinctly  to  be  of  a 
species  to  which  that  noble  creature  is  peculiarly  hostile. 

Nevertheless,!  will  not  go  so  far  as  Wordsworth  in  his 
postscript,  who  peteods  that  no  great  poet  ever  had  im- 
mediate fame;  which  being  interpreted,  means  that 
William  Wordsworth  is  not  ^uite  so  much  read  by  his 
cotemporaries  as  might  be  desurable.  This  assertion  is  as 
false  as  it  is  foolish.  Homer's  glory  depended  upon  bis 
present  popularity:  he  recited,  >-  and,  without  the 
strongest  impression  of  the  moment,  who  would  have 
gotten  the  Iliad  by  heart,  and  given  it  to  tradition?  £n- 
nius,  Terence,  Plautus,  Lucretius,  Horace,  Virgil,  /Eschy- 
lus,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  Sappho,  Anacreon,  Theo- 
critus, all  the  great  poets  of  antiquity,  were  the  delight 
of  their  cotemporaries.  The  very  existence  of  a  poct,pre- 
vious  to  the  invention  of  printing,  depended  upon  his 
present  popularity;  and  how  often  has  it  impaired  his 
future  fame?  Hardly  ever.  History  informs  us,  that  the 
best  have  come  down  to  us.  The  reason  is  evident:  the 
most  popular  found  the  greatest  number  of  transcribers 
for  their  MSS.;  and  that  the  taste  of  their  cotemporaries 
was  corrupt  can  hardly  be  avouched  by  the  moderns,  the 
mightiest  of  whom  have  but  barely  approached  them. 
Dante,Petrarch,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso,  were  all  the  darlings 
of  the  cotcmporary  reader.  Dante's  Poem  was  celebrated 
long  before  his  death;  and,  not  long  after  it,  States  ne- 
gotiated for  his  ashes,  and  disputed  for  the  sites  of  the 
composition  of  the  Divina  Commedia.  Petrarch  was 
crowned  in  the  CapitoL  Ariosto  was  permitted  to  pass 
free  by  the  public  robber  who  had  read  the  Orlando  Fu- 
rioso.  I  would  not  recommend  Mr.  Wordsworth  to  try 
the  same  experiment  with  his  Smugglers.  Tasso,  not- 
withstanding the  criticisms  of  the  Cruscanti,  would  have 
been  crowned  in  the  Capitol,  but  for  his  death. 

It  is  easy  to  prove  the  immediate  popularity  of  the  chief 
poets  of  the  only  modern  nation  in  Europe  tiiat  has  a 
poetical  language,  the  Italian.  In  ourown,Shakspeare, 
Spenser >  Jonson,  Walkr,  Dryden,  Congreve,  Pope, 


750 


NOTBB  TO  DON  JUAN* 


Young,  Skeastoae,  Thomson,  JohMoa,  Goldsmitb,  Gny, 
vhcrc  ail  as  popular  in  their  lives  u  since.  Grajr's  Ekgy 
pleased  instantly,  and  eternally.  His  Odes  did  not,  nor 
yet  do  they,  please  like  his  Elegy.  Milton's  politics  kept 
him  down.  But  the  Epigram  (k  Dryden,  and  the  very 
sale  of  his  work,  in  proportion  to  the  less  reading  time  of 
Its  publieation,  prove  him  to  have  been  honoured  by  his 
cotcmporarles.  I  will  venture  to  assert,  that  the  sale  of 
the  Paradise  Lost  was  greater  in  the  first  four  years  after 
its  publication,  than  that  of  ''The  Excursion"  in  the  same 
number,  with  the  difference  of  nearly  a  century  and  a  half 
between  them  of  time,  and  of  thousands  in  point  of  general 
readers.  Notwithstanding  Mr.  Wordsworth's  having 
pressed  Milton  into  his  service  as  one  of  those  not  pre- 
sently popular,  to  favour  his  own  purpose  of  proving  that 
our  grandchildren  will  read  kim  (the  said  William  Words- 
worth), I  would  recommend  him  to  begin  first  with  our 
grandmothers.  But  he  need  not  be  alarmed;  he  may  yet 
live  -to  see  all  the  envies  pass  away ,  as  Darwin  and 
Seward,  and  Hoole,  and  Hole,  and  Hoyle  have  passed 
away;  bnt  their  declension  will  not  be  his  ascension: 
he  is  essentially  a  bad  writer ,  and  all  the  foilures  of 
otiicrs  can  never  strengthen  him.  He  may  have  a  sect, 
but  he  will  never  have  a  public;  and  his  ^tmdience*' 
will  always  be  ^few,"  without  bebg  'J/»,"  —  except 
for  Bedlam. 

It  may  be  asked,  why,  having  this  opinion  of  the  pre^ 
sent  state  of  poetry  in  England,  and  having  had  it  long, 
as  my  friends  and  others  well  knew— possessing,or  having 
possessed  too,  as  a  writer,  the  ear  of  the  public  for  the 
time  being  —  I  have  not  adopted  a  different  plan  in  my 
own  compositions,  and  endeavoured  to  correct  rather 
tlian  encourage  the  taste  of  the  day.  To  this  I  would  an- 
swer ,that  it  is  easier  to  perceive  the  wrong  than  to  pursue 
the  right,  and  that  I  have  never  contemplated  the  prospect 
<^of  filling  (with  Peter  Bell,  see  its  Preface)  permanently 
a  station  in  the  literature  of  the  country.''  Those  who 
know  me  best,  know  this,  and  that  I  have  been  consider- 
ably astonished  at  the  temporary  success  of  my  works, 
having  flattered  no  person  and  no  party,  and  expressed 
opinions  which  are  not  those  of  tbegeneral  reader.  Could 
I  Iwve  anticipated  the  degree  of  attention  which  has  been 
accorded  me,  assuredly  I  would  have  studied  more  to 
deserve  it  But  1  liave  lived  in  far  countries  abroad,  or  in 
the  agitating  world  at  home,  which  was  not  fovourable  to 
study  or  reflection ;  so  that  almost  all  I  have  written  has 
been  mere  passion,  ->  passion,  it  is  true,  of  different  kinds, 
but  always  passion ;  for  in  me  (if  it  be  not  an  Irishism  to 
say  so)  my  indiffer^nee  was  a  kind  of  passion,  the  result 
of  experience,  and  not  the  philosophy  of  nature.  Writing 
grows  a  habit,  like  a  woman's  gallantry:  there  are  wo- 
men who  have  had  no  intrigue,  but  few  who  have  had  but 
one  only;  so  there  are  miUions  of  men  who  have  never 
written  a  book,  but  few  who  have  written  only  one.  And 
tfins,  having  written  once,  I  wrote  on;  encouraged  no 
doubt  by  tlie  success  of  the  moment,  yet  by  no  means  an- 
ticipating its  duration,  and  I  will  venture  to  say,  scarcely 
even  wishing  it  Bnt  then  I  did  other  things  besides  write, 
which  by  no  means  contributed  either  to  improve  my 
writings  or  my  prosperity. 

I  have  thus  expressed  publicly  upon  the  poetry  of  the 
day  the  opinion  I  have  long  entertained  and  expressed 
of  it  to  all  who  have  asked  it,  and  to  some  who  would 
rather  not  have  heard  it:  as  I  told  Moore  not  very  long 
ago, ''we  are  all  wrong  except  Rogers,  Crabbe,andCamp- 
bcIL**  Without  being  old  in  years,  I  am  old  in  days,  and 
do  not  feel  the  adequate  spirit  within  me  to  attempt  a 
work  which  should  show  what  I  think  right  in  poetry, 
and  must  content  myself  with  having  denoouoed  what  is 
wrong.  There  are,  I  trust,  younger  spirits  rising  up  in 
England,  who,  escaping  the  contagion  which  has  swept 
away  poetry  from  our  literature,  will  recall  it  to  tiieir 
country,  such  as  it  once  was  and  may  still  be. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  best  sign  of  amendment  wiU  be 


rcfMiitaBM^  and  new  and  freqwnleditioas  of  Pope  and 
Dryden. 

There  will  be  found  as  comfortable  metaphyaca^  and 
ten  times  more  poetry,  in  the  "Esny  on  Man,"  tbmm  in 
the  ^'Excursion."  If  you  search  for  passion,  where  kit 
to  be  found  stronger  than  in  the  epistle  from  Eloisa  tn 
Abelard,  or  in  Palamon  and  Ardte?  Do  you  wish  for  in- 
vention, imagination,  sublimity,  character?  seek  llwm 
in  the  Bape  of  the  Lock,  the  Fables  of  Drydoi,  theOde 
on  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  and  Absalom  and  Achitophei:  yon 
will  discover  in  these  two  poets  only,  mil  for  whidi  yon 
must  ransack  innnmerable  metres,  and  God  only  knows 
how  many  wnftTfof  the  day,  without  finding  atittfeof 
the  same  qualities,  —  with  the  additiom,  too,  of  wit,  of 
which  the  latter  have  none  I  have  not,however,  forgotten 
Thomas  Brown  the  Yonnger,  nor  the  Fudge  Pnnulyy  nor 
WhistUsoraft;  but  that  is  not  wit  —  it  is  humour.  I  wiU 
say  nothing  of  the  harmony  of  Pope  and  Dryden  in  com- 
parison, for  there  is  not  a  living  poet  (except  Rogers, 
Giflbrd,  Campbbll,  and  Crabbe),  who  can  write  an  home 
couplet  The  fact  is,  that  the  exquisite  beauty  of  Cheir 
versification  has  withdrawn  the  public  attention  from  thek 
other  excellences,  as  the  vulgar  eye  will  rest  more  upon 
the  splendour  of  the  uniform  than  the  qualify  of  the 
troops.  It  is  this  very  harmony,  particularly  in  Pope^ 
which  has  raised  the  vulgar  and  atrociooa  cant  agaiaat  , 
him :  —  because  his  versification  is  perfect,  it  i«  assametf 
that  it  is  his  only  perfection;  because  his  truths  are  so 
clear,  it  is  asserted  that  he  has  no  inventioa;  and  be- 
cause he  is  always  intelligibks,  it  is  taken  for  gimnled 
that  he  has  no  genius.  We  are  sneeringly  told  that  he 
is  the  "Poet  of  Reason ,"  as  if  this  was  a  rensdo  for  Us 
being  no  poet  Taking  passage  for  passage,  I  will 
undertake  to  cite  more  lines  teeming  with  muigmKlAtm 
from  Pope  than  from  any  tmo  living  poets,  be  they 
who  tliey  may.  To  take  an  instance  at  mndom  from 
a  species  of  composition  not  very  fitvonrable  to  im^ 
nation  —  Satire :  set  down  the  character  ot  Spoms,  with 
all  the  wonderful  play  of  &ncy  whieh  is  scattered  over  il^ 
and  place  by  its  side  an  equal  nymber  of  verses,  from 
any  two  eusting  poets,  of  the  same  power  and  theauae 
variety  —  where  will  yon  find  them? 

1  merely  mention  one  instance  of  asany,  in  reply  to  the 
injustice  done  to  the  memory  of  him  who  harmonised  onr 
poetical  language.  The  attorneys'  clerks,  and  other  setf- 
educated  genii,  found  it  easier  to  distortthemseires  toihe 
new  models,  than  to  toil  after  the  symmetry  of  him  who 
had  enchanted  their  fathers.  They  were  besides  smitim 
by  being  told  that  the  new  school  were  to  revive  the  fao- 
guage  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  true  Bi^gUsh;  as  every 
body  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  wrote  no  better  Ifau 
French,  by  a  species  of  literary  treason. 

Blank  verse,  which,  unless  in  the  drama,  no  oaeexnept 
Milton  ever  wrote  who  could  rhyme, became  the  order  sf 
the  day,—  or  else  such  rhyme  as  looked  still  blanker  Ihu 
the  verse  without  it  I  am  aware  that  Johnson  has  maii, 
after  some  hesitadon,  that  he  oonid  not  prevail  apon 
himself  to  widi  that  Milton  had  been  a  rhjmtf/'  flK 
opinions  of  that  traly  great  man,  whom  it  isnlaofhepre- 
sent  foshion  to  decry,  will  ever  he  received  bj  me  wHfc 
that  dderenoe  which  time  will  restore  to  him  from  al; 
but,  with  all  humility,  I  am  not  persuaded  that  the  Fi> 
radiM  Lost  would  not  liave  been  more  nobly  conveyed  to 
posterity,  not  perhaps  in  heroic  couplets,  although  cvm 
t^y  could  sastain  the  subject  if  well  balanced,  hot  in  the 
stansa  of  Spenser  or  of  Taaso,  or  in  the  tenm  rima  of 
Dante,  which  the  powers  of  Milton  could  easily  have 
grafted  on  our  language.  The  Seasons  of  Thomson  msnii 
have  been  better  in  rhyme,  although  still  inferior  la  tti 
Castle  of  Indolence;  and  Mr.  Sonthey's  Joan  of  Aswm 
worse,  although  it  might  have  taken  up  six  months  in* 
stead  of  weeks  in  tlie  composition.  I  reconunend  also  to 
the  fovers  of  lyrics  the  perumi  of  the  present  Jnaretk^s 
Odes  by  the  side  of  Dry  den's  on  Saint  Cecilia,  bnt  ielUa 
be  sure  to  readj£r«t  those  of  Mr.  Sonfliey* 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


751 


7o  the  heaven  •bom  genii  and  inspired  yonn§^  sen- 
r^tken  of  the  day  much  of  this  will  appear  paradox:  it 
nrxil  appear  so  even  to  the  higlier  order  of  onr  critics ;  bat 
lift  -vras  a  traism  twenty  years  ago,  and  it  will  be  a  re-ao« 
k-BOwledged  truth  in  ten  more.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will 
sonelude  with  two  ouotations,  both  intended  for  some 
aC  my  old  classical  friends  who  have  still  enoogh  of  Cam- 
bridge about  them  to  think  themselves  honoured  by  hav 
in^  had  John  Dryden  as  a  predecessor  in  thdr  college, 
land  to  recollect  that  their  earliest  English  poetical  plea- 
BCtres  were  drawn  from  the  *Mittle  nightingale"  of  T  wicken- 
haioi.  The  first  is  from  the  notes  to  the  Poem  of  the 
•*yricnds/' 

**It  is  only  within  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years  that 
those  notable  discoveries  in  criticism  have  been  made 
%v  hidihave  taught  oar  recent  versifiers  to  undervalne  this 
energetic^  melodious,  and  moral  poet  The  consequences 
off  this  want  of  due  esteem  for  a  writer  whom  the  good 
sense  of  our  predecessors  had  raised  to  his  proper  station 
liave  been  numerous  and  degrading  enough.  This  is  not 
the  place  to  enter  into  the  subject,  even  as  fiir  as  it  qffects 
our  poetical  number »  alone,  and  there  is  matter  of  more 
importance  that  requires  present  reflection." 

The  second  is  from  the  volume  of  a  young  person  leacn- 
%ng  to  write  poetry,  and  beginning  by  teaching  the  art 
Hear  him: 

**But  ye  were  dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of —  were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile;  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
OidolU  to  fmooih,  inlajf,  and  chip,  SLtidJii, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  vertet  tallietL  Eaey  was  the  tatk: 
A  tlioosand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  poesy.  Ul-fated,  impious  race. 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  lyrist  to  itis  face 
And  did  not  know  it;  no,  they  went  about 
Holding  a  poor  decrepit  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  oiont  Boileau! 

A  little  before^  the  manner  of  Pope  is  termed, 

^A#ctnN, 
Nurtured  ^Kl foppery  and  barbarism* 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land." 

I  thought  *'foppery'*  was  a  consequence  ot refinements 
bat  n*importe. 

The  above  will  suffice  to  show  the  notions  entertained 
by  the  new  performers  on  the  English  lyre  of  him  who 
made  it  most  tuneable,  and  the  great  improvements  (tf 
tiMir  own  ^variazionl." 

The  writer  of  tliis  is  a  tadpole  of  the  Lakes,  a  young 
disdple  of  tlie  six  or  seven  new  schools,  in  which  he  has 
learnt  to  write  such  lines  and  such  sentiments  as  the 
above.  He  says  "easy  was  the  task"  of  imitating  Pope, 
or  it  may  be  of  equalling  him,  I  presume.  1  recommend 
him  to  try  before  he  is  so  positive  on  the  sabjeet,  and  then 
compare  what  he  will  have  then  written,  and  what  he  has 
w^m  written,  with  the  humblest  and  earliest  compositions 
of  Pope,  produced  in  years  still  more  youthful  than  those 
of  Mr.  Keats  when  he  invented  his  new  ^'Bssay  on  Gri- 
deism,"  entitled  '^Sleep  and  Poetry"  (an  ominous  title), 
from  whence  the  above  canons  arc  taken.  Pope's  was 
written  at  nineteen,  and  published  at  twenty-two. 

Such  are  the  triun^hs  of  the  new  schooU,  and  such 
their  scholars.  The  disciples  of  Pope  were  Johnson, 
Goldsmith,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Crabbe,  Gififord,  Matthias, 
Hayley,  and  the  autlior  of  the  Paradise  of  Coquettes;  to 
whom  may  be  added  Richards,  Ueber,  Wrangham,  Bland, 
Hodgson,  Merivale,  and  others  who  have  not  had  their 
full  fome,  because  ^'the  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift, 
Dor  the  battle  to  the  strong,"  and  because  there  is  a  for- 
tune in  fame  as  in  all  other  things.  Now,  of  all  the  new 
schools  ^  I  say  a//,  for,  ''like  Legion,  they  are  many"  — 


has  there  appeared  a  single  scholar  wbolias  not  made  bis 
master  ashamed  of  him?  unless  it  be  Sotheby,  who  has 
imitated  every  body,  and  occasionally  surpassed  his  ukh 
dels.  Scott  found  peculiar  favour  and  imitation  among 
the  fair  sex :  there  was  Miss  Holford,  and  Miss  Mitford, 
and  Miss  Francis;  but,  with  the  greatest  respect  be  it 
spoken,none  of  his  imitators  did  much  honour  to  the  ori- 
ginal, except  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  shepherd,  until  the  ap* 
pearanoeof  "The  Bridal  of  Triermain,"  and  "Harold  the 
Dauntless,"  which  in  the  opinion  of  some  equalled  if  not 
surpassed  him;  and  lo!  after  three  or  four  years  they 
turned  out  to  be  the  Master's  own  compositions.  Have 
Southey,  or  Coleridge,  or  f  other  fellow,  made  a  follower 
of  renown?  Wilson  never  did  well  till  he  set  up  for  him- 
self in  tlie  "City  of  tbe  Plague."  Has  Moore,  or  any  other 
living  writer  of  reputation,  had  a  tolerable  imitator,  or 
rather  disciple?  Now,  it  is  remarkable,  that  aknost  all  the 
followers  of  Pope,  whom  I  have  named,  have  produced 
beautiful  and  standard  works;  and  it  was  not  the  num- 
ber of  his  imitators  who  finally  hurt  bis  fhme,  but  the  de- 
spair of  imitation,  and  the  eate  of  n^rimitating  him  suffi- 
ciently. This,  and  the  same  reason  which  induced  the 
Athenian  burgher  to  vote  for  the  banishment  of  Aristides, 
"because  he  was  tired  of  always  hearing  him  called  the 
Juety**  have  produced  the  temporary  exile  of  Pope  from 
the  State  of  Literature.  But  tbe  term  of  his  ostracism 
will  expire,  and  tbe  sooner  the  better,  not  for  him,  but  for 
those  who  banished  him,  and  for  the  coming  generation, 
who 

"Will  blush  to  find  their  fathers  were  his  foes." 

I  will  now  return  to  tbe  writer  of  the  article  which  has 
drawn  forth  these  remarks,  whom  I  honestly  take  to  be 
John  Wilson,  a  man  of  great  powers  and  acquirements, 
well  known  to  the  public  as  tbe  author  of  the  "City  of  the 
Plague,"  "isle  of  PaUns ,"  and  other  productions.  I  take 
the  liberty  of  naming  bim,  bv  the  same  species  of  courtesy 
which  has  induced  bim  to  designate  me  as  the  author  of 
Pon  Juan.  Upon  the  score  of  the  Lake  Poets,  he  may  per- 
haps recall  to  mind  that  I  merely  express  an  opinion  long 
ago  entertained  and  specified  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  James 
Hogg,  which  he  the  said  James  Hogg,  some  what  contrary 
to  the  law  of  pens,  showed  to  Mr.  John  Wilson,  in  the 
vear  1814,  as  he  himself  informed  me  in  his  answer,  tell- 
ing me  by  way  of  apology,  that  "he'd  bed dif  be 

could  help  it;"  and  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  thing  like 
"envy"  or  "exacerbation"  at  this  moment  which  induces 
me  to  think  better  or  worse  of  Southey,  Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge  as  poets  than  I  do  now,althoughI  do  know  one 
or  two  things  more  which  have  added  to  my  contempt  for 
them  as  individuals.  And ,  in  return  for  Mr.  Wilson's  in- 
vective ,  I  shall  content  myself  with  asking  one  question; 
Did  he  never  compose,  recite,  or  sing  any  parody  or  pa- 
rodies upon  the  Psalms  (of  what  nature  fiiis  deponent 
saith  not), in  certain  jovial  meetings  of  the  youth  of  Edin- 
burgh? It  is  not  that  I  think  any  great  harm  if  he  did;  be- 
cause it  seems  to  me  that  all  depends  upon  the  intention 
of  such  a  parody.  If  it  be  meant  to  throw  ridicule  on  the 
sacred  original ,  it  is  a  nn ;  if  it  be  intended  to  burlesque 
the  profhne  subject,  or  to  inculcate  a  moral  truth ,  it  is 
none.  If  it  were,  the  UnheHeter^  Creeds  the  many  politi- 
cal parodies  of  various  parts  of  the  Scriptures  and  lituigy, 
particularly  a  celebrated  one  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
the  beautiful  moral  parable  in  favour  of  toleration  by 
Franklin,  which  has  often  been  taken  for  a  real  extract 
from  Genesis,  would  all  be  sins  of  a  damning  nature.  But 
I  wish  to  know  if  Mr.  Wilson  ever  has  done  this,  and  if 
he  has ,  why  he  should  be  so  very  angry  with  similar  por- 
tions of  Don  Juan? — ^Did  no  "parody  profane"  appear  in 
any  of  the  earlier  numbers  of  Blackwood's  Magazme? 

I  will  now  conclude  this  long  answer  to  a  short  article^ 
repenting  of  having  said  so  much  in  my  own  defence,  and 
so  little  on  the  "crying,  left-hand  fellings  off  and  national 
defections"  of  the  poetry  of  die  present  day.  Having  said 
this,  I  can  hardly  be  expected  to  defend  Don  Juan,  or  any 


752 


NOTBS  TO  DON  JUAN. 


other  '*lmnp"  poetry,  and  shall  not  make  the  attempt 
And  although  I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  John  Wilaon  has  in 
this  instance  treated  me  with  candour  or  oonsideration, 
I  trust  that  the  tone  I  have  used  in  speaking  of  him  per- 
sonally will  prove  that  I  bear  him  as  little  malioeas  I  real- 
ly believe  at  the  hoHcm  o/kis  heart  he  bears  towards  me; 
bat  tlie  duties  of  an  editor,  like  those  of  a  tax-gatherer, 
are  paramount  and  peremptory.  I  have  done. 

BYRON. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  I. 

Brave  men  were  lioing  before  Agamemnon, 

[p.  141.  St  5. 
"Vixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona,^  Horace. 

Save  thine  ^*ineomparahUoU^"  Maeaetarl 

[p.  142.  St  17. 
^Description  des  vertm  ineomparahlee  de  Thuile  de 
Macassar."  —  See  the  advertisement 

7%ejf  onljf  add  them  all  in  an  appendix* 

[p.  144.  St  44. 
Fact  There  is,  or  was,  such  an  edition,  witli  all  the 
obnojuous  epigrams  of  Martial  placed  by  themselves  at 
(he  end. 

The  hard  I  quote  from  does  not  eing  amue. 

[p.  148.  St  68. 
Campbell's  Gertrude  of  Wyoming;  it  is  the  opening  of 
Canto  UL 

It  it  for  this  that  General  Count  CReillf^ 
Who  tooh  Algiers^  deelaret  luted  him  vtlefy? 

[p.  153.  St  148. 

Donna  Julia  here  made  a  mistake.  Count  O'Reilly  did 

not  take  Algiers  —  but  Algiers  very  nearly  took  him ;  he 

and  his  army  and  fleet  retreated  with  great  loss,  and  not 

much  credit,  from  before  that  city. 

Mg  dags  of  love  are  over;  me  no  more  — 

[p.l69.St31& 
Me  nee  femina,  neo  puer 
Jam,  nee  spes  animi  crednla  mutuii 
Nee  certare  jnvat  mero. 
Nee  vincire  novis  tempora  floribns. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  UL 

For  none  Ukes  more  to  hear  himself  converse  — 

[p.  181.  St  46. 
Rispose  allor'  Margatte,  a  dirtel  tosto, 

lo  non  credo  pii^  al  nero  ch'  all  azzurro; 
Ma  nell  cappone,  o  lesso,  o  vuQgli  arrosto, 

E  credo  alcuna  volta  anoo  nel  burro; 
Nella  cervogia,  e  quando  io  n'ho  nell  mosto, 
£  molto  piii  nell'  espro  cbe  il  mangurro; . 
Ma  sopra  tutto  nel  buon  vino  bo  fede, 
£  credo  ohe  sia  salvo  chi  gli  crede. 

PuLci,  Moigante  Maggiore,  18, 151. 

Tliat  e^er  hg  precious  metal  was  held  in, 

[p.  184.  St  71. 

This  dress  is  Moorish ,  and  the  bracelets  and  bar  are 

worn  in  the  manner  described.  The  reader  will  perceive 

hereafter,  that,  as  the  modier  of  Haidde  was  of  Fez,  her 

daughter  wore  the  garb  of  the  country. 

A  hhe  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  rolVd, 

(p.  184.  St  72. 
The  bar  of  gold  above  the  instep  is  a  mark  of  sovereign 
rank  in  the  women  of  the  families  of  the  Deys,  and  is  worn 
as  snch  by  their  lemak  relatives. 


Her  person  tfaihw*d  ai  harge  to  not. 

[p.  184.  St  73. 
This  is  no  exaggeration ;  there  were  four  wobkb,  whoa 
I  remember  to  have  seen,  who  possessed  their  hair  m  tUi 
profusion;  of  these,  three  were  English,  the  other  was  a 
Levantine.  Their  hair  was  of  that  length  and  qmalityy 
that  when  let  down,  it  almost  entirely  shaded  the  person 
so  as  nearly  to  render  dress  a  superfluity.  Of  tfaeae,  only 
one  had  dark  hair ;  theOiiental's  had,  perhaps,  the  light- 
est colour  of  the  four. 

Soft  hour  I  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart. 

[p.  188.  St  108. 
Era  gii  la  ora  che  volge  il  disio 

A'  naviganti,  e  intenerisoe  il  cnore ; 
Lo  di  ch'  han  dctto  a'  doici  amict  a  dk); 

£  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin'  d'  amorc 
Punge,  se  ode  squilla  di  lontano, 
Che  paja  '1  giorno  pianger  che  si  mnove.'' 

Dante's  Purgatory.  C  8. 

This  last  line  is  the  first  of  Gray's  Elegy,  taken  by  him 
without  acknowledgment 

Some  hands  unseen  strew' djlowers  tqton  his  tomb* 

[p.  188.  St  109. 
See  Suetonius  for  thb  fact 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  IV. 

A  vein  had  burst  [p.  193.  St  £0. 

This  is  no  very  nnoommon  effect  of  the  violcnue  of 
conflicting  and  different  passions.  The  Doge  Fiaaeis 
Foscari,  on  his  deposition,  in  1467,  hearing  the  bell  of 
St  Mark  announce  the  election  of  hissnooeasor,  "moaint 
subitemcnt  d'nne  h^morrhagie  causee  par  one  veine  qui 
4^clata  dans  sa  poitrine,"  (see  Sismondi  and  Dam,)  at  the 
age  of  eighty  years,  when  ^  Who  would  have  thought  the 
old  $nan  had  so  much  blood  m  him?  "  Before  I  was  sixteen 
years  of  age,  I  was  witness  to  a  melancholy  l^ft^tyy  of 
the  same  effect  of  mixed  passions  upon  a  yoang  person; 
who,  however,  did  not  die  in  oonscqueuoe,  at  that  time, 
hot  fell  a  victim  some  years  afterwards  to  a  seisnre  of  the 
same  kind,  arising  from  causes  intimately  oonneoled 
with  agitation  of  mind. 

But  sold  bg  the  impresario  at  no  h^  rate, 

[p.  196.  St  8a 
This  Is  a ihet  A  fbw  years  ago  a  man  engaged  aeosi- 
ny  for  some  foreign  theatre,  embarked  them  at  aa 
talian  port,  and,  carrying  them  to  Algiers,  soM  themaB. 
One  of  the  women,  returned  from  her  captivity,  I  heatd 
sing,  by  a  strange  ooincidenoe,  in  Rossini's  opera  of 
''L'ltaUanain  Algeri,"at  Venioe,  in  the  beginnii^of  1817. 


pai 

Ita 


J^rom  all  the  pope  mahes  goarlg  'twould  perpiasB 
To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  tUrd  mjt. 

[p.ld&Si8& 

It  is  strange  that  it  should  he  the  Pope  and  the  SaMM 

who  are  the  chief  encoaragers  of  this  branch  of  trade -- 

woflMn  b^Dg  prohibited  as  singers  at  St  Peter's,  mti 

not  deemed  trostworthy  as  guardians  of  the  haiaai. 

While  weeds  and  ordure  rasJUe  round  the  hase. 

[p.  197.  St  101 
The  pillar  which  records  the  battle  of  Ravenna  isaheat 
two  miles  from  the  city ,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  rimr 
to  the  road  towards  ForlL  Gaston  de  Foix,  who  gaiasd 
the  battle,  was  killed  in  it;  there  fell  on  both  sides  twca^y 
thousand  men.  The  present  state  of  the  pillar  and  its  ik 
is  described  in  the  text 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


753 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  V. 

The  ocean  stream.  [p.  198.  St.  3. 

This  expression  of  Homer  bas  been  much  Gritlcised. 

It  hardly  answers  to  our  Atlantic  ideas  of  the  ocean,  but 

ia  sufficiently  applicable  to  the  Hellespont,  and  the  Bos- 

phorus,  with  the  i£gean  intersected  with  islands. 

J%e  Giant^s  Grave.  [p.  19a  St  5* 

**The  Giant's  Grave"  is  a  height  on  the  Asiatic  shore 
of  tbefiosphorus,  much  frequented  by  holiday  parties: 
like  Harrow  and  Highgate. 

And  running  out  oi/aet  as  I  was  able. 

[p.  201.  St  33. 

The  assassination  alluded  to  took  place  on  the  eighth 

of  December,  1920,  in  the  streets  of  R  — ,  not  a  hundred 

pacej  from  the  residence  of  the  writer.  The  circumstances 

were  as  described. 

Kiird  hyjwe  bullets  from  an  oldgunrbarreh 

[p.201.8t34. 

There  was  found  close  by  him  an  old  gun-barrel,  sawn 

half  off:  it  had  just  been  discharged,  and  was  still  warm. 

Prepared/or  supper  with  a  glass  o/rum, 

[p.  202.  St  53. 
In  Turkey  nothing  is  more  common  than  for  the 
Mussulmans  to  take  several  glasses  of  strong  spirits  by 
way  of  appetizer.  I  have  seen  them  take  as  many  as  six 
of  raki  before  dinner,  and  swear  that  they  dined  the  better 
for  it;  1  tried  the  experiment,  but  was  like  tbe  Scotch- 
man, who  having  heard  that  the  birds  called  kittiewiaks 
were  admirable  whets,  ate  six  of  them,  and  complained 
that  **he  was  tw  hungrier  than  when  he  began,*' 

A  marble-fountain  echoes,    [p.  203.  St  d5. 
A  common  furniture  —  I  recollect  being  received  by 
Ali  Pacha,  in  a  room  containing  a  marble  basin  and 
fountain. 

T%e  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its  features. 

[p.20&.St87. 
peatures  of  a  gate  —  a  ministerial  metaphor;  *<the 
feature  upon  which  this  question  hinges.*'  —   Seethe 
**Fudge  Family,"  or  hear  Castlereaglu 

Though  on  more  thorough-bred  or  fairer  fingers. 

[p.  207.  St  106. 
There  is  perhaps  nothing  more  distinctive  of  birth  than 
the  hand:  it  is  almost  tiieonly  sign  ofblood  which  aristo- 
craey  can  generate. 

Save  SofymaUy  the  glorg  of  their  line. 

[p.  210.  St  147. 

It  may  not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacon,  in  his 
essay  "on  Empire,"  hints  that  Solgman  was  the  last  of 
his  line;  on  what  authority,  I  know  not  These  are  his 
words:  *'The  destruction  of  Mustapba  was  so  fatal  to 
Solyman's  line,  as  the  succession  of  the  Turks  fromSoly- 
man,  until  this  day,  is  suspected  to  t>e  untrue,  and  of 
strange  blood;  for  that  Solymus  the  Second  was  thought 
to  be  supposititious."  But  Bacon,  in  his  historical  autho- 
ritieSy  is  often  inaccurate.  I  could  give  half  a  dosen  in* 
stances  from  his  apophthegms  only. 

Being  in  the  humour  of  critieism,  I  shall  proceed,  after 
having  ventured  upon  the  slips  of  Bacon,  to  touch  on  one 
or  two  as  trifling  in  the  edition  of  the  British  poets,  by  the 
Justly-celebrated  Campbell.  —  But  I  do  this  in  good  will, 
and  trust  it  will  be  so  taken.  —  If  any  thing  could  add  to 
my  opinion  of  the  talents  and  true  feeling  of  that  gentie- 
man,  it  would  be  his  classical,  honest,  and  triumphant 
defence  of  Pope,  againt  the  vulgar  cant  of  the  day,  and  its 
existing  Grub-street 

The  inadvertendes  to  which  I  allude  are: 

Firstly,  in  speaking  of  Ansteg^  whom  he  accuses  of 
having  taken  **his  leading  characters  from  Smollett," 
Anstey's  Bath  Guide  was  published  in  1766.  Smollett's 
PumphryClinker(the  only  work  otSmoUett's  from  which 


Tabitha  coM  have  been  taken)  was  written  during 
Smollett's  last  residence  at  Leghorn,  in  1770. —  ^^Argal," 
if  there  has  been  any  borrowing,  Anstey  must  be  the 
creditor,  and  not  the  debtor.  I  refer  Mr.  Campbell  to  his 
own  data  in  his  lives  of  Smollett  and  Anstey. 

Secondly,  Mr.  Campbell  says  in  the  life  of  Cowper  that 
"he  knows  not  to  whom  Cowper  alludes  in  these  fines: 
Nor  he  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born. 
Built  God  a  churchy  and  laugh'd  his  word  to  scorn. 

The  Cal vinist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of  Ferney, 
with  its  inscription,  "Deo  erexit  Voltaire." 

Thirdly,  in  the  life  of  Bums,  Mr.  C.  quotes  Shakespeare 
thus, — 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  rose. 
Or  addfresh  perfume  to  the  violet 
This  version  by  no  means  improves  the  original,  wliicb 
is  as  follows: 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lify, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet 

King  John. 
A  great  poet  quoting  another  should  be  correct;  he 
should  also  be  accurate  when  he  accuses  a  Parnassian 
brother  of  that  dangerous  charge  "  borrowing : "  a  poet 
had  better  borrow  any  thing  (excepting  money)  than  the 
thoughts  of  another  —  tbey  are  always  sure  to  be  re- 
claimed: but  it  is  very  hard,  having  been  the  Under,  to 
be  denounced  as  the  debtor ,  as  in  the  case  of  Anstey 
versus  Smollett 

As  there  is  'Hionour  amongst  thieves/' let  there  be  some 
amongst  poets,  and  give  each  his  due;~none  can  afibrd 
to  give  it  more  than  Mr.  Campbell  himself,  who,  with  a 
high  reputation  for  originality,  and  a  fame  which  cannot 
be  shaken,  is  the  only  poet  of  the  times  (except  Rogers^ 
who  can  be  reproached  (and  tit)&tiiiitisindeedareproacfa9 
with  having  written  too  little. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  VM. 

AU sounds  it  pierceth,  ''Allah!  AUah  !  HuF' 

[p,  231.  St  a 
''Allah!  Hu!"  is  properly  the  war-cry  of  the  Mussul- 
mans, and  they  dwell  long  on  the  last  syllable,  which 
gives  it  a  very  wild  and  peculiar  eifect 

**Camage"  (so  Wordsworth  tells  gou)  is  God^s  daughter. 

[p.  231.  St  9. 
''But  thg*}  most  dreaded  instrument 
In  working  out  a  pure  intent, 
Is  man  array'd  for  mutual  slaughter; 
Yea,  damage  is  thy  daughter  !" 

Wordsworth's  Thanksgiving  Ode. 

Was  printed  Grave,  although  kis  nasne  was  Grose. 

[p.  232.  St  la 
A  fact;  see  the  Waterloo  Gazettes.  I  recollect  remark- 
ing at  the  time  to  a  friend :  —  "  nere  is  fame  I  a  man  is 
killed,his  name  isGrose,and  they  print  itOrove."  I  was  at 
college  with  the  deceased,  who  was  a  very  amiable  and 
clever  man,  and  his  society  in  great  request  (or  his  wit, 
gaiety,  and  "chansons  k  boirc." 

'TUpitu  "that  such  meanings  should  pave  HelL" 

[p.  282.  St  25. 
The  Portuguese  proverb  says  that  "Hell  is  paved  with 
good  intentions." 


*)  To  wit,  the  Deity's.  This  is  perhaps  as  pretty  a 
pedigree  for  Murder,  as  ever  was  found  out  by  Gar- 
ter-King-at-Arms.~Wliat  would  have  been  said  had 
any  free-spoken  people  discovered  such  a  lineage? 

48 


754 


NOTBS  TO  DON  JUAN, 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  IX. 

Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  ''NatfT 

[p.  242.  St  1. 
Query,  A>y  ?  Printek's  Devil. 

And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  pate 
A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals, 

[p.  243.  St  6. 
"I  at  this  time  got  a  post^  being  sick  for  fatigue,  with 
four  others.-^ We  were  sent  to  breaic  biscuit,  and  make 
a  mess  for  Lord  Wellington's  hounds.  1  was  very  hungry, 
and  tiiought  it  a  good  job  at  tlie  time,  as  we  got  our  own 
fill  while  we  broke  the  biscuit,  —  a  thing  I  had  not  got  for 
some  days.  When  thus  engaged,  the  Prodigal  Son  was 
never  once  out  of  my  mind;  and  I  sighed,  as  I  fed  the  dogs, 
over  my  humble  situation  and  my  ruined  hopes." — Jour- 
nal of  a  Soldier  of  the  7ist  Regt,  during  the  War  in  Spain, 

Because  he  coxUd  no  more  digest  his  dinner, 

[p.  245.  St  a3. 
He  was  killed  in  a  conspiracy,  after  his  temper  had  been 
exasperated,  by  his  extreme  costivity,  to  a  degree  of  in- 
sanity. 

And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi, 

[p.  240.  St  47. 
He  was  the  '^grande  passion"  of  thegrande  Catherine. — 
See  her  Lives,  under  the  head  of  Lanskoi." 

Bid  Ireland s  Londonderry's  Marquess  show 
His  parts  of  speech,  [p.  246.  St  49. 

This  was  written  long  before  the  suivide  of  that  person. 

Tour  "fortune**  was  in  a  fair  way  'Ho  swell 
A  man,"*  as  Giles  says,  [p.  248.  St  63. 

*His  fortune  swells  him,  it  is  rank,  he's  married."  — 
Sir  Giles  Overreach.  Massinoer. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  X. 

Would  scarcely  Join  again  the  "reformadoes," 

[p.  251.  St  la 
''Reformers,"  or  rather  '^Reformed."  The  Baron  Brad- 
wardine,  in  Waverley,  fii  authority  for  the  word. 

The  endless  soot  bestows  a  tint  far  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  skirt 

[p.  251.  St  15. 
Query  na<.'— Printer's  Devil. 

Baigeunie's  Brig's  black  walL 

rp.251.Stl8. 
The  brig  of  Bon,  near  the  ^Hiold  toun''' of  Aberdeen, 
with  its  one  arch  and  its  black  deep  salmonstream  below, 
18  in  my  memory  as  yesterday.  I  still  remember,  though 
perhaps  I  may  misquote ,  the  awful  proverb  which  made  me 
pause  to  cross  it,  and  yet  lean  over  it  with  a  childish  de- 
light, being  an  only  son,  at  least  by  the  mother's  side.  The 
saying  as  recollected  by  me  was  this— but  I  have  never 
heard  or  seen  it  since  I  was  nine  years  of  age :  — 
"Brig  of  Balgounie,  black's  your  wa*; 
Wi'  a  wife's  ae  son  and  a  mear's  aefoal, 
Bonn  ye  shall  fa'!" 

Oh,  for  a  forty-parson-power  to  chmaU 
Thy  praise,  Hypocrisy  I  [p.  252.  St  34. 

A  metaphor  taken  from  the  ^^forty-horse-power"  oi  a 
steam-engine.  That  mad  wag,  the  Reverend  S.  S.,  sitting 
by  a  brother -clergyman  at  dinner,  observed  afterwards 
that  his  dull  neighbour  had  a  'Hwelve-parson-'power^'  of 
conversation. 

To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydes,  like  tanners, 

[p.  253.  St  36. 
*Hyde."—  I  believe  a  hyde  of  land  to  be  a  legitimate 
word,  and  as  such  subject  to  the  tax  of  a  quibble. 


Was  given  to  kerfavouriie,  smd  new  bore  his. 

[p.2M.St40. 

The  Empress  went  to  the  Crimea ,  accompanied  by  tiie 

Emperor  Joseph,  in  the  year— I  forget  which.  (It  was  1787.) 

Which  gave  her  dukes  the  graceless  name  of^^Bsrmu" 

[p.  254.  St  58. 

In  the  Empress  Anne's  time ,  Biren,  her  favourite^  as- 
sumed the  name  and  arms  of  the  '*Birons"  of  France^ 
which  families  are  yet  extant  with  tliat of  England.  There 
are  still  the  daughters  of  Courland  of  that  name;  one  of 
them  I  remcmb^  seeing  in  England  in  theblessed  year  of 
the  Allies— the  Duchess  of  S. — to  whom  the  Bngfiib 
Duchess  of  S^t  presented  me  as  a  namesake. 

Eleven  thousand  maidenheads  ofbone^ 
The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  kmnanm 

[p.  255.  St  62. 
St  Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  were  sdll 
extant  in  1816,  and  may  be  so  yet  as  much  as  ever. 

Who  butcher' d  half  the  earth,  and  htllied  f  other, 

[p.  256.  St  81. 
India.  America. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XI. 

Who  on  a  lark ,  with  black-eyed  Sal  {his  hlawimg). 
So  prime,  so  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing  f 

[p.  259.  St  1& 
The  advance  of  science  and  of  language  has  rendered 
it  unnecessary  to  translate  the  above  good  and  true  Eng- 
lish ,  spoken  in  its  original  purity  by  the  select  nobility 
and  their  patrons.  The  following  is  a  stanza  of  a  song 
which  was  very  popular,  at  least  in  my  early  days:^ 
^On  the  high  toby  spice  flash  the  muzzle^ 

In  spite  of  each  gallows  old  scoot; 
If  you  at  the  spellken  can't  hustle. 
You'll  be  hobbled  in  making  a  Clout 

Then  your  Blowing  will  wax  gallows  hanghty, 

When  she  hears  of  your  scaly  mistake^ 
She'll  surely  turn  snitch  for  the  forty. 
That  her  Jack  may  be  regular  we^t" 
If  there  be  any  gem'nuin  so  ignorant  as  to  require  a 
traduction,  1  refer  him  to  my  old  friend  and  corporal  pas- 
tor and  master,  John  Jackson,  Esq.,  Profiesaor  of  Pugi- 
lism; who  I  trust  still  retains  the  strength  and  synuKlry 
of  his  model  of  a  form,  together  with  his  good  hnmour, 
and  athletic  as  well  as  mental  aooompUsbmcDts. 

St.  James's  Pahee  and  St.  Jameses  ^BMT 

[p.260LSt»L 
'<Hells,"  gami^g-hoiises.  What  their  numberniay  aov 
be  in  this  life,  I  know  not  Before  I  was  of  age  I  knew 
them  pretty  accurately,  both  '<gold"  and  "silver."  Ims 
once  nearly  called  out  by  an  acquaintance,  because  wbea 
he  asked  me,  where  1  thought  that  his  soul  woiildbeioaad 
hereafter,  I  answered,  ''In  Silver  HeU.'^ 

And  therefore  even  IwonU  ament 

nis  subject  quote.  [p.  261.  St  431 

'*Anent"  was  a  Scotch  phrase,  meaning  ^«oonoenmf 

—  ''with  regard  to."  It  has  been  made  Engiish  by  Ike 

Scotch  Novels ;  and,  as  the  Frenchman  said — ^"^If  it  he  ut, 

oiiyAt  to  6tf  English." 

The  milliners  wko furnish  '^drapery  misees," 

[p.  261.  St « 
**Drapery  misses"  —  This  term  is  probably  any  ttia| 
now  but  a  mystery.  It  was  however  almost  so  tomevhcfi 
I  first  returned  from  the  East  in  181 1—1813.  It  aieaiat 
pretty,  a  highborn ,  a  fashionable  young  female,  wdlBir 
structed  by  her  friends,  and  furnished  by  her  milliner  witt 
a  wardrobe  upon  credit,  to  be  repaid ,  when  married  by 


NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


755 


the  husband.  The  riddle  was  first  read  to  me  by  a  young 
and  pretty  heiress,  oa  my  praising  the  ''drapery"  of  an 
^'uniochered^'  but  "pretty  virginities"  (like  Mrs.  Anne 
Page)  of  the  then  day,  whioh  has  now  been  some  years 
yesterday :  —  she  assured  me  that  the  thing  was  common 
IB  Liondon;  and  as  her  own  thousands,  and  blooming 
looks,  and  rich  simplicity  of  array,  put  any  suspicion  in 
her  own  case  out  of  the  question,  I  confess  I  gave  some 
oredit  to  the  allegation.  If  necessary,  authorities  might  be 
cHed,  in  which  case  I  could  quote  both  "drapery"  and  the 
wearers.  Let  us  hope,  however,  that  it  is  now  obsolete. 

'7h  Btrange  the  mind,  that  very JUry  particle, 
"  elf  be  snuffed  out  fy  anarticle. 


Should  let  iUelj 
"Divinse  particulam  aone." 


[p.  262.  St  69. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XII. 

Givee,  with  Greeh  truth,  the  good  old  Greeh  the  lie, 

[p.  26a  St  19. 
See  Mitford's  Greece,  "OrsBcla  Verax,"  His  great 
pleasure  consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutarch, 
spelling  oddly,  and  writing  quaintly;  and  what  is  strange 
after  all,  hie  is  the  best  modern  history  of  Greece  in  any 
language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all  modern  histo- 
rians whatsoever.  Having  named  his  sins,  it  is  but  fair 
to -state  his  virtues— learning,  labour,  research,  wrath, 
and  partiality.  I  call  tlie  latter  virtues  in  a  writer,  because 
they  make  him  write  in  earnest 

A  hazy  widower  tum*d  offort^e  sure, 

[p.  268.  St  37. 
This  line  may  puazle  the  oomment&tors  more  than  the 
present  generation. 

IMie  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows, 

[p.  271.  St  73. 
The  Russians,  as  is  well  known,  run  out  from  their  hot 
baths  to  plunge  into  the  Neva;  a  pleasant  practical  antithe- 
sis, which  it  seeins  does  them  no  harm. 

The  world  to  gaze  ^on  those  northern  lights, 

[p.  272.  St  82. 
For  a  description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  the  po- 
lar region  and  nadve  country  of  the  Aurora  borealis,  see 
Parry's  Voyage  m  search  of  a  North--  West  Passage, 

As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos, 

[p.  272.  St  86. 
A  sculptor  projected  to  hew  Mount  Athos  into  a  statue 
of  Alexander,  with  a  city  in  one  hand,  and,  I  believe,  a  ri- 
▼er  in  his  pocket,  witli  various  other  similar  devices.  But 
Alexander's  gone,  and  Athos  remains,  I  trust  ere  long  to 
look  over  a  nation  of  freemen. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XIU. 

Also  there  bin  another  pious  reason, 

j;p.276*St26. 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bm, 
My  Lady  sweet  arisc—SHAKsPEARE. 

Jiis  bell-^mouth'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish, 

[p.  279.  St  72, 
If  I  err  not,  "Your Dane"  is  one  of  lago's  Catalogue  oi 
Nations  ''exquisite  in  their  drinking." 

Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leao0  the  plains  of  Dura. 

[p.  279.  St  78. 
In  Assyria. 


That  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies, 

[p.  281.  St  96. 
''Mrs.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blasphe- 
mous to  talk  of  Scripture  out  of  church."  This  dogma  was 
broached  to  her  husband — the  best  Christian  in  any  book. 
See  Joseph  Andrews,  in  the  latter  chapters. 

!7%0  quaijit,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in^is  gullet 
Should  have  a  hooh,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it, 

[p.  281.  St  106. 

It  would  have  taught  him  humanity  at  least  This  sen- 
timental savage,  whom  it  is  a  mode  to  quote  (amongst  the 
novelists)  to  show  their  sympathy  for  innocent  sports  and 
old  songs,  teaches  how  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break  their 
legs  by  way  of  experiment ,  in  addition  to  the  art  of  ang- 
ling, the  cruellest,  tlie  coldest,  and  the  stupidest  of  pre- 
tended sports.  They  may  talk  about  tlie  beauties  of  na- 
ture, but  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  offish;  he 
has  no  Idsure  to  take  bis  eyes  from  off  the  streams ,  and 
a  single  bite  is  worth  to  him  more  than  all  the  scenery 
around.  Besides,  some  fish  bite  best  on  a  rainy  day.  The 
whale,  theshark,  and  the  tunny  fishery  have  somewhat  of 
noble  and  perilous  in  them;  even  net-fishing,  trawling, 
are  more  humane  and  useful — but  angling!  —  No  angler 
can  be  a  good  man. 

"One  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew  —  as  humane,  deli- 
cate-minded ,  generous,  and  excellent  a  creature  as  any 
in  the  world  —  was  an  angler:  true,  he  angled  with  paint- 
ed flies,  and  would  have  been  incapable  of  the  extra- 
vagances of  I.  Walton." 

The  above  addition  was  made  by  a  friend  in  reading 
oyer  the  MS.  —  "Audi  alteram  partem."  —  I  leave  it  to 
counterbalance  my  own  observation. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XIV. 

And  never  craned^  and  made  but  few  "faux  pas." 

[p.  285.  St  33 
Craning.  — -  "To  crane^'  is,  or  was,  an  expression  used 
to  denote  a  gentleman's  stretching  out  his  neck  over  a 
hedge,  "to  look  before  he  leaped:"  —  a  pause  in  his 
"vaulting  ambition,"  which  in  the  field  doth  occasion 
some  delay  and  execration  in  those  who  may  be  imme- 
diately behind  the  equestrian  sceptic.  "Sir,  if  you  don't 
choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me"  —  was  a  phrase  which 
generally  sent  the  aspirant  on  again;  and  to  good  pur- 
pose: for  though  "die  horse  and  rider"  might  fall ,  they 
made  a  gap,  through  which,  and  over  him  and  his  steed, 
the  field  might  follow. 

Go  to  the  coffeB'-hmue,  and  take  another, 

[p.  286.  St  48. 

In  Swift's  or  Horace  Walpole's  Letters  I  think  it  is 
mentioned,  tiiat  somebody  regretting  the  loss  of  a  friend, 
was  answered  by  an  universal  Pylades:  "When  Hose 
one,  I  go  to  the  Saint  James's  Coffee-house,  and  take 
another." 

I  recollect  having  heard  an  anecdote  of  the  same  kind. 
Sir  W.  B.  was  a  great  gamester.  Coming  in  one  day  to 
the  club  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he  was  observed  to 
look  melancholy.  "What  is  the  matter.  Sir  William?" 
cried  Hare,  of  facetious  memory.  "Ah!  "replied  Sir  W. 
"I  have  just  lost  poor  Lady  D."  *'Lost!  What  at  — 
Qttinze  or  Hazard?^*  was  the  consolatory  rejoinder  of 
tlie  querist 

And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiem, 

[p.  287.  St  69. 
The  fomous  Chancellor  Oxcnsliern  said  to  his  son,  on 
the  latter  expressing  his  surprise  upon  the  great  efl'ccLs 
arising  from  petty  causes  in  the  presumed  mystery  of 
politics:  "You  see  by  this,  my  son,  with  how  little  wis- 
dom the  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  governed." 


756 


NOTES  TO  BON  JUAN. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XV. 

And  thou,  Diviner  still. 
Whose  lot  itishy  man  to  he  mistaken, 

Tp.  292.  St  18. 
As  it  is  necessary  in  these  times  to  avoid  ambiguity,  I 
say,  that  I  mean,  by  "Diviner  still,"  Christ.  If  ever  God 
was  Man  —  or  Man  God  —  be  was  hoth,  I  never  ar- 
raigned his  creed,but  the  use— or  abuse  -made  of  it  Mr. 
Canning  one  day  quoted  Christianity  to  sanction  Negro- 
Slavery,  and  Mr.  Wilberforce  had  little  to  say  in  reply. 
And  was  Christ  crucified,  that  black  men  might  be 
scourged?  If  so,  he  had  better  been  born  a  Mulatto,  to 
give  both  colours  an  equal  chance  of  freedom,  or  at  least 
salvation. 

Wien  Rapp,  the  Harmonist,  embargoed  marriage 
In  his  harmonious  settlement,  [p.  294.  St  36. 

This  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  in 
America  docs  not  entirt^ly  exclude  matrimony,  as  the 
*Shakcrs"  do;  but  lays  such  restrictions  upon  it  as  pre- 
vent more  than  a  certain  quantum  of  births  within  a  cer- 
tain number  of  years ;  which  birtlis  (as  Mr.  Hulme  ob- 
serves) generally  arrive  'in  a  little  flock  like  those  of  a 
farmer's  Iambs,  all  within  the  same  month  perhaps." 
These  Harmonists  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  set- 
tlement) arc  represented  as  a  remarkably  flourishing, 
pious,and  quiet  people.  See  the  various  recent  writers  on 
America. 

Nor  canvass  what  '*so  eminent  a  hanSC*  meant 

[p.  294.  St  38. 
Jacob  Tonson,  according  to  Pope,  was  accustomed  to 
call  his  writers  ''able  pens"  —  persons  of  honour,"  and 
especially  "eminent  hands." 

While  great  Lucullus*  robe  triomphale  muffles  — 
(There's  Fame)  —  young  partridge -fillets,  deeh'd  with 
truffles.  [p.  296.  St  66. 

A  dish  **k  la  Lucullus."  xhis  hero,  who  conquered  the 
East,  has  left  his  more  extended  celebrity  to  the  trans- 
plantation of  cherries  (which  he  first  brought  into  Europe) 
and  the  nomenclature  of  some  very  good  dishes;  —  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  (barring  indigestion)  he  has  not  done 
more  service  to  mankind  by  his  cookery  than  by  his  con- 
quests. A  cherry-tree  may  weigh  against  a  bloody  laurel: 
besides,  he  has  contrived  to  earn  celebrity  from  both. 

But  even  sans  ^'confitures"  it  no  less  true  is, 
nere*s  pretty  picking  in  those  *^etits  putts," 

[p.  296.  St  68 
"Petits  pnitsd'amourgarnis  de  confitures,"  a  classical 
and  well-known  dish  for  part  of  the  flank  of  a  second 
coarse. 

For  that  with  me*s  a  **sine  qua," 

[p.  298.  St  86. 
Subauditur  ^*Non ;"  omitted  for  the  sake  of  euphony. 

In  short,  upon  that  subject  Pve  some  qualms  very 
Like  those  of  the  philosopher  of  Malmshury, 

[p.  299.  St  96. 
Hobbes:  who,  doubting  of  his  own  soul,  paid  that  com- 
pliment to  the  souls  of  other  people  as  to  decline  their 
visits,  of  which  he  had  some  apprehension. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  XVI. 

If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  eoehineoL 

[p.  300.  St  10. 

The  composition  of  the  old  Tyrian  purple*  whether 

from  a  shell-fish,  or  ffom  cochineal,  or  from  kermes,  is 

still  an  article  of  dispute;  and  even  its  colour —  some 

say  purple,  others  scarlet:  I  say  nothing. 


For  a  spoiVd  carpet  ^  but  the  ^AuU  Be^' 
Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee, 

[p..'M)3.St4a 
I  think  that  It  was  a  earpet  on  which  Diogenes  trod, 
with  —  -'Thus  1  trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato !" — "With 
greater  pride,"  as  the  other  replied.  But  as  carpets  are 
meant  to  be  trodden  upon,  my  memory  probably  mis- 
gives me,  and  it  mi^t  be  a  robe,  or  tapestry,  or  a  table 
cloth,  or  some  other  expensive  and  uncynioU  piece  of 
furniture. 

With  '*Tu  mi  chamases"  from  Portingale, 
To  soothe  our  earsy  lest  Italy  should J'aiL 

[p.  304.  St  4& 
I  remember  that  the  mayoress  of  a  provincial  town, 
somewhat  surfeited  with  a  similar  display  from  foreigD 
parts ,  did  rather  indecorously  break  through  the  ap- 
plauses of  an  intelligent  audience  —  intelligent,  I  mean, 
as  to  music,  —  for  the  words,  besides  being  in  recondite 
languages  (it  was  some  years  before  the  peace,  ere  all  the 
world  had  travelled,  and  while  I  was  a  collegian)  -^  veie 
sorely  disguised  by  the  performers ;  —  this  mayoress,  I 
say,  broke  out  with,  "Rot  your  Italianos!  for  my  part, 
I  love  a  simple  ballad!"  Rossini  will  go  a  good  way  to 
bring  most  people  to  the  same  opinion,  some  day.  Who 
would  imagine  that  be  was  to  bethesuccessor  ofMosart? 
However,  1  state  this  with  diffidence,  as  a  liege  and  loyal 
admirer  of  Italian  music  in  general,  and  of  much  of  Ros- 
sini's :  but  we  may  say ,  as  the  connoisseur  did  of  psint- 
ing,  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  ''that  the  picture  would 
be  better  painted  if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains." 

For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money, 

[p.dOSuStdd. 
^'Ausu  Romano,  sere  Veneto"  is  the  inscription  (and 
well  inscribed  in  this  instance)  on  the  sea-walls  between 
the  Adriatic  and  Venice.  The  walls  were  a  republican 
work  of  the  Venetians;  the  inscription ,  1  believe,  impe- 
rial ;  and  inscribed  by  Napoleon. 

•*  Untying'*  squires  "  to  fight  against  the  churches/' 

[p.30d.St6a 
Though  ye  untie  the  winds  and  bid  them  fight 
Against  the  churches,  —  Macbeth, 

They  err —  'tis  merely  what  is  eaWd  mobility. 

[p.doast97 

In  French  ''mobility."  I  am  not  sure  that  mobility  is 
English ;  but  it  is  expressive  of  a  quality  which  rather  be- 
longs to  other  climates,  though  it  is  sometimes  seen  to  t 
great  extent  in  our  own.  It  may  be  defined  as  an  excessive 
susceptibility  of  immediate  impressions  ~  at  the  same 
time  without  losing  the  past;  and  is,  though  sometiflies 
apparently  useful  to  the  possessor,  a  most  painful  and 
unhappy  attribute. 

Draperied  her  form  with  curiousfeUcity, 

[p.  dOa  St  101 
'*Curiosa  felicitas."  —  Petrokius. 

A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  en  glass, 

[p.  309.  St  lU 
See  the  account  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prtarc 
Charles  of  Saxony  raised  by  Schroepfer^  '^Karl  —  Ksri 
—  was  wollst  du  mit  mich  ?*' 

How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  nan-enti^ 

Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  idaUi^! 

[p.3iasti» 

"Shadows  io-alghi 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  often  thousand  soldiers.'* 

mckardllL 


757 


NOTES   TO  THE  ISLAND. 


The  foundation  of  the  Story  will  be  found  partly  in  the 
account  of  the  Mutiny  of  the  Bounty  in  the  South  Seas 
(in  1789)  ,  and  partly  in  ,, Mariner's  Account  of  the 
Tonga  Islands." 

How  pleasant  were  ike  songe  of  Toohonai, 

[p.  313. 
Tlie  first  three  sections  are  taken  from  an  actual  soug 
of  the  Tonga  Islanders,  of  which  a  prose  translation  is 
given  in  Mariner's  Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands,  Too- 
bonai  is  not,  however,  one  of  them;  but  was  one  of  those 
where  Christian  and  the  mutineers  took  refuge.  I  have 
altered  and  added,  but  have  retained  as  much  as  possible 
of  the  original. 

Beyond  itself  and  must  retrace  its  way.    [p.  3 1 5. 
Lucullas,  when  frugality  could  charm, 
Had  wasted  turnips  in  his  Sabine  farm.    Pope. 

Had  formed  his  glorious  namesake's  counterpart. 

[p.  315. 
The  Consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march 
which  deceived  Hannibal,  and  defeated  Asdrubal ;  thereby 
accomplishing  an  achievement  almost  unrivalled  in  mi- 
litary annals.  The  first  intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Han- 
nibal, was  the  sight  of  Asdrubal's  head  tlirown  into  his 
camp.  When  Hannibal  saw  this,  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
sigh,  that  '*Rome  would  now  be  the  mistress  of  the  world." 
And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero's  it  might  be  owing  that 
his  imperial  namesake  reigned  at  all  I  Bnt  the  infamy  of 
the  one  has  eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  other.  When  the 
name  of  **Ncro"  is  heard,  who  thinks  of  the  Consul?  But 
such  are  human  things. 

And  Lock-na^gar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Troy, 

[p.  316. 
When  very  young,  about  eight  years  of  age,  after  an 
attack  of  the  scarlet-fever  at  Aberdeen,  I  was  removed 
by  medical  advice  into  the  Highlands.  Here  I  passed  oc- 
casionally some  summers,  and  from  this  period  I  date 
my  love  of  mountainous  countries.  I  can  never  forget  the 
effect  a  few  years  afterwards  in  England,  of  the  only  thing 
I  had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a  mountain,  in  the 
Malvern  Hills.  After  I  returned  to  Cheltenham,  I  used  to 
watch  them  every  afternoon  at  sunset,  with  a  sensation 
which  I  cannot  describe.  This  was  boyish  enough ;  but 
I  wa.<i  then  only  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  it  was  in  the 
holidays. 

But  deem  kim  sailor  or  pkilosopker,        [p.  317. 
Hobbes,  the  father  of  Locke's  and  other  philosophy, 
was  an  inveterate  smoker,  —  even  to  pipes  beyond  com- 
putation. 

^JRigkt*'  quotk  Ben,  *'tkat  will  do  for  the  marines" 

[p.  318. 

*^hat  will  do  for  the  Marines  but  the  sailors  won't 
believe  it,"  is  an  old  saying,  and  one  of  the  few  fragments 
of  former  jealousies  which  still  survive  (in  jest  only) 
between  these  galbmt  services. 


No  less  ofkuman  bravery  than  the  Irave, 

[p.  318. 
Archidamus,  King  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Agesilaus, 
when  he  saw  a  machine  invented  for  the  casting  of  stones 
and  darts,  exclaimed  that  it  was  the ''Grave  of  Valour." 
The  same  story  has  been  told  of  some  knights  on  the  first 
application  of  gunpowder;  but  the  original  anecdote  is  in 
Plutarch. 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,  [p.  321 . 
Of  this  cave  (which  is  no  fiction)  the  original  will  be 
found  inthe9thchapter  of  Mariner's  Account  of  the  Ton- 
fa  Islands,  I  have  taken  the  poetical  liberty  to  transplant 
it  to  Toobonai,  the  last  island  where  any  distinct  account 
is  left  of  Christian  and  his  comrades. 

77ie fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,  [p.  321. 
This  may  seem  too  minute  for  the  general  outline  (in 
JIarwek's  Account)  from  which  it  is  taken.  But  few  men 
have  travelled  without  seeing  something  of  the  kind— on 
land,  that  Is.  Without  adverting  to  Bllora,  in  Mungo 
Park's  last  journal  (if  my  memory  do  not  err,  for  there 
are  eight  years  since  I  read  the  book)  he  mentions  having 
met  with  a  rock  or  mountain  so  exactly  resembling  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  minute  inspection  could  con- 
vince him  that  it  was  a  work  of  nature. 

EXTR.4CT  FROM  THE  VOYAGE  BY  CAPTAIN 
BLI6H. 
On  the  27th  of  December  1787  it  blew  a  severe  storm 
of  wind  from  the  eastward,  in  the  course  of  which  we  suf- 
fered greatly;  it  was  not  without  great  risk  and  difficulty 
that  we  were  able  to  secure  the  boats  from  t>eing- washed 
away.  A  great  quantity  of  our  bread  was  also  damaged 
and  rendered  useless,  for  the  sea  had  stove  in  our  stem, 
and  filled  the  cabin  with  water.  On  the  6th  of  January, 
1788,  we  saw  the  island  of  Tenerifie  about  twelve  leagues 
distant,  and  next  day ,  being  Snnday ,  came  to  an  anchor 
in  the  road  of  Santa-Cruz.  There  we  took  in  the  neces- 
sary supplies,  and,  having  finished  our  business,  sailed 
on  tlic  lOth.  I  now  divided  the  people  into  tliree  watches, 
and  gave  the  charge  of  the  tliird  watch  to  Mr.  Fletcher 
Christian,  one  of  the  mates.  I  have  always  considered 
this  a  desirable  regulation  when  circumstances  will  admit 
of  it,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  unbroken  rest  not  only  con- 
tributes much  towards  the  health  of  the  ship's  company, 
but  enables  them  more  readily  to  exert  themselves  in  ea- 
ses of  sudden  emergency.  As  I  wished  to  proceed  to  Ota- 
heite  without  stopping,  I  reduced  the  allowance  of  bread 
to  two-thirds,  and  caused  the  water  for  drinking  to  be  fil- 
tered through  drip- stones,  bought  at  Tenerifie  for  that 
purpose.  1  now  acquainted  the  ship's  company  of  the  ob- 
ject of  the  voyage,  and  gave  assurances  of  certain  promo- 
tion to  every  one  whose  endeavours  should  merit  it.  On 
Tuesday  the  26th  of  February,  we  bent  new  sails,  and 
made  other  necessary  preparations  for  encountering  the 
weather  that  was  to  be  expected  in  a  high  latitude.  Our 
distance  from  the  coa/t  of  Brasil  was  about  100  leagues. 


758 


NOTES  TO  THE  ISLAND. 


On  the  forenoon  of  Sunday  the  2d  of  March,  after  seeing* 
that  every  person  was  clean,  divine  service  was  performed, 
according  to  my  asual  custom  on  this  day :  I  gave  to  Mr. 
Fletcher  Christian^  whom  I  had  before  directed  to  take 
charge  of  the  third  watch,  a  written  order  to  act  as  lieute- 
nant The  change  of  temperature  soon  began  to  be  sen- 
sibly felt,  and,  that  the  people  might  not  suffer  from  their 
own  negligence,  I  supplied  them  with  thicker  clothing,  as 
better  suited  to  the  climate.  On  a  complaint  made  to  me 
by  the  Master,  I  found  it  necessary  to  punish  Matthew 
Quintal,  one  of  the  seamen,  with  two  dozen  of  lashes,  for 
insolence  and  mutinous  behaviour,  which  was  the  first  time 
that  there  was  any  occasion  for  punbhment  on  board. 

We  were  off  Cape  St  Diego,  the  eastern  part  of  the  Terra 
de  Fuego,  and,  the  wind  being  unfavourable,  I  thought 
it  more  advisable  to  go  round  to  the  eastward  of  Staaten- 
land  than  to  attempt  passing  through  Straits  le  Maire. 
Storms ,  attended  with  a  great  sea ,  prevailed  until 
the  12tb  of  April.  The  ship  began  to  leak,  and  required 
pumping  every  hour,  which  was  no  more  than  we  had 
reason  to  expect  from  such  a  continuanceof  gales  of  wind 
and  high  seas.  The  decks  also  became  so  leaky  that  it 
was  necessary  to  allot  the  great  cabin ,  of  which  I  made 
little  use  except  in  fine  weather,  to  those  people  who  had 
not  births  to  hang  their  hammocks  in,  and  by  this  means 
the  space  between  decks  was  less  crowded.  With  all  tlits 
bad  weather,  we  had  the  additional  mortification  to  find, 
at  the  end  of  every  day,  that  we  were  losing  ground ;  for, 
notwithstanding  our  utmost  exertions,  and  keeping  on 
the  most  advantageous  tacks  ,  we  did  little  better  than 
drift  before  the  wind.  On  Tuesday  the  22d  of  April,  we 
had  eight  down  on  the  sick  list,  and  the  rest  of  the  people, 
though  in  good  health,  were  greatly  fatigued;  but  I  saw, 
with  much  concern,  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  pas- 
sage this  way  to  theSociety-Islands,for  we  had  now  been 
thirty  days  in  a  tempestuous  ocean.  Thus  the  season  was 
too  far'advancedfor  us  toexpect  better  weather  to  enable 
us  to  double  Cape  Horn ;  and,  from  these  and  other  con- 
siderations ,  I  ordered  the  helm  to  be  put  a-weatlier,  and 
bore  away  for  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  to  the  great  joy  of 
every  one  on  board. 

We  came  to  an  anchor  on  Friday  the  23d  of  May,  in 
Simon's  Bay,  at  the  Cape,  after  a  tolerable  run.  The 
ship  required  complete  caulking,  for  she  had  become  so 
leaky ,  that  we  were  obliged  to  pump  hourly  in  our  pas- 
sage from  Cape  Horn.  The  sails  and  rigging  also  requir- 
ed repair,  and,  on  examining  the  provisions,  a  consi- 
derable quantity  was  found  damaged. 

Having  remained  thirty -eight  days  at  this  place,  and 
my  people  having  received  all  the  advantage  that  could  be 
derived  from  refreshments  of  every  kind  that  could  be 
met  with,  we  sailed  on  the  1st  of  July. 

A  gale  of  wind  blew  on  the  2(Hh,  with  a  high  sea;  it  in- 
creased after  noon  with  such  violence,  that  the  ship  was 
driven  almost  forecastle  under,  before  we  could  get  the 
sails  clewed  up.  The  lower  yards  were  lowered,  and  the 
top-gallant-mast  got  down  upon  deck,  which  relieved  her 
much.  We  lay  to  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  bore  away 
under  a  reefed  foresail.  The  sea  still  running  high,  in  the 
afternoon  it  became  very  unsafe  to  stand  on;  we  therefore 
lay  to  allnight,  without  any  accident,  excepting  that  a  man 
at  the  steerage  was  thrown  over  the  wheel  and  much  bruis- 
ed. Towards  noon  the  violence  of  the  storm  abated,  and 
we  again  bore  away  under  the  reefed  foresail. 

In  a  few  days  we  passed  the  Islands  of  St  Paul,  where 
there  is  good  fresh  water,  as  I  was  informed  by  a  Dutch 
captain,  and  also  a  hot  springy,  which  boils  fish  as  com- 
pletely as  if  done  by  a  fire.  Approaching  to  Van  Diemen's 
land,  we  had  much  bad  weather ,  with  snow  and  hail,  but 
nothing  was  seen  to  indicate  our  vicinity,  on  the  Idth  of 
August,  except  a  seal,  which  appeared  at  the  distance  of 
twenty  leagues  from  it  We  anchored  in  Adventure-Bay 
on  Wednesday  the  20th. 

In  our  passage  hither  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the 
iRfiads  were  chiefly  from  the  westward,  with  very  boister- 


ous weather.  The  approach  of  strong^  southerly  windi  ii 
announced  by  many  birds  of  the  albatross  or  peterd  tribe ; 
and  the  abatement  of  the  gale,  or  a  shift  of  wind  to  the 
northward,  by  their  keeping  away.  The  thermometer  also 
varies  five  or  six  degrees  in  its  height,  when  a  change  of 
these  winds  may  be  expected.  In  the  land  surroondirg 
Adventure- Bay  are  many  forest- trees  one  hondred  and 
fifty  feet  high ;  we  saw  one  which  measured  above  thirty* 
three  feet  in  girth.  We  observed  several  eagles,  some 
beautiful  blue-plnmaged  herons,  and  panroqnets  in^great 
variety.  The  natives  not  appearing,  we  went  in  search  of 
them  towards  Capo  Frederic -Henry.  Soon  after,  doae 
to  the  shore,  for  it  was  impossible  to  land,  we  heard  tbdr 
voices,  like  the  cackling  of  geese,  and  twenty  persona 
came  out  of  the  woods.  We  threw  trinkets  ashore,  tied 
up  in  parcels,  which  they  would  not  open  oat  nntillmade 
an  appearance  of  leaving  them:  they  thendidao,  and,  tak- 
ing the  articles  out,  put  them  on  tlieir  heads.  On  firstcom- 
ing  insight,  they  made  a  prodigious  clattering  in  thrir 
speech,  and  held  their  arms  over  their  heads.  They  spoke 
so  quick  that  it  was  impossible  to  catch  one  single  word 
they  uttered.  Their  colour  is  of  a  dull  black;  their  skin 
scarified  about  the  breast  and  shoulders.  Onewas  distin- 
guished by  his  body  being  coloured  with  red  ochre,  but 
all  the  others  were  painted  black,  with  a  kind  of  soot,  so 
thickly  laid  over  their  faces  and  shoulders,  that  it  vras dif- 
ficult to  ascertain  what  they  were  like.  On  Thursday,  the 
4th  of  September,  we  sailed,  out  of  Adventure-Bay,  steer- 
ing firsttowards  the  east-south-east,  and  then  to  the  north* 
ward  of  east,  when,  on  the  19th,  we  came  in  sight  of  ados- 
ter  of  small  rocky  islands,  which  I  named  Boonty  Isles. 
Soon  afterwards  we  frequently  observed  the  sea,  in  the 
night- time,  to^be  covered  by  luminous  spots,  caused  by 
amazing  quantities  of  small  blubbers  or  medusas,  whidi 
emit  a  light,  like  the  blaze  of  a  candle,  from  tlie  strings  or 
filaments  extending  from  them,  while  the  rest  of  the  body 
continues  perfectly  dark. 

We  discovered  the  island  of  Otaheite  on  the  26tit,  and, 
before  casting  anchor  next  morning  in  Matavai  Bay,  such 
numbers  of  canoes  had  come  off,  that,  after  the  natives  as- 
certained we  were  friends,  they  came  on  board,  and  crowd* 
ed  the  deck  so  much,  that  in  ten  minutes  I  could  scarce 
find  my  own  people.  The  whole  distance  which  the  ship 
had  run ,  in  direct  and  contrary  courses,  from  the  time  of 
leaving  England  until  reaching  Otaheite,  was  twenty*se^ 
ven  thousand  and  eighty-six  miles,  which,  on  an  average, 
was  one  hundred  and  eight  miles  each  twenty-four  hours. 
Here  we  lost  our  surgeon  on  the  9th  of  December.  Of  kite 
he  had  scarcely  ever  stirred  out  of  the  aJ>in,  though  not 
apprehended  to  be  in  a  dangerous  state.  Nevertheless; 
appearing  worse  than  usual  intbe  evening,  he  was  remov- 
ed where  he  could  obtain  more  air,  but  without  any  bene- 
fit, for  he  died  in  an  hour  afterwards.  This  onfortnnate 
man  drank  very  hard,  and  was  so  averse  to  exen^se,  that 
he  would  never  be  prevailed  on  to  take  half  a  dozen  tuns 
on  deck  at  a  time,  during  all  the  course  of  the  voyage.  He 
was  buried  on  shore. 

On  Monday,  the  5th  of  January,  the  small  cotter  was 
missed,  of  which  I  was  immediately  apprized.  The  ship's 
company  being  mustered,  we  found  three  men  absrat, 
who  had  carried  it  off.  They  had  taken  with  them  eigkt 
stand  of  arms  and  ammunition;  but  with  regard  to  their 
plan,  every  one  on  board  seemed  to  be  quite  ignorant  I 
therefore  went  on  shore,  and  engaged  all  the  chiefe  to  as- 
sist in  recovering  both  the  boat  and  the  deserters.  Accord- 
ingly ,  the  former  was  brought  back  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  by  five  of  the  natives;  but  the  men  were  not  takes  un- 
til nearly  three  weeks  afterwards.  Learning  the  place  wheiv 
they  were,  in  a  different  quarter  of  the  island  of  Otabeile^ 
I  went  thither  in  the  cutter,  thinking  there  would  be  ao 
great  difficulty  in  securing  them  with  the  assistance  of  Ike 
natives.  However,  they  heard  of  my  arrival :  and  when  I 
was  near  a  house  in  wluch  they  were,  they  cameout  want- 
ing their  fire-arms,  and  delivered  themselves  np.  Some 
of  the  chiefs  had  formerly  seized  and  bound  these  dcMtt- 


NOTES  TO  THE  ISLAND. 


759 


tn;  but  had  been  prevailed  on,  by  fair  promises  of  re-* 
arning  peaceably  to  the  ship,  to  release  them.  But  finding 
in  opportunity  again  to  get  possession  of  their  arms,  they 
ct  the  natives  at  defiance. 

The  object  of  the  voyage  being  now  completed,  all  the 
»read -fruit  plants,  to  the  number  of  one  thousand  and 
ifteen,  were  got  on  board  on  Tuesday,  the  31st  of  March, 
besides  these,  we  had  collected  many  other  plants,some  of 
hem  bearing  the  finest  fruits  in  the  world;  and  valuable, 
rom  affording  brilliant  dyes^  and  for  various  properties 
resides.  At  sunset  of  the  4th  of  April ,  we  made  sail  from 
>taheite,  bidding  farewell  to  an  island  where  for  twenty- 
hree  weeks  we  had  been  treated  with  the  utmost  affection 
uid  regard,  and  which  seemed  to  increase  in  proportion 
o  our  stay.  That  we  were  not  insensible  to  their  kindness, 
he  succeeding  circumstances  sufficiently  proved ;  for  to 
he  friendly  and  endearing  behaviour  of  these  people  may 
»e  ascribed  the  motives  inciting  an  event  that  effected  the 
uin  of  our  expedition,  which  there  was  every  reason  to 
relieve  would  have  been  attended  with  the  most  favour- 
^ie  issue. 

Kext  morning  we  got  sight  of  the  island  Huaheine ;  and 
i  double  canoe  soon  coming  along  side,  containing  ten  na* 
vreSf  I  saw  among  them  a  young  man  who  recollected  me, 
ind  called  me  by  my  name.  I  had  been  here  in  the  year 
1780,  with  Captain  Cook,  in  the  Resolution.  A  few  days 
kilter  sailing  from  this  island,  the  weather  became  squally, 
ind  a  thick  body  of  black  clouds  collected  in  the  east  A 
irater-gpout  was  in  a  short  time  seen  at  no  great  distance 
rom  us,  which  appeared  to  great  advantage  from  the  dark- 
less of  the  clouds  behind  it  As  nearly  as  I  could  judge,the 
ipper  part  was  about  two  feet  in  diameter,  and  the  lower 
ibout  eight  inches.  Scarcely  had  I  made  these  remarks, 
vhen  1  observed  that  it  was  rapidly  advancing  towards 
he  ship.  We  immediately  altered  our  course,  and  took 
a  all  the  sails  except  the  foresail;  soon  after  which  it 
>assed  within  ten  yards  of  the  stern,  with  a  rustling  noise 
Mit  without  our  feeling  the  Jeast  effect  from  its  being  so 
lear.  It  seemed  to  be  travelling  at  the  rate,  of  about  ten 
niiesan  hour,in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  it  dispersed 
a  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  passing  us.  It  is  impossible 
o  say  what  injury  we  should  have  received,  had  it  passed 
iirectly  over  us.  Masts,  I  imagine,  might  have  been  car- 
ied  away,  but  I  do  not  apprehend  that  it  would  have  can- 
led  the  loss  of  the  ship. 

Passing  several  islands  on  the  way,  we  anchored  at  An- 
lamooka,  on  the  23d  of  April;  and  an  old  lame  man  cal- 
ed  Tepa,  whom  I  had  known  here  in  1777,  and  imme- 
iiately  recollected,  came  on  board,  along  with  others, 
torn  different  islands  in  tlie  vicinity.  They  were  desirous 
o  see  the  8bip,and,on  being  taken  below,  where  the  bread- 
rait -plants  were  arranged ,  they  testified  great  surprise. 
W  few  of  these  being  decayed,  we  went  on  shore  to  procure 
lome  in  their  place. 

The  natives  exhibited  numerous  marks  of  the  peculiar 
Dourning  which  they  express  on  losing  their  relatives; 
meh  as  bloody  temples,  their  heads  b&ng  deprived  of 
nost  of  the  baijr,  and,  what  was  worse,  almost  the  whole 
if  them  had  lost  some  of  their  fingers.  Several  fine  boys, 
lot  above  six  years  old,  had  lost  both  their  little  fingers; 
md  several  of  the  men,  besides  these,  had  parted  with  the 
ttiddle  finger  of  the  right  hand. 

The  chiefs  went  off"  with  me  to  dinner,  and  we  carried 
m  a  brisk  trade  for  yams;  we  also  got  plantains  and 
Mread-frutt  But  the  yams  were  in  great  abundance,  and 
rery  fine  and  large.  One  of  them  weighed  above  forty- 
hre  pounds.  Sailing  canoes  came,  some  of  which  con- 
ained  not  less  than  ninety  passengers.  Such  a  number 
»f  them  gradually  arrived  from  diffierent  islands,  that  it 
iras  impossible  to  get  any  thing  done,  the  multitude  be- 
atme  so  great,and  there  was  no  chief  of  sufficient  author- 
ty  to  command  the  whole.  I  therefore  ordered -a  water- 
ng  partv,  then  employed,  to  come  on  board,  and  sailed 
HI  Snmuy,  the  26tb  of  April 


We  kept  near  the  island  of  Kotoo  all  the  afternoon  of 
Monday,  in  hopes  that  some  canoes  would  come  off  to 
the  ship,  but  in  this  we  were  disappointed.  The  wind 
being  northerly,  we  steered  to  the  westward  in  the  even- 
ing, to  pass  south  of  Tofoa;  and  I  gave  directions  for 
this  course  to  be  continued  during  the  night  The  master 
had  the  first  watch,  the  gunner  the  middle  watch,  and 
Mr.  Christian  the  morning-watch.  This  was  the  turn  of 
duty  for  the  night 

Hitherto  the  voyage  had  advanced  in  a  course  of  un* 
interrupted  prosperity,  and  had  been  attended  with  cir- 
cumstances equally  pleasing  and  satisfactory.  But  a  very 
different  scene  was  now  to  be  disclosed;  a  conspiracy 
had  been  formed,  which  was  to  render  all  our  past  labour 
productive  only  of  misery  and  distress;  and  it  had  been 
concerted  with  so  much  secrecy  and  circumspection,  that 
no  one  circumstance  escaped  to  betray  the  impending 
calamity. 

On  the  night  of  Monday,  the  watch  was  set  as  I  have 
described.  Just  before  sunrise,  on  Tuesday  morning, 
while  I  was  yet  asleep,  Mr.  Christian,  with  the  master- 
at-arms,  gunner's  mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  seaman, 
came  into  my  cabin,  and,  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands  with 
a  cord  behind  my  back;  threatening  me  with  instant 
death  if  I  spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  I  nevertheless 
called  out  as  loud  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of  assistance;  but 
the  officers  not  of  their  party  were  already  secured  by 
sentinels  at  their  doors.  At  my  own  cabin-door  were  three 
men,  besides  the  four  within;  all  except  Christian  had 
muskets  and  bayonets;  he  had  only  a  cutlass.  I  was 
dragged  out  of  bed,  and  forced  on  deck  in  my  shirt,  suffer- 
ing great  pain  in  the  mean  time  from  the  tightness  with 
which  my  hands  were  tied.  On  demanding  the  reason  of 
such  violence,  the  only  answer  was  abuse  for  not  holding 
my  tongue.  The  master,  the  gunner,  surgeon,  master's 
mate,  and  Nelson,  the  gardener,  were  kept  confined  be- 
low, and  the  fore-hatchway  was  guarded  by  sentinels. 
The  boatswain  and  carpenter,  and  also  the  clerk,  were 
allowed  to  come  on  d^k,  where  they  Saw  me  standing 
abaft  the  mizenmast,  with  my  hands  tied  behind  my  back, 
under  a  guard,  \iith  Christian  at  their  head.  The  boat- 
swun  was  then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the  launch ,  accom- 
panied by  a  threat,  if  he  did  not  do  it  instantly,  to  take 

CARE  OF  HIMSELF. 

The  boat  being  hoisted  out,  Mr.  Hay  ward  and  Mr. 
Hallet,  two  of  the  midshipmen,  and  Mr.  Samuel,  the  clerk, 
were  ordered  into  it  I  demanded  the  intention  of  giving 
this  order,  and  endeavoured  to  persuade  the  people  near 
me  not  to  persist  in  such  acts  of  violence;  but  it  was  to 
no  effect;  for  the  constant  answer  was,  ^Hold  your 
tongue.  Sir,  or  you  are  dead  this  moment" 

The  master  had  by  this  time  sent,  requesting  tliat  he 
might  come  on  deck,  which  was  permitted;  but  he  was 
soon  ordered  back  again  to  his  cabin.  My  exettions  to 
turn  the  tide  of  affairs  were  continued;  when  Christian, 
changing  the  cutlass  he  held  for  a  bayonet,  and  holding 
me  by  the  cord  about  my  hands  with  a  strong  gripe,threa- 
tcned  me  with  immediate  death  if  I  would  not  be  quiet; 
and  the  villains  around  me  had  their  pieces  cocked  and 
bayonets  fixed. 

Certain  individuals  were  called  on  to  get  into  the  boat, 
and  were  hurried  over  the  ship's  side;  whence  I  conclu- 
ded, that  along  with  them  I  was  to  be  set  adrift.  Another 
eflfort  to  bring  about  a  change  produced  nothing  but  me- 
naces of  having  my  brains  blown  out 

The  boatswain  and  those  seamen  who  were  to  be  put 
into  the  boat,  were  allowed  to  collect  twine,  can vass,lines, 
sails,  cordage,  an  eight-and-twenty  gallon  cask  of  water; 
and  Mr.  Samuel  got  150  pounds  of  bread,  with  a  small 
quantity  of  mm  and  wine;  also  a  quadrant  and  compass; 
but  he  was  prohibited,  on  pain  of  death,  to  touch  any 
map  or  astronomical  book,  and  any  instrument,  or  any 
of  my  surveys  and  drawings. 

The  mutineers  having  thus  forced  those  of  the  seamen 
whom  they  wished  to  get  rid  of  into  the  boat,  Christiar  ' 


760 


NOTES  TO  TH£  ISLAND. 


directed  a  dram  to  be  served  to  each  of  his  crew.  I  then 
aobappily  saw  that  nothiug  could  be  done  to  recover  the 
ship.  The  officers  were  next  called  on  deck,  and  forced 
over  the  ship's  side  into  the  boat,  while  I  was  kept  apart 
from  every  one  abaft  the  mizen-mast  Christian,  armed 
with  a  bayonet,  held  the  cord  fastening^  my  hands,  and 
the  guard  around  me  stood  with  their  pieces  cocked ;  but 
on  my  daring  the  ungrateful  wretches  to  fire,  they  un- 
cocked them.  Isaac  Martin,  one  of  them,  I  saw  had  an 
inclination  to  assist  me;  and  as  he  fed  me  with  shadock, 
my  lips  being  quite  parched,  we  explained  each  other's 
sentiments  by  looks.  But  tliis  was  observed,  and  he  was 
removed*  He  then  got  into  the  boat,  attempting  to  leave 
the  ship;  however,  he  was  compelled  to  return.  Some 
others  were  also  kept  contrary  to  their  inclination. 

It  appeared  to  me,  that  Christian  was  some  time  in 
doubt  whether  he  should  keep  the  carpenter  or  his  mates. 
At  length  he  determined  on  the  latter,  and  the  carpenter 
was  ordered  into  the  boat  He  was  permitted,  though  not 
without  opposition,  to  take  his  tool-chest 

Mr.  Samuel  secured  my  journal  and  commission,  with 
some  important  ship-papers;  this  he  did  with  great  reso- 
lution, though  strictly  watched.  He  attempted  to  save  the 
time-keeper,  and  a  box  with  my  surveys,  drawings,  and 
remarks  for  fifteen  years  past,  which  were  very  numerous, 
when  he  was  hurried  away  with  —  "Damn  your  eyes, 
you  are  well  ofl"  to  get  w  hat  you  have." 

Much  altercation  took  place  among  the  mutinous  crew 
during  the  transaction  of  this  whole  alTair.  Some  swore, 
'TU  be  damned  if  he  does  not  find  his  way  ho^e,  if  he 
gets  any  thing  with  him/'  meaning  me;  and  when  the 
carpenter's  chest  was  carrying  away,  **Damn  my  eyes, 
he  will  have  a  vessel  built  in  a  month;''  while  others 
ridiculed  the  helpless  situation  of  tbe  boat,  which  was 
very  deep  in  the  water,  and  had  so  little  room  for  those 
who  were  in  her.  As  for  Christian,  he  seemed  as  if  medi- 
tating destruction  on  himself  and  every  one  else. 

I  asked  for  arms,  but  the  mutineers  laughed  at  me,  and 
said  I  was  well  acquainted  with  the  people  among  whom 
I  was  going;  four  cutlasses,  however,  were  thrown  into 
the  boat,  after  we  were  veered  astern. 

The  officers  and  men  being  in  the  boat,  they  only  wait- 
ed for  me,  of  which  the  master-at-arms  informed  Chri- 
stian, who  tlien  said,  "Come,  Captain  Bligh,yottr  ofiioers 
and  men  are  now  in  the  boat,  and  you  must  go  with  them; 
if  you  attempt  to  nwke  the  least  resistance,  you  will  in- 
stantly be  put  to  death;"  and  without  further  ceremony, 
I  was  forced  over  the  side  by  a  tribe  of  armed  ruffians, 
where  they  untied  my  hands.  Being  in  the  boat,  we  were 
veered  astern  by  a  rope.  A  few  pieces  of  pork  were  thibwn 
to  us,  also  the  four  cutlasses.  The  armourer  and  carpenter 
then  called  out  to  me  to  remember  that  they  had  no  hand 
in  the  transaction.  After  having  been  kept  some  time  to 
make  sport  for  these  unfeeling  wretches,  and  having 
undergone  muph  f  idiciile,  we  were  at  length  oast  adrift  in 
the  open  ocean, 

Eighteen  persons  were  with  me  in  the  boat, —  the 
master,  acting  surgeon,  botanist,  gunner,  boatswain,  car- 
penter, master,  and  quarter-master's  mate,  two  quarter- 
masters, the  sail-maker,  two  cooks,  my  clerk,  the  but- 
cher, and  a  boy.  There  remained  on  board,  Fletcher 
Christian,  the  master's  mate;  Peter  Haywood,  Edward 
Young,  George  Stewart,  midshipmen;  the  master-at- 
arms,  gunner  s  mate,  boatswain's  mate,  gardener,  ar- 
mourer, carpenter's  mate,  carpenter's  crew,  and  fourteen 
seamen,  being  altogether  the  most  able  men  of  the  ship's 
company.  Having  little  or  no  wind,  we  rowed  pretty  fast 
towards  the  island  of  Tofoa,  which  bore  north-east  abou( 
ten  leagues  distant  The  ship  while  in  sight  steered  west- 
north-west,  but  this  I  considered  only  as  a  feint,  for  when 
we  were  sent  away,'^Huzza  forOtaheite !"  was  frequently 
heard  among  the  mutineers. 

Christian,  the  chief  of  tliem,  was  of  a  respectable  family 


in  the  north  of  England.  This  was  tbe  third  voyige  he 
had  made  with  me.  Notwithstanding  the  roughness  witb 
which  I  was  treated,  the  remembrance  of  past  kindaesses 
produced  some  remorse  in  hiuL  While  they  were  fordng 
me  out  of  the  ship,I  asked  him  whether  this  was  a  proper 
return  for  the  many  instances  he  bad  experienced  of  my 
firicndship?  He  appeared  disturbed  at  tbe  question,  and 
answered,  with  much  emotion,  **That  —  Captain  BUgh-^ 
that  ia  the  thing  —  I  am  in  belt  —  I  am  in  hell."  His 
abilities  to  take  charge  of  the  third  watch,  as  I  had  ao  £- 
vided  the  ship's  company,  were  fully  equal  to  tlic  task. 
Haywood  was  also  of  a  respectable  family  in  the  aorth  of 
England,  and  a  young  man  of  abilities,  as  well  as  CJiri- 
stian.  These  two  had  been  objects  of  my  particular  regard 
and  attention,  and  I  had  taken  great  pains  to  instruct 
them,  having  entertained  hopes  that,  as  professional  men, 
they  would  have  become  a  credit  to  their  country.  Youi^ 
was  well  recommended;  and  Stewart  of  creditable  parents 
in  the  Orkneys,  at  which  place,  on  the  return  of  the  Be- 
solution  from  the  South  Seas  in  1780,  we  rccaTcd  so 
many  civilities,  that  in  consideration  of  these  alone  I 
should  gladly  have  taken  him  with  me.  But  he  had  al- 
ways borne  a  good  character. 

When  I  had  time  to  reflect,  an  inward  satis&cdon  pre- 
vented the  depression  of  my  spirits.  Yet,  a  few  honrs 
before,  my  situation  had  been  peculiarly  flattering;  I  had 
a  ship  in  tbe  most  perfect  order,  stored  with  every  neces- 
sary, both  for  health  and  service;  the  object  of  the  voyage 
was  attained,  and  two-thirds  of  it  now  completed.  Tlie 
remaining  part  had  every  prospect  of  success.  It  will 
naturally  be  asked,  what  could  be  the  cause  of  such  a  re- 
volt? In  answer,  1  can  only  conjecture  that  the  muti- 
neers had  flattered  themselves  with  the  hope  of  a  happier 
life  among  the  Otaheitians  than  they  could  possibly 
enjoy  in  England;  which,  joined  to  some  female  con- 
nexions, most  probably  occasioned  the  whole  transaction. 
The  women  of  Otabeite  are  handsome,  mild,  and  cheer- 
ful in  manners  and  conversation;  possessed  of  great  sen- 
sibility, and  have  sufficient  delicacy  to  make  them  be  ad- 
mired and  beloved.  The  chiefs  were  so  much  attached  to 
our  people,  that  they  rather  encouraged  their  stay  among 
them  than  otherwise  and  even  made  them  promises  of 
large  possessions.  Under  these,and  many  other  concomi- 
tant circumstances,  it  ought  hardly  to  be  tbe  subject  of 
surprise  that  a  set  of  sailors,  most  of  them  void  of  con- 
nexions, should  be  led  away,  where  they  had  the  power 
of  fixing  themselves  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  in  one  of  the 
finest  islands  in  the  world,  where  there  was  no  necesnty 
to  labour,  and  where  the  allurements  of  dissipation  are 
beyond  any  conception  that  can  be  formed  of  it  The  nt- 
most,  however,  that  a  Conmiander  eould  have  expected, 
was  desertions,  such  as  have  already  happened  more  or 
less  in  the  South  Seas,  and  not  an  act  of  open  mntiny. 

But  the  secrecy  of  this  mutiny  surpasses  beliefl  IW- 
teen  of  the  party  who  were  now  with  me  had  always  fi- 
ved  forward  among  the  seamen;  yet  neither  tliey,  nor  the 
messmates  of  Christian,  Stewart,  Haywood,  and  Yoin^, 
had  ever  observed  any  circumstance  to  excite  sospicaoa, 
of  what  was  plotting;  and  it  is  not  wonderful  if  1  fell  a 
sacrifice  to  it,  my  mind  being  entirely  free  from  snspiooB. 
Perhaps,  had  marines  been  on  board,  a  sentinel  at  oiy 
cabin-door  might  have  prevented  it;  for  I  constiiidlf 
slept  with  tlie  door  open,  that  the  officer  of  tlie  watefc 
might  have  access  to  me  on  all  occasions.  If  the  innliay 
had  been  occasioned  by  any  grievances,  either  real  or 
imaginary,  I  must  have  discovered  symptoms  of  dtsoon- 
tent,  which  would  have  put  me  on  my  guard;  but  it  was 
far  otherwise.  With  Christian,  in  particular,  I  was  on  the 
most  friendly  terms;  tliat  very  day  he  waa  engaged  to 
have  dined  with  me;  and  the  preceding  night  he  excascd 
himself  from  snpping  with  mc  on  pretence  of  indigo- 
sition,  for  which  I  fclt  concerned^  bf^ving  no  i 
of  his  hoifour  or  integrity'. 


761 


NOTES  TO  MANFRED. 


TO*  suhbow^s  rajfs  itill  arch 

nv  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven,    [p.  380. 

This  Iris  is  formed  by  the  rays  of  the  sod  over  the  lower 

part  of  the  Alpine  torrents:  it  is  exactly  like  a  rainbow, 

oome  down  to  pay  a  visit,  and  so  close  that  you  may  walk 

into  it:  —  this  effect  lasts  till  noon. 

He  who  from  out  theirJovnUnn^dweUingt  raited 
Erot  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara,  [p.  331 . 

The  philosopher  lamblichas.  The  story  of  the  raising 
of  Eros  and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  life,  by  Bona- 
pitts.  It  is  well  told. 

She  replied 

In  words  of  dubious  import,  hutjhilfiltd.   [p.  33 1 . 
The  story  of  Pansanias,  king  of  Sparta  (who  command- 


ed the  Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Platea,  and  afterwards  pe« 
rished  for  an  attempt  to  betray  the  Lacedemonians),  and 
Cleonice,  is  told  in  Platarch's  life  of  Cimon;  and  in  the 
Laconics  of  Pansauias  the  Sophist,  in  his  description  of 
Greece. 

T%e  giani-^ons 

Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  '[p.  836. 

<*That  the  Sotu  ofGodsAVt  the  daughters  of  men,  that 
they  were  fair." 

'*Thcre  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days;  and  also 
after  tliat,  when  the  Sons  of  God  oame  in  unto  the  daugh- 
ters of  men ,  and  they  bare  children  to  them,  the  same  bo- 
came  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."-* 
Genesis,  ch.  vi,  2. 4. 


NOTES  TO  MARINO  FALIERO. 


I  smote  the  iardjf  bishop  at  TVeviso. 
An  historical  fact 


[p.  346. 


A  gondola  with  one  oar  onfy.  [p.  347. 

A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  bat  is  as  easily 

rowed  with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though  of  course  not  so 

swiftly),  and  often  isso  ft'om  motives  of  privacy,  and  (rinoe 

the  decay  of  Venice)  of  economy. 


They  think  themselves 
Engaged  m  secret  to  the  Signorg, 
An  historical  fact 

Within  ourpalaee^prt/einets  at  San  Polo, 


[p.  36a 


tP. 


The  Doge's  private  fiunily-palaoe. 

"Signor  of  the  Night/'  [p.  306. 

"I  Signori  di  Notte"  held  an  important  charge  in  the 
old  Republia 

Festal  Thursdag.  [p.  368. 

"Giovedi  Grasso/'  'fat  or  greasy  Thursday,"  which  I 
cannot  literally  translate  in  the  text,  was  the  day. 

Guards!  let  their  mouths  be  gagg'd,  even  in  the  act, 

[p.  368. 
Historical  fact 


Say,  conseriptfathers,  shall  she  be  admitted! 

^370. 
man, 
of  "Conscript  Fathers." 

'  Tis  with  age,  then,  f  p.  373. 

This  was  the  actual  reply  of  Bailll,  maire  of  Paris,  to  a 
Frenchman  who  made  him  the  same  reproach  on  his  way 
to  execution,  in  the  earliest  part  of  their  revolution.  I  find 
in  reading  over  (since  the  completion  of  this  tragedy),  for 
the  first  time  these  six  years,  "Venice  Preserved,"  a  simi- 
lar reply  on  a  different  occasion  by  Renault,  and  other 
coincidences  airising  from  the  subject  I  need  hardly  re- 
mind the  gentlest  reader,  that  such  coinddences  must  be 
accidental,  from  the  very  facility  of  their  detection  by  re- 
ference to  so  popular  a  play  on  the  stage  and  in  the  closet 
as  Otway's  chef-d^ontore. 

Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people  I 

[p.  374. 
Should  the  dramatic  picture  seem  harsh ,  let  the  reader 
look  to  the  historical ,  of  the  period  prophesied,  or  rather 
of  the  few  years  preceding  tluit  period.  Voltaire  calcula- 
ted their  "uo8trebenemeriteMeretrioi"at  12,000  of  regu- 
lars, without  including  volunteers  and  local  militia,  on 
48* 


762 


APPENDIX  TO  MARINO  FALIERO. 


what  authority  I  know  not;  but  it  is  perhaps  the  only  part 
of  the  population  not  decreased. 

Then,  when  the  Hebrew' $  in  thypulacei. 

[p.  374. 
The  chief  palaces  on  theBrentanow  belong  to  the  Jews, 
who  in  the  earUer  times  of  the  Republic  were  only  allowed 
to  inhabit  Mestri,  and  not  to  enter  the  city  of  Venice.  The 
whole  oommeKoe  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  and  Greeks, 
and  the  Huns  form  the  garrison. 


Thou  den  ofdrunkartU  with  the  hlood  ofprmces. 


rp.374. 
bai 


Of  the  first  fifty  Doges^^ve  abdicated— ^90  were  banish- 
ed with  their  eyes  put  out  — Jive  were  massacred— and 
nine  deposed;  so  that  nineteen  out  of  fifty  lost  the  throne 
by  violence,  besides  two  who  fell  in  battle:  this  occurred 
long  previous  to  the  reign  of  Marino  Faliero.  One  of  his 
more  immediate  predecessors,  Andrea  Dandolo,  died  of 
vexation.  Marino  Faliero  himself  perished  as  related. 
Amongst  his  successors,  Fotcari,  after  seeing  his  son  re- 
peatedly tortured  and  banished,  was  deposed,  and  died  of 
breakinga  blood-vessel,  on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark's 
toll  for  the  election  of  his  successor.  Morosini  was  im- 
peached for  the  loss  of  Candia ;  but  this  was  previous  to 
bis  dukedom,  during  which  he  conquered  the  Morea,  and 
was  styled  the  Peloponnesian.  Faliero  raig^it  truly  say, 

<'Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes!" 

APPlENDIX. 
I. 

MCCCLIT. 

MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 

On  the  eleventh  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1354,  Marino  Faliero  was  elected  and  chosen  to  be  the 
Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Venice.  He  was  Count  of 
Valdemarino,  in  the  Marches  of  Treviso ,  and  a  Knight 
and  a  wealthy  man  to  boot  As  soon  as  the  election  was 
completed,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Great  Council,  that  a  de- 
putation of  twelve  should  be  despatched  to  Marino  Fa- 
liero the  Duke,  who  was  then  on  his  way  from  Rome;  for, 
when  he  was  cliosen,  he  was  Embassador  at  the  court  of 
the  Holy  Father,  at  Rome,— the  Holy  Father  himself  field 
his  court  at  Avignon.  When-Messer  Marino  Faliero  the 
Duke  was  about  to  land  in  this  city,  on  the  fifth  day  of  Oc- 
tober, 1354,  a  thick  haze  came  on,  and  darkened  tlie  air; 
and  he  was  enforced  to  land  on  the  place  of  Saint  Mark, 
between  the  two  columns  on  the  spot  where  evil  doers  are 
put  to  death;  and  all  thought  that  this  was  the  worst  of 
tokens. —Nor  must  Ifoiget  to  write  that  which  I  have  read 
in  a  chronicle.  — When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  waspo- 
desta  and  Captain  of  Treviso,  the  Bishop  delayed  coming 
in  with  the  holy  sacrament,  on  a  day  wlien  a  procession 
was  to  take  place.  Now  the  said  Marino  Faliero  was  so 
very  proud  and  wrathful,  that  he  bufletcd  tiie  Bishop,  and 
almost  struck  him  to  the  ground.  And,  tliercfore,  Heaven 
allowed  Marino  Faliero  to  go  out  of  his  right  senses,  in 
order  that  he  might  bring  himself  to  an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  the  Dukedom  during  nine 
months  and  six  days,  he  being  wicked  and  ambidoua, 
sought  to  make  himself  lord  of  Venice,  in xtbe manner 
which  1  have  read  in  an  ancient  chronicle.  When  tlie 
Thursday  arrived  upon  which  tliey  were  wont  to  hunt  the 
Bull,  the  finll-hunt  took  place  as  usual;  and  according  to 
the  usage  of  those  times,  after  the  Bull-bunt  bad  ended, 
they  all  proceeded  unto  the  palace  of  the  Duke,  and  as- 
sembled together  in  one  of  his  halls;  and  they  disported 
themselves  witli  the  women.  And  until  the  firstbell  tolled 
they  danced,  and  then  a  banquet  was  served  up.  My  Lord 
the  Duke  paid  the  expenses  thereof ,  provided  he  had  a 
Duchess ,  and  after  the  banquet  they  aH  returned  to  their 
homes. 

Now  to  this  feast  there  came  a  certain  Ser  MicJiele 
Steno,  a  gentleman  of  poor  estate  and  very  young,  but 


crafty  aoj^aring,  and  who  loved  one  of  tiie  damseb  of 
the  DucWw.  —  Ser  Michele  stood  amongst  the  wooea 
upon  the  solajo ;  and  he  behaved  indiscreetly,  so  that vy 
Lord  the  Duke  ordered  that  he  should  be  kicked  olTflK 
solajo;  and  tlie  Esquires  of  the  Duke  flung  him  dom 
from  the  solajo  accordingly.  Ser  Michele  Oioaght  that 
such  an  afiront  was  beyond  all  bearing :  and  when  tiie 
feast  was  over,  and  ail  other  persons  had  left  the  pa- 
lace, he,  continuing  heated  with  anger,  went  to  the  hall  of 
audience,  and  wrote  certain  unseemly  words  relatioi^  to 
the  Duke  and  the  Duchess^  upon  the  chair  in  which  the 
Duke  was  used  to  sit;  for  in  those  days  the  Duke  did  not 
cover  his  chair  witli  cloth  of  scndal,  but  he  sat  in  a  chair 
of  wood.  Ser  Michele  wrote  thereon :—  Marin  FeiUer^  Uu 
huebemd  of  the  fair  wife;  others  hiss  her,  hut  he  keeps  her. 
In  the  morning  the  words  Avere  seen,  and  the  matter  was 
considered  to  be  very  scandalous;  and  the  Senate  com- 
manded the  Avvogadori  of  the  Commonwealth  to  proceed 
therein  with  the  greatest  diligence.  A  largesse  of  great 
amount  was  immediately  proffered  by  the  ATVc^adori  in 
order  to  discover  who  had  written  tiicse  worda.  Aad  at 
length  it  was  known  tfaatMichele  Steno  had  written  then. 
It  was  resolved  in  the  Council  of  Forty  that  he  should  he 
arrested ;  and  he  then  confessed ,  that  in  a  fit  of  vexatioa 
and  spite,  occasioned  by  his  being  thrust  oif  the  solajo  ia 
the  presence  of  his  mistress,  he  had  written  the  words. 
Therefore  the  Council  debatod  tliereon.  And  the  Coooril 
took  his  youth  into  consideration,  and  that  he  wasalofcr, 
and  therefore  they  adjudged  that  he  should  be  kept  ■ 
close  confinement  daring  two  months,  and  thatafterwntb 
he  should  be  banished  from  Venice  and  the  state  dorii^ 
one  year.  In  consequence  of  this  merciful  senfcooe  the 
Duke  became  exceedingly  wroth,  it  appearing  to  him  thai 
the  Council  had  not  acted  in  suchamanner  aswas  reqoir* 
ed  by  the  respect  due  to  his  ducal  dignity ;  and  he  smA 
that  they  ought  to  have  condemned  Ser  Michele  Co  he 
hanged  by  the  neck,  or  at  lea^t  to  be  banished  for  tile. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  my  Lord  Duke  Marino  was  to 
have  his  head  cut  olT.  And  as  it  is  necessary  when  any  ef- 
fect is  to  be  brought  about,  that  the  cause  of  such  ctotA 
must  happen,  it  therefore  came  to  pass,  tliat  on  the  very  day 
after  sentence  had  been  pronounced  on  Ser  MklieleSteflQ, 
being  the  first  day  of  Lent,  a  Gentleman  of  the  house  of 
Barbaro ,  a  choleric  Gentleman ,  went  to  the  arsenal  aad 
required  certain  things  of  the  masters  of  the  gatkysL  This 
he  did  in  the  presence  of  the  Admiral  of  the  arsenal,  and 
he,  hearing  the  request,  answered.— No,  it  cannot  be 
done. — High  words  arose  between  the  Gentleman  and  the 
Admiral,  and  tlie  Gentleman  struck  him  with  his  fist  J9t 
above  the  eye;  and  as  he  happened  to  have  a  ringoa  lis 
finger,  the  ring  cut  the  Admiral  and  drew  blood.  The  Ad- 
miral, all  bruised  and  bloody,  ran  straight  to  the  Hoke 
to  complain ,  and  with  the  intent  of  praying  him  loiattct 
someheavy  punishment  upon  theaaid  Gen  tlemaoBarhavo. 
— ««What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  for  theer  answawl 
the  Duke: -^  "think  upon  the  shameful  gthe  whidi  ladh 
been  written  oonceming  me ;  and  tliihk  on  the  flMnacrla 
which  they  have  punished  that  ribald  Mkhele  StemH  «h» 
wrote  it;  and  see  how  the  Council  of  Forty  respect  oar 
person.''— Upon  this  the  Admiral  answered:  —  ''My  Laid 
Duke,  if  you  would  wish  to  make  yourself  a  Prinoeastf 
to  cut  all  those  cuckoldy  gentlemen  to  pieces,  I  liavclhc 
heart,  if  you  do  but  hdp  me,  to  make  you  Prince  of  attWi 
state;  and  then  you  may  punish  them  all."— Hearing  Hii^ 
the  Duke  said:— ''How  can  sooh  a  matter  be  bi«N^§jhl 
about?''— and  so  they  discoursed  thereon. 

The  Duke  called  for  his  nephew  Ser  Berturcio  Fafista, 
who  was  exceedingly  wily  and  cunning.  Then  tMm 
counsel  amongst  themselves,  they  agreed  to  call  ia  wamt 
others;  and  so,  for  several  nights  soccessiTely,  th^SKt 
with  the  Duke  at  home  in  his  palace.  And  the  foBoaSiv 
men  were  called  i n singly ;  to  wit:—NicoloFagtiiolQi6is- 
vanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano,  Niccoio  dalle  Bende,  Nieesb 
Biondo,  and  Stefano  Trivisiano.—  It  was  oonccrted  Ihai 
sixteen  or  seventeen  leaders  should  be  stationed  in  varioas 


APPmDIX  TO  MARINO  FALIBROb 


763 


wts  of  thedty*  euk  bdloffAtflie  head  of  forty  men,  am- 
d  and  prepared;  bat  the  followers  were  not  to  know  their 
destination.  On  the  appointed  day  they  were  to  make  af- 
mjB  among^  themselves  here  and  there,  in  order  that 
lie  Duke  might  have  a  pretence  for  tolling  the  bells  of  San 
Careo :  these  bells  are  never  rung  bat  by  the  order  of  the 
lake.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  these  sixteen  or  se- 
enteen,  with  their  followers,  were  to  oome  toSanManso, 
hrough  the  streets  which  open  upon  the  Plassa.  And 
rhen  the  noble  and  leading  citi^ns  should  oome  into  the 
'iazza,  to  know  the  cause  of  the  riot,  then  the  conspira* 
oca  were  to  cut  them  in  pieces ;  and  this  work  being  finish* 
d,  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke  was  to  be  proclaim* 
d  the  Lord  of  Venice.  Things  having  been  thus  settled, 
hey  agreed  to  fulfil  their  intent  on  Wednesday,  the  fif- 
eenth  day  of  April,  in  the  year  1366.  So  covertly  did  they 
ilot,  that  no  one  ever  dreamt  of  their  machinations. 

But  the  Lord,  who  hath  always  helped  this  most  glo- 
ions  city,  and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and  holiness, 
lath  never  forsaken  it,  inspired  one  Beltramo,Bergamas- 
:0  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing  the  plot  to  light  in  the  follow- 
ng  manner.  This  Beltramo,  who  belonged  to  SerNiccolo 
iiioni  of  Santo  Stefano,  had  heard  a  word  or  two  of  what 
was  to  take  place;  and  so,  in  the  before-mentioned  month 
)f  April,  he  went  to  the  house  of  the  aforesaid  SerNiccolo 
!aoni,  and  told  himall  the  particulars  of  theplot  Ser  Nio- 
!Olo,  when  he  heard  all  these  tilings,  was  struck  dead,  as 
t  were,  with  affright.  He  heard  all  the  particulars,  and 
leitramo  prayed  him  to  keep  it  all  secret;  and,  if  he  told 
Ser  NicGOlo,  it  was  in  order  that  Scr  Niccolo  might  stop 
it  home  on  the  fifteenth  of  April,  and  thus  save  his  life, 
leitramo  was  going,  but  Ser  Niocolo  ordered  his  ser- 
raots  to  lay  hands  upon  him  and  lock  him  up.  Ser  Nio< 
olo  then  went  to  tlie  house  of  Mcsser  Giovanni  Grade- 
ugo  Nasoni,  who  afterwards  became  Duke,  and  who  also 
ived  atSanto  Stefano,  and  told  Iiim  all.  The  matter  seem- 
:d  to  him  to  bo  of  the  very  greatest  importance,  as  indeed 
t  was;  and  they  two  went  to  the  house  of  Ser  Marco  Cor- 
iaro>  who  lived  at  San  Felice;  and,  having  spoken  with 
lim,  they  all  three  then  determined  to  go  back  to  the  house 
if  S«r  Niccolo  Lioni ,  to  examine  the  said  Beltramo;  and 
lavii^  questioned  him,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to  say, 
hey  left  him  in  confinement  And  then  they  all  three  went 
nto  the  sacristy  of  San  Salvatore,  and  sent  their  men  to 
nmmon  the  Counsellors,  the  Avvogadori,  the  Capi  do' 
^laci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

y^k€n  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  i^as  told  to 
hem.  They  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with  affright 
They  determined  to  send  for  Beltramo.  He  was  brought 
a  bdbre  them.  They  examined  him  and  ascertained  that 
he  matter  was  true ;  and,  althoagh  they  were  exceedingly 
vonbled,  yet  they  determined  upon  their  measures.  And 
Lhey  sent  for  the  Capi  de'  Qnaranla,  the  Signori  diNotte, 
he  Oapi  de'  Sestieri,and  the  Cinque  dellaPacc ;  and  they 
veie  ordered  to  associate  to  their  men  other  good  menand 
twBy  vrho  were  to  proeeed  to  the  housei  of  the  ringleaders 
if  the  conspiracy  and  seoare  them.  And  lhey  seonredtlie 
jBvemcn  of  the  arsenal,  in  order  that  the  conspirators  might 
BOt  do  mischief.  Towards  nightfall  they  assembled  in  the 
mlace.  When  they  wereassemUed  in  thepalace,  they  cans- 
fd  the  gates  of  the  quadraogieof  the  palace  to  be  shut  And 
hey  sent  to  tiie  keeper  of  the  bell-tower  and  forbade  the 
tolling  of  the  bells.  All  this  was  carried  into  effect  The  be- 
'ore-mentioned  conspirators  weresecured,  and  they  were 
irought  to  the  palace;  and  as  the  Council  of  Ten  saw  that 
he  Duke  was  in  the  plot,  tiiey  resolved  that  twenty  of  the 
eadiog  men  of  the  state  should  be  associated  to  them,  for 
lie  purpose  of  consultation  and  deliberation,  but  that  they 
ihould  not  be  allowed  to  ballot 

These  twenty  were  accordingly  called  in  to  the  Council 
)f  Ten;  and  they  sent  for  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  the 
Duke;  and  my  Lord  Marino  was  then  consorting  in  the 
palace  with  people  of  great  estate,  gentiemen,  and  other 
(ood  men,  none  of  whom  knew  yet  how  the  fact  stood. 


At  the  same  time  ^ertnooio  IsraeDo,  who,  as  one  of  the 
ringleaders,  was  to  head  the  conspirators  in  Santa  Croce, 
was  arrested  and  bound,  and  brought  before  Uie  Council. 
Zanello  del  Brin,  Niooletto  di  Rosa,  Nicoletto  Alberto^ 
and  the  Gaardiaga,  were  also  taken,  together  with  several 
seamen,  and  people  of  various  ranks.  These  were  exa- 
mined, and  the  truth  of  the  plot  was  asoertained. 

On  the  sixteenth  of  April  judgment  was  given  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  thatFilippo  Calendario  and  Bertuocio  Is- 
raello  should  be  hanged  upon  the  red  pillars  of  the  bal* 
cony  of  the  palace,  from  which  the  Duke  is  wont  to  look 
at  the  Bull-hunt :  and  they  were  hanged  with  gags  in  their 
mouths. 

The  next  day  the  following  were  condemned:  —  Nic^ 
colo  Zuccuolo,  Nicoletto  Blondo,  Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco 
Giuda,  Jaoomello  Dagolino,  Nicoletto  Fidele,  the  son  of 
Filippo  Calendario,  Marco  Tocello,  called  Israello,  Ste- 
fano Trivisano,  the  money-changer  of  Santa  Margherita, 
and  Antonio  dalle  Bende.  These  were  all  taken  at  Chiozza, 
for  they  were  endeavouring  to  escape.  Afterwards,  by 
virtue  of  the  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  them  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  tiiey  were  hanged  on  successive  days» 
some  singly  and  some  in  couples ,  upon  the  columns  of 
the  palace,  beginning  from  the  red  columns,  and  so  going 
onwards  towards  the  canal.  And  other  prisoners  were 
discharged,  because,  although  they  had  been  involved  in 
the  conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assisted  in  it:  for  they 
were  given  to  unterstand  by  some  of  the  heads  of  the  plol^ 
that  they  were  to  come  armed  and  prepared  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  state,  and  in  order  to  secure  certain  criminab, 
and  they  knew  nothing  else.  Nicoletto  Alberto,  the  Guar- 
diaga,  and  Bartolommeo  Ciruola  and  his  son,  and  several 
others,  who  were  not  guilty,  were  discharged. 

On  Friday,  tiic  sixteenth  day  of  April,  judgment  was 
also  given,  in  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten,  that  my  Lord 
Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  should  have  his  head  cut  off, 
and  that  the  execution  should  be  done  on  the  landing- 
place  of  the  stone  staircase,  where  the  Dukes  take  their 
oath  when  they  first  enter  the  palace.  On  tlic  following 
day,  the  seventeenth  of  April,  tiie  doors  of  the  palace 
being  shut,  the  Duke  had  his  head  cut  off,  about  the  hpur 
of  noon.  And  the  cap  of  estate  was  taken  from  the  Duke's 
head  before  he  came  down  stairs.  When  the  execution 
was  over,  it  is  said  that  one  of  the  Council  of  Ten  went  to 
the  columns  of  the  palace  over  against  the  place  of  St. 
Mark,  and  that  he  showed  the  bloody  sword  unto  the 
peoplcjcrying  out  with  a  loud  voice— **The  terrible  doom 
hath  fallen  upon  the  traitor !"  -  and  tiie  doors  were  open- 
ed, and  the  people  all  rushed  in,  to  see  tiie  corpse  of  the 
Duke,  who  had  been  beheaded. 

It  mu8t  haknown,  that  Ser  GiovanniSanudo,  the  coun^ 
cillor,  was4R)t  present  when  the  aforesaid  sentence  was 
pronounced ;  because  he  was  unwell  and  remained  at  home. 
So  that  only  fourteen  ballotted :  that  is  to  say,  five  coun- 
cillors, and  nine  of  the  Council  of  Ten.  And  it  was  ad- 
judged, that  all  the  lands  and  chattels  of  the  Duke,  as  well 
as  of  tiie  other  traitors,  should  be  forfeited  to  the  state. 
And,  as  a  grace  to  tlieDuke,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Coun- 
cil of  Ten,  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  dispose  of  two 
thousand  ducats  out  of  his  own  property.  And  it  was 
resolved,  that  all  the  councillors  and  all  tlie  Avvogadori 
of  the  commonwealth,  those  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  and 
the  members  of  the  junta  who  had  assisted  in  passing  sen- 
tence on  the  Duke  and  the  other  traitors,  should  have  the 
privilege  of  carrying  arms  both  by  day  and  by  night  in 
Venice,  and  from  Grado  to  Cavazere.  And  they  were  also 
to  be  allowed  two  footmen  carrying  arms,  tiie  aforesaid 
footmen  living  and  boarding  with  them  in  their  own  hou- 
ses. And  he  who  did  not  keep  two  footmen  might  transfer 
the  privilege  to  his  sons  or  his  brothers;  but  only  to  two. 
Permission  of  carrying  arms  was  also  granted  to  tiie  four 
Notaries  of  the  Chancery,  that  is  to  say,  of  tiie  Supreme 
Court,  who  took  the  depositions;  and  they  were  Amedio, 
Nicoletto  di  Lorino,  Stefianello,  and  Pictro  de  Compo- 
stelli,  the  secretaries  of  the  Signori  di  Notte. 


7&4 


APPENDIX  TO  MARIMO  FAXiItSO. 


After  the  trftitora  had  been  hanged,  and  the  Dnkehad 
had  his  head  cut  off,  the  state  remained  in  great  tranquil* 
lity  and  peace.  And,  as  I  hare  read  in  a  chronicle ,  the 
corpse  of  the  Dake  was  removed  in  a  bargee,  with  eight 
torches,  to  bis  tomb  in  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo,  where  it  was  buried.  The  tomb  is  now  in  that  insle 
in  the  middle  of  the  little  church  of  Santa  Maria  deila 
Pace,  which  was  built  by  Bishop  Gabriel  of  Bergamo.  It 
is  a  coiBn  of  stone,  with  these  words  engraved  thereon: 
^^Heic  jacet  Dominus  Marinui Faletro  [htx"  —  And  they 
did  not  paint  his  portrait  in  the  hall  of  the  Great  Coun- 
cil :  _  But  in  the  place  where  it  ought  to  have  been,  yon 
see  these  words :  —  **Hic  est  locus  Marmi  Faletro  deat" 
pitatipro  eriminihus  "  —  and  it  is  thought  that  his  house 
was  granted  to  the  church  of  Sant'  Apostolo;  it  was  that 
great  one  near  the  bridge.  Yet  this  could  not  be  the  case, 
or  else  the  family  bought  it  back  fVom  the  church;  for  it 
still  belongs  to  CK  Fa  liero.  I  must  not  refrain  from  noting, 
that  some  wished  to  write  thefollo  wing  words  in  the  place 
where  his  portrait  ought  to  hdve  been,  as  aforesaid:  — 
*^Marinus  Faletro  Dux,  temeritoi  me  cepit,  pcenas  hti, 
decapitatus  pro  crimmibtis."  —  Others,  also,  indited  a 
couplet,  worthy  of  being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb : 
'*£>ux  Venetum  jacet  heic,  patriam  qui  prodere  tentanSf 
**Sceptra,  decui,  censum,  perdidit,  atque  caput*' 

II. 

Extrait  de  tJSietoire  de  la  RSpubHqae  de  Veniee,  par 
DarUftoauv,  livrexxxv. 

''A  ces  attaques  si  frcqucntcs  que  1e  gonvernement 
dirigeait  contre  le  clerg^,  k  ces  luttes  ctablies  entre  les 
diff^rens  corps  constituds ,  b.  ces  entrepriscs  de  la  masse 
de  la  noblesse  contre  les  d^positaires  du  pouvoir,  ktoutes 
ces  propositions  d'innovation  que  seterminaieuttoujours 
par  des  coups  d'etat;  il  faut  ajouter  une  autre  cause  non 
moins  propre  k  propager  le  m^pris  des  anciennes  doc- 
trines, e'Hait  Vexeh  de  la  corruption. 

<*Cctte  liberty  des  moeurs ,  qu'on  avait  long-temps 
vant^e  comme  lecharme  principal  de  lasocicSte  de  Venise) 
6taitdevenue  un  ddsordre  scandaleux;  lelien  du  mariage 
^ah  moins  sacre  dans  ce  pays  catholique  que  dans  ceux 
oi!lles  loiscivilesetreligieusespermettent  de  ledissoudre. 
Faute  de  pouvoir  rompre  le  oontrat,  on  supposait  qu'il 
n'avait  jamais  existe,  et  les  moyens  de  nullitd,  all^gu^ 
avec  impudeur  par  les  ^poux^^taient  admis  avec  la  mSme 
fecilit^  par  des  magistrats  ct  par  des  pr^tres  ^galement 
corrompus.  Ces  divorces  colores  d'un  autre  nom  devin- 
rent  si  ft^^quens,  que  Tacle  le  plus  important  de  la  society 
civile  sc  trouva  de  la  competence  d'un  tribunal  d'ex- 
ception,  et  que  ce  fut  k  la  police  de  r^primcr  le  scandale. 
Le  conseil  de  dix  ordonna,  en  1783,  que  touHemme,  qui 
Intenterait  une  demande  en  dissolution  de  mariage,  serait 
oblige  d'en  attendrc  le  jugement  dans  un  convent  que 
le  tribunal  designerait  Bjcnt6t  apr^s  il  6voqua  devant 
lui  toutes  les  causes  dc  cette  nature.  Cet  empietement 
aur  la  jurisdiction  cccl^iastique  ayant  occasionn^  des 
reclamations  dc  la  part  dc  la  cour  dc  Rome,  le  conseil  se 
reserva  le  droit  de  d^bouter  les  ^poux  dc  leur  demande; 
et  oonsentit  k  la  renvoyer  devant  rofficialUe,  toutes  les 
fois  qu'il  ne  I'aurait  pas  rejetee. 

'41  y  eut  un  moment,  oii  sans  doute  le  renverscment 
des  fortunes,  la  perte  des  jeunes  geus,  les  discordes  do- 
mestiques,determin^rent  le  gonvernement  4  s'^carter  des 
maximes  qu'il  s'etait  faites  aur  la  libcrtc  des  moeurs  qu'il 
permettmt  k  nts  sujets :  on  chassa  de  Yenise  toutes  les 
courtisanes.  Mais  lenr  absence  ne  suffisait  pas  pour 
ramener  aux  bonnes  moeurs  toute  une  population  eiev^e 
dans  la  plus  honteuse  licence.  Le  d^sordre  p^n^tra  dans 
Hnterieur  des  families,  dans  les  cloitres;  et  Ton  se  crut 
oblige  de  rappeler,  d'indemuiser  *)  mSme  des  femmes, 

*)  Le  decret  de  rappel  les  designatt  sous  le  nom 
de  nostre  henemerite  meretrici.  On  leur  assigna  un 
fonds  et  des  maisons  appel^es,  Caterampane^  d'oik 
vient  la  denomination  4njurlense  de  Carampane, 


qui  siirpvenBiciit  qoeiqaefois  d^importaas 

qu'on  pouvait  employer  ntilement  k  miner  des  i 
que  leur  fortmie  anrait  pa  rendre  dangerenx.  I>epiiia, 
la  Gcenoe  est  to^jonrt  aliee  orobsant,  et  I^on  a  vv  bob- 
aeulement  des  m^cs  trafiqaer  de  la  virgiiut^  de  lews 
fiUea,  mais  la  vendre  par  on  oontrat,  dont  raotfaentkate 
etait  garantie  parla  sig^atore  d'un  officierpubfic^  et  Texe- 
oation  mise  sooa  la  proteotioa  dea  lois. 

'f  Les  parloirs  desconvents  oik  etaient  reoferm^es  les  il- 
les  noble?,  les  maisons  des  courtisanes,  qnoique  la  pofioe 
y  entretint  soigneosement  nn  grand  nombre  de  siirveillaiis, 
etaient  les  seuls  points  de  r^unioa  dela  aodiU  de  Venise, 
et  dans  oes  deux  endroits  si  divers  on  <^tait  ^galeDieat  fi- 
bre. La  mofiique,  les  collations,  la  galanterie,  n'etaiesi 
pas  plus  interdites  dans  les  parloirs  qne  dans  Igi  eaans. 
II  y  avait  un  grand  nombre  de  casins  destinda  anx  ica- 
nions  pnbliques,  oik  le  jen  etait  la  princlpale  oooapalkw 
de  la  societe.  Cetait  un  singulier  spectacle  de  voirantoar 
d'une  table  des  personnes  de  deux  sexes  en  masque,  et 
des  graves  personnagcs  en  robe  de  magistratore,  implo- 
rant  le  hasard,p4ssant  des  angoisses  du  ddsespoir  anx  il- 
lusions de  Tcspc ranee,  et  cela  sans  prof<5rer  one  parole. 

'*Les  riches  avaient  des  casins  par ticuliers;  maisilsy 
vivaicnt  avecmyst^re;  leurs  femmes  deiaiss^estroovaieot 
un  dcdommagcment  dans  la  liberty  dont  elles  jouissaieBL 
La  corruption  des  moeurs  les  avait  privees  dc  tont  leor 
empire;  on  vient  dc  parcourir  toutc  rhistoire  dc  Yenise, 
et  on  ne  les  a  pas  vues  une  scule  fols  exerccr  la  BKMndre 
influence." 

UL 

From  the  present  decay  and  degeneraey  of  Venaee  «■- 
der  the  Barbarians,  there  are  some  honomableindividoy 
exceptions.  There  isPasqualigo,  the  faut,  and,  abalpoeh 
humous  son  of  the  marriage  of  the  Doges  with  the  Adnati^ 
who  fought  his  frigate  with  fiir  greatei  gallantrj  than  say 
of  his  French  coadjutors  in  the  memorable  action  off  Lis- 
sa,  I  came  home  in  the  squadron  with  the  prises  in  181 1« 
and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir  William  Hoste,  and  the 
other  officers  engaged  in  that  glorious  conllicC,  ^>eak  ia 
tiie  highest  terms  of  Pas<^ualigo's  behaviour.  There  is  the 
Abbate  MorcllL  There  is  Alvise  Querini,  who  after  a 
long  and  honourable  diplomatic  career,  finds  some  eoa- 
solation  for  the  wrongs  of  his  country,  in  the  porsaitsof 
literature  with  his  nephew ,  Vittor  Benson,  the  son  of  Oe 
celebrated  beauty,  the  heroine  of  "La  BiondfamiaGoiido* 
letta."  There  are  the  patricdan  poet  Morosiiii,  sad  the 
poetLamberti,  the  author  of  the ''Biondfina'' and  nssy 
other  estimable  productioas;  aad,  not  least  inwnRngBih- 
man's  estimation,  Madame  Midielli,  the  translator  sf 
Shakspeare.  There  are  the  young  I>ando]o»  and  the  aa* 
provisatore  Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrixaa,  the  sijlom 
pitshed  son  of  an  accomplished  mother.  There  isAgfietfl, 
and ,  were  there  nothing  else,  there  is  the  iflUDorteBi^  sC 
Canova.  Gicognara,  Miistoxidi,  Bvcad,  I  doaotieekai^ 
because  the  one  is  a  Greek,  and  the  others  were  ben  at 
least  a  hundred  miles  off,  whioh^  throaghoutltaiy,eass6> 
tutes ,  if  not  a  foreipur,  at  leatt  a  etranpar  (fm^ofUma^ 

IV. 

Extrait  de  VIBstoire  UtUraire  d^Iti^ie,par  GtHfvM^, 
torn.  IX,  chap,  xxxvi. 

"H  y  a  une  prediction  fort  singuli^re  sur  Venise:  *S 
tn  ne  changes  pas/'  dit-il  k  cette  republiqae  aM^rc^*^ 
liberte,  qui  dejk  s'cnfuit,  ne  comptera  pas  an  aiMeaprii 
la  milli^mc  annee.'* 

"£n  faisant  remonter  Tdpoque  de  la  liberty  Yimtiene 
jusqu'^  retablissement  du  gouvernement  sons  leqsdli 
republique  a  fleuri,on  trouvera  que  reiection  do  lagisiH' 
■^        *       '  irJsmile^ 


Boge  date  de  097,  et  si  Ton  y  ajoute  un  si6ole  apr 
c'est  k  dire  onse  cents  ans,  on  trouvera  encore  qnelesai 
dc  la  prediction  est  Htteralement  celui-<d :  <*Ta  fibcrtt  w 
comptera  pas  jusqu'^  Tan  1797.''  Rappelea-yoas  myate- 
nant  que  Yenise  a  cess^  d'etre  libre  en  Taa  cinq  de  la  r^ 


APPBNmX  TO  THB  TWO  FOSCARL 


765 


pobftpiinFriui^aii^  oa  en  1796;  vou  ▼crres  qv'iln'y  eut 
^uiHUS  de  prediction  plus  precise  et  plus  ponotueUement 
ttiivie  de  Teftet.  Voiu  noterez  doDcoomme  tr^s^remar- 
qvables  oes  trois  vers  de  rAlamanni ,  adress^s  k  Veiiise> 
que  p^rsonne  pourtant  n'a  remarqu^ : 

^  Se  Twn  canffipenneTf  fun  secol  solo 
Non  canter^  sopra  'I  mitlenmo  anno 
Tua  libertd,  ehe  vafuggendo  a  volo, 
Bien  des  propb6ties  ontpass^  pour  telle8,et  bicndesgens 
out  6i6  appel^s  propbMes  k  meillcar  marobd." 


Tbe  author  of  "Sketches  Descriptiye  of  Italy/'  one  of 
the  hundred  tours  lately  published^  is  extremely  anxioas 
to  disclaim  a  possible  cbarge  of  plagiarism  from  *'Cbilde 
Harold"  and  '<Beppo."  He  adds,  tbat  stiU  less  could  this 
presamed  coincidence  arise  from  ''my  conversation,"  as 
be  had  repeatedly  declined  an  introduction  to  me  while  in 

Who  tbis  person  may  be  I  know  not;  but  be  must  have 
been  deoeiv^  by  all  or  any  of  those  who  ''repeatedly  of* 
fered  to  introduce"  him,  as  I  have  invariably  refused  to 
receive  any  English  ivith  whom  I  was  not  previously  ao* 
qoaiiited,  even  when  they  had  letters  from  England.  If  the 
whole  assertion  is  not  an  invention,  1  request  tbis  person 
not  to  sit  down  with  the  notion  that  he  could  have  t»een 
introduced,  since  tliere  has  been  nothing  1  have  ao  care- 
fhlly  avoided  as  any  kind  of  intercourse  with  bis  country- 
men,  —  excepting  the  very  few  who  were  a  considerable 
tirae  resident  in  Venice,  or  had  been  of  my  previous  ac- 


quaintance. Whoever  made  bim  any  such  oiTer  was  pos- 
sessed of  impudence  equal  to  that  of  making  such  an  as- 
sertion without  having  had  it.  The  fbct  is ,  tba<  I  hold  in 
utter  abhorrence  any  contact  with  the  travelling  English, 
as  my  friend,  tbeConsul-General  Hoppner,  and  the  Count- 
ess Benzoni  (in  whose  bouse  the  Conversazione  mostly 
frequented  by  them  is  held)  could  amply  testify,  were  it 
worth  while.  I  was  persecuted  by  tiiesetourisUcventomy 
riding  ground  at  Lido,  and  reduced  to  the  most  disagree- 
able circuits  to  avoid  them.  At  Madame  Benzoni's  I  re- 
peatedly refused  to  be  introduced  to  them ;  —of  a  thousand 
such  presentations  pressed  upon  me,  I  accepted  two,  and 
both  were  to  Irish  women. 

1  should  hardly  have  descended  to  speak  of  such  trifles 
publicly,  if  the  impudence  of  this  "sketcher"  had  not 
forced  me  to  a  refutation  of  a  disingenuous  and  gratuitously 
impertinent  assertion  j—so  meant  to  be,  for  what  could  it 
import  to  the  reader  to  be  told  that  the  author  "had  re- 
peatedly declined  an  introduction,"  even  had  it  been  true, 
which  for  the  reasons  I  have  above  given,  is  scarcely  pos- 
sible. Except  Lords  Landsdown,  Jersey  and  Lauderdale; 
Messrs.  Scott,  Hammond,  Sir  Humphry  Davy ,  the  late 
M.  Lewis ,  W.  Bankes,  Mr.  Hoppner,  Thomas  Moore, 
Lord  Kinnaird,  his  brother,  Mr.  Joy,  and  Mr.  Hobliouse, 
I  do  not  recollect  to  have  exchanged  a  word  with  another 
Englishman  since  I  left  their  pountry;  and  almost  all  these 
I  had  known  before.  The  others, — and  God  knows  there 
were  some  hundreds,  —  who  bored  roe  with  letters  or  vi- 
sits, I  refused  to  have  any  communication  with,  and  shall 
be  proud  and  happy  when  that  wish  becomes  mutual. 


APPENDIX  TO  THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


£xtrait  dg  VHietoire  de  la  lUpubUque  de  Venuey 
parDarvu 

Depnis  trente  ans,  la  republiqne  n'avaii  pas  depose  les 
anncs.  Bile  avait  acquis  les  provinces  de  Brescia,  de  Ber- 
game,  de  Cr^me,  et  ia  principautiS  de  Ravenne. 

Maia  oes  gnerrea  continuelles  faisaient  beauooup  de 
nialheureax  et  de  mdoontents.  Le  doge  Francois  Fos- 
cui»  k  qni  on  ne  pouvait  pardonner  d'en  avoir  ^te  le  pro- 
moteur,  manifesta  one  secondefois,  en  1442,  et  probable- 
fluent  avec  plus  de  sinc^rit^  que  la  premiere,  Tintention 
d'abdiquer  sa  dignity.  Le  conseil  s'y  refusa  encore.  On 
avait  exig£  de  Ini  le  serment  de  ne  plus  quitter  le  dogat 
11  ^tait  d^&  avanc^  dans  >a  vieillease,  coascrvant  cepen- 
dantbeaucoup  de  force  det£teetdecaractdre,etjouissant 
de  la  gloire  d'avoir  vu  la  republique  ^tendre  au  loin  les 
limites  de  ses  domaines  pendant  son  administration. 

An  milieu  de  ces  prosperites,  de  grands  chagrins  vin- 
reat  mettre  k  T^preuvc  la  fermet^  de  son  &me. 

Son  fils,  Jacques  Foscari ,  fut  aocns6,  en  1445,  d^avoir 
re^Q  des  presents  de  quelqucs  princes  on  seigneurs  stran- 
gers, notamment,  disait-on,  duduc  de  Milan,  Philippe 
visconti.C'Staitnon>seulcment  un  bassesse,  mais  une  in- 
fraction des  lois  positives  de  la  republique. 

Le  conseil  des  dix  traita  cette  affaire  comme  sll  se  fiit 
agl  d'un  d<:lit  commis  par  un  particulier  obscur.  L'aceus<S 


fttt  amcnS  devant  ses  juges,  devant  le  doge,  qui  ue  crut 
pas  pouvoir  s'abstenir  de  pr^sider  Ic  tribunal.  L4,  il  fut 
interroge,  appliquS  k  la  question,  declare  oonpable,  et  il 
entendit,  de  la  boache  de  son  p^re,  Tarrdt  qui  le  condam- 
nait  k  un  bannissement  perpetuel,  et  le  relSgnait  k  Na- 
ples de  Romanie,  pour  y  finir  bi^b  jours. 

Embarque  sur  une  gaJ^re  pour  se  rendre  au  lieu  de  son 
exil,  il  tomba  maladei  Trieste.  Les  sollicitations  du  doge 
obtinrent,  non  sans  difficult^  qu'oa  luiassignAt  une  autre 
residence.  Eniin  le  conseil  des  dix  lui  permit  de  se  retirer 
iTrSvisc,  en  Ini  imposant  robiigation  d'y  rester  sous 
peine  de  mort,  et  de  se  presenter  tons  les  jours  devant  le 
gottverneur. 

II  y  etait  depuis  cinq  ans,  lorqu'un  des  chefii  du  conseil 
des  dix  fut  assassin^.  htB  soup^ons  se  portdrent  sur  lui: 
on  de  w^  domcstiqaes  qn'on  avait  vu  k  Yenise  fut  arrdtS 
et  subit  la  torture,  he^  bourreanx  ne  parent  lui  arracher 
auonn  aveu.  Ce  terrible  tribunal  se  fitamencr  lemaitre, 
le  sonmit  aux  mdmea  epreaves;  il  rdsista  k  tons  les  tour- 
ments,  ne  cessant  d'attester  son  innocence ;  mais  on  ne 
▼it  dans  cette  constanoe  que  de  TobBtination:  de  ce  qn'il 
taisait  le  fait,  on  conclut  que  ce  foit  existait;  on  attribua 
sa  fermete  k  la  magie,et  on  lerelSgua  k  ikCan^.  De  cette 
terre  lointaine,  le  banni,  digne  alors  de  quelque  pitiS,  ne 
cessait  d'ecrire  k  son  p^re,  k$ts  amis,  pour  obtenir  quel-  - 


766 


APPBHBIX  TO  TBB  TWO  lOaCi^RL 


que  adottoisf  ement  a  sa  deportation.  N'obtenant  rica,  et 
sachaot  que  la  terreur  qu'iospirait  le  conaeil  des  dix  ne 
lui  permettait  pas  d'esp^rer  de  troaver  dans  Venisc  une 
seale  voix  qui  s'^lcvftt  en  sa  fovear,  il  (it  une  lettre  pour 
le  nouTcaa  duo  de  Milan,  par  laquelle,  an  nooi  des  bona 
offices  que  Sforce  avait  reyas  da  chef  de  la  r^pubiique,  il 
implorait  son  intervention  en  faveur  d'un  innocent,  du 
fits  du  doge. 

Cette  lettre,  selon  quelques  bistoriens ,  fut  confiee  k  an 
marchand  qui  avait  promis  de  la  faire  parvenir  au  due, 
mais  qui,  trop  averti  de  ce  qn'il  avait  icraindre  en  se  ren- 
dant  rinterm^diaire  d'une  pareille  correspondanoe,  se 
hata,  en  debarquant  k  Venise,  de  la  rcmettre  au  chef  du 
tribunal.  Une  autre  version,  qui  parait plus  sure,  rapporte 
que  la  lettre  fut  surprise  par  un  espion,  attach^  auxpas 
de  Texile. 

Ce  fut  un  nouveau  delit  dont  on  eut  k  punir  Jacques  Fos- 
carL  R6clamer  la  protection  d'un  prince  stranger  etait 
un  crime,  dans  un  sujet  de  la  republique.  Une  gal^c  par- 
(tt  sur-le^hamp  pour  Tameuer  dans  les  prisons  de  Ycnise. 
A  son  arrivde  il  fut  soumis  k  Testrapade.  C'etait  une  sin- 
guli^re  destin^e  pour  le  citoyen  d'une  rdpublique  et  pour 
le  fils  d'un  prince,  d'etre  trois  fois  dans  sa  vie  applique  k 
la  question.  Cette  fois  la  torture  etait  d'autant  plus  odieuse, 
qu\lle  n'avait  point  d*objet,  le  fait  qn'on  avait  ^  lui  re- 
proclier  etant  incontestable. 

Quand  on  demanda  k  Taocus^,  dans  les  intenralles  que 
les  bourreaux  lui  aocordaient,  pourqnoi  il  avait  ^crit  la 
lettre  qu'on  lui  produxsait,  il  repondit  que  c'etait  pr^cis^ 
ment  parcequ'il  nedoutait  pas  qu'elle  netomblit  entre  les 
mains  du  tribunal,  que  toute  autre  voie  lui  avait  ^te  fer- 
m6e  pour  faire  parvenir  ses  reclamations,  qu'il  s'attendait 
bien  qu'on  le  fcrait  ameneri  Venise,  mais  qu'il  avait  tout 
risque  pour  avoir  la  consolation  de  voir  sa  femme,son 
pirc,  et  sa  mdre  encore  une  fois, 

Sur  cette  naive  declaration ,  on  confirma  sa  sentence 
d'exiU  mais  on  Taggrava,  en  y  ajoutant  qu'il  scrait  re- 
tenu  en  prison  pendant  un  an.  Cette  rigueur,  dont  on  usait 
envers  un  malheureux,  6tait  sans  doute  odieuse;  mais 
cette  politique,  qui  defendait  k  tons  les  citoycns  de  faire 
intervenir  les  strangers  dans  les  affaires  interieures  de  la 
republique,  etait  sage.  Elle  etait  clicz  cux  une  maxime 
de  gouvernement  et  une  maxime  inflexible.  L'historien 
Paul  Morosini  a  conte  que  I'empereur Frederic II L,  pen- 
dant qu'il  etait  rh6te  des  Venitlens,  demanda  comme 
une  faveur  particuli^re ,  radmlssioa  d'un  citoyen  dans 
le  grand  conseil,  et  la  grftce  d'un  ancien  gouverneur  de 
Candie,  gendre  du^doge,  et  banni  pour  sa  mauvaise  ad- 
ministration, sans  pouvoir  obtenir  ni  I'une  ni  Tautre. 

Cependant  on  ne  put  refuser  au  condamne  la  permission 
de  voir  sa  femme,  s(^s  enfans,  ses  parents,  qu'il  allait 
quitter  pour  toujours.  Cette  derniere  entrevue  m^me  fut 
accompagnee  de  cruaute,  par  la  sevdre  ciroonspection, 
qui  retenait  les  epanchetnens  de  la  douleur  paternelle  et 
conjugate.  Ce  ne  ftit  point  dans  Tinterieur  de  leur  ap- 
partement,  ce  fut  dans  une  des  grandes  salles  du  palais, 
qu'uue  femme,  accompagnee  de  ses  quatre  fils,  vint  Aire 
les  derniers  adieux  k  son  mari ,  qu'un  p^e  octogenaire, 
et  la  dogaresse  accabieed'infirmites,  jouirent  un  moment 
de  la  triste  consolation  de  mdler  leurs  larmes  k  celles  de 
leur  ills  exile.  II  se  jeta  k  leurs  genoux  en  leur  tendant 
des  mains  disloquees  par  la  torture  pour  les  supplier  de 
BoUiciter  quel  que  adoucissemettt  k  la  sentence  qui  venait 
d'etre  prononcee  contre  lui.  Son  p^re  eut  le  courage  de 
lui  repondre:  ^^Non,  mon  fils,  respeetes  votre  arr^t,  et 
obeissez  sans  murmure  k  la  selgneurie."  A  oes  mots  il 
sc  separa  de  I'infortune,  qui  fut  sur-le-champ  embarque 
pour  Candie. 

L'antiqnite  vit  avecautant  d'horreur  qned'admiraClon 
an  pere  condamnant  ses  fils  eyidemment  ooupabies.  Bile 
besita  pour  qualifier  de  vertu  subfime  ou  de  ferocite  oet 
effort  qui  parait  au-dessus  de  la  nature  hnmaine  ;*)  mais 

•)  Cda  fut  un  acte  que  Ton  ne  si^auroit  ny  suffis- 
sament  louer,  ny  assez  blasmer ;  car,  ou  c'estoit  une 


id,  o&  b  prendbe  Auile  n'Mit  qa'une  fiublcsae,  oA  b 
seconde  n'etait  pas  prouvee,  oft  la  troisitoe  n'avait  rica 
de  criminel,  comment  concevoir  b  constanoe  d'lin  pere, 
qui  voit  torturer  trois  fois  son  fils  unique,  qui  reoteail 
condamner  sans  preuves  et  qui  n'^bte  pas  en  plaintcs, 
qui  ne  I'aborde  c^ue  pour  lui  montrer  un  vbage  plot 
austere  qu'attendri,  et  qui,  au  moment  de  e'en  separer 
pour  jamais ,  lui  interdU  les  murmures  et  juaqu'ik  Tes- 
perancc  1  Comment  explxquer  une  si  cruel  le  cireon- 
spection,  si  ce  n'est  en  avonant,  k  notrc  honte^  que  b 
tyramiie  pent  obtenir  de  I'esp^  humaine  les  meracs 
efforts  que  la  vertu?  La  servitude  aurait-elleson  h^roisme 
comme  la  liber te? 

Qnelque  temps  apr^  oe  jugement,  on  decoavrit  le  veri- 
table auteur  de  I'assasainat,  dont  Jacques  Foscari  portait 
la  peine ;  mais  il  n'etait  plus  temps  de  reparer  rette 
atrooe  injustice,  le  malheureux  etait  mort  dana  sa  prison. 

II  me  reste  k  raconter  la  suite  des  roalhenrs  da  phc» 
L'histoirelesattribue  ^rimpatienoe  qu'avaient  aes  enoe* 
mis  et  ses  rivaux  de  voir  vaquersa  place.  Elle  accuse  to- 
mellement  Jacques  Loredan,  Fun  des  cfaeCs  da  consul  lies 
dix,  de  s'dtre  livre  contre  ce  vieillard  aux  conaiuls  d'one 
faaine  hereditaire^  et  qui  depuis  long-temps  divisait  lean 
maisons. 

Franqois  Foscari  avait  essaye  de  la  faire  oesscr,  en  of- 
frant  sa  fille  k  Tillustre  amira!  Pierre  Loredan,  poor  on 
de  ies  fils.  L'alliance  avait  ete  rejetee,  et  rinimilie  des 
deux  families  s'en  etait  accrue.  Dans  tons  les  ecmsetls, 
dans  toat<^8  les  affaires,  le  doge  trouvait  toajoors  les 
Loredans  prdts  k  oombattre  »eM  propositions  oa  ses  inte- 
r^ts.  11  lui  echappa  an  jour  de  dire  qu'il  oe  se  croirait 
reellement  prince,  que  lorsque  Pierre  Lotedan  anrait 
cesse  de  vivre.  Cet  amiral  mourut  quelque  temps  apr^s 
d'unc  incommodite  assez  prompte  qu'on  ne  put  expti- 
quer.  II  n'en  fallut  pas  davantage  aux  malveillants  poor 
insinuer  que  Francois  Foscari,  ayant  desird  cette  mort, 
pouvait  bien  I'avoir  hatee. 

Ces  bruits  s'aocrediterent  encore  lorsqn'on  vit  aossi 
perir  subitement  Marc  Loredan,  fr^e  de  Pierre,  et  oeb 
dans  le  moment  oA,  en  sa  qualite  d'awogador,  il  instnu- 
sait  un  proems  contre  Andre  Donato,  gendre  du  doge,  ac- 
cuse de  peculat  On  ecrivit  sur  la  tombe  de  Tamlral  qvH 
avait  ete  enleve  k  la  patrie  par  le  poison. 

U  n'y  avait  aucune  preuve,aucun  indioe  oontreFran^ob 
Foscari,  aucune  raison  mdme  de  le  soup^onner.  Quaiut 
sa  vie  enti^re  n'aurait  pas  dementi  une  imputation  ausai 
odieuse,  il  savait  que  son  rang  ne  lui  promettait  ni  1*101- 
punite  ni  m^me  Tindulgenoe.  La  mort  tragique  de  run 
de  ses  predeccssenrs  Ten  avertissait,  et  U  n'avait  qve 
trop  d'exemples  domestiques  du  soin  que  le  conseil  des 
dix  prenait  d'humilier  le  chef  de  la  republique. 

Cependant,  Jacques  Loredan,  fils  de  Pierre,  eroyait 
ou  feignait  de.  croire  avoir  k  venger  les  pertea  de  sa 
famille.  Dans  ses  livres  de  comptes  (car  il  f6s»t  leeon- 
merce,  comme  k  cette  epoque  presque  tons  les  patririma), 
il  avait  inscrit  de  sa  propre  main  le  doge  an  nombreda 
ses  debiteurs,  ''pour  la  morf'  y  etait-il  dit  «*de  nen 
p^re  et  de  mon  onole."  De  I'autre  c6te  dn  1  eg  latere^  II 
avait  iaisse  une  page  en  bbnc,  pour  y  faire  mention  dn 
recouvreorent  de  cette  dette,  et  en  cffet,  apr^s  la  perte  dn 
doge,  il  ecrivit  sur  son  registre;  il  me  I'a  payee,  fka 
pagata. 


excellence  de  vertu,  qui  rendoit  ainsi  son  coeuf  im- 
passible, ou  une  violence  de  passion  qui  le  rendoit  in> 
sensible,  dont  ne  Tunc  ne  I'autre  n'est  chose  petite, 
ains  surpassantl'ordinaired'humainc  nature  ettenaat 
ou  de  la  divinite  ou  de  la  bestialitd.  Mais  il  est  ^b 
raisonable  que  le  iugement  des  bommes  s'aceorae  ft 
sa  glorie,  que  la  faiblesse  des  jugeans  flasse  descaroiic 
sa  vertu.  Mais  pour  lors  quand  il  se  fot  retin^.tontle 
moode  dcmoura  sur  fa  place,  comme  tran.<(y  d'honear 
et  dc  fraycur,  par  un  long  temps  sans  mot  dire,  powr 
avoir  veu  ce  qui  avoit  ete  fhit  (Plutarque,  Valerias 
Publicola.) 


APPENDIX  TO  THE  TWO  F08CAHI. 


767 


Jacques  Loredan  fat  Hn  membre  dn  consell  des  dix, 
n  devmt  un  des  trois  chefs,  et  se  promit  biea  de  profiter 
le  oette  occasioa  pour  aocompJir  la  vengeaoce  qu'il 
i6ditait 

Le  doge  ea  sortant  de  la  terrible  ^preove  ^u'il  venait 
tc  sobir,  pendant  le  proems  de  son  fils,  s*etait  retire  aa 
ondde  sod  palais;  incapable  de  se  livrer  aux  affaires, 
oosom^  de  chagrins,  acoable  de  vieillessc,  il  oc  se  mon- 
tait  plus  en  public,  ni  mdme  dans  les  conseils.  Cette 
etraiie,  si  &cile  k  expliquer  dans  un  vi^illard  octogenaire 
i  malheureux,  deplut  aux  decemvirs,  qui  voulurent  j  voir 
[n  mormure  oontre  leurs  arrets. 

Loredan  coiiuneD9a  par  se  plaindre  devant  ses  col- 
^es  du  tort  que  les  iniirmit^s  du  doge,  son  absence  des 
ooseils,  apportaient  k  Texpedition  des  affaires;  il  finit 
lar  hasarder  et  renssit  k  faire  agr^'er  la  proposition  de  le 
i^poser.  Ce  n'etait  pas  la  premiere  fols  que  Venise  avait 
lOur  prince  un  homme  dans  laeaducite;  Tnsage  et  les 
ais  y  avaient  pourvu;  dans  oes  ciroonstances  le  doge 
tait  supple  par  le  plus  ancien  du  conseil.  Ici,  cda  ne 
aflisait  pas  aux  enneaiis  de  Foscari.  Pour  donner  plus 
le  solennite  k  la  deliberation,  le  conseil  des  dix  demauda 
ine  adjonction  de  vingt-cinq  seoa tears;  mais  comme  on 
I'en  enon^ait  pas  Tobjet,  et  que  le  grand  conseil  etait 
Dia  de  le  soup90nncr,  il  se  trouva  que  3Iarc  Foscari, 
ir^  du  doge,  Icur  fut  doling  pour  Tun  des  adjoints.  Au 
ieu  deradmettre  a  la  deliberation,  ou  de  redamer  oontre 
e  cboix,  on  enfcrma  ce  senateur  dans  noe  cliambre  se- 
lar^e,  et  on  lui  tit  jurer  de  ne  jamais  parler  de  cette  ex- 
lusion  qu'il  cprouvait,  en  lui  declarant  qu'il  y  allait  de 
a  vie;  ce  qui  n'empdcba  pas  qu'on  n'inscrivit  son  nom 
di  bas  du  dccret,  comme  s'il  y  cut  pris  part. 

Quand  on  en  vint  k  la  deliberation,  Loredan  la  provo- 
luaen  ces  termes.  "Si  Tutilite  publique  doit  imposer 
lience  k  tons  les  interdts  prives,  je  ne  doute  pas  que 
1008  ne  prenions  aujourd'bui  une  mesure  que  la  patrie 
^dame,  que  nous  lui  devons.  Les  etats  ne  peuvent  se 
naintenir  dans  un  ordre  de  choscs  immuable:  vous 
I'avez  qu'k  voir  comme  le  nOtre  est  change,  et  combien 
I  leserait  da  vantage  s'il  n'y  avait  uneautorite  assez  ferme 
oury  porter  remede.  J'ai  bonte  de  vous  faire  remarquer 
iconfnsion  qui  r^gue  dans  les  couseils,  le  desordre  des 
IfeUberations,  I'encombrement  des  affaires,  et  la  leg^rete 
rcc  laquelle  les  plus  importantcs  sont  diecidces,  la  li- 
eooede  notre  jeunesse,  le  pen  d'assiduite  desmagistrats, 
introduction  de  nouveautes  dangereuses.  Quel  est  Teffet 
leces  desordrcs?  de  compromettrc  notre  consideration, 
(aelle  ea  est  la  cause?  I'absenced'un  chef  capable  de 
lodcrer  les  uns,  dediriger  lesautres,de  donner  Tcxemple 
tons,  et  de  maintenir  la  force  des  lois.  Oil  est  le  temps 
4nos  decrets  etaient  aussitdt  executes  que  rendus  2  Oil 
'rangois  Carrare  se  trouvait  invesd  dans  Padoue,  avaut 
e  pouvoir  dtre  seulement  informe  que  nous  voulions  lui 
lire  la  guerre?  Nous  avons  vu  tout  le  contraire  dans  la 
lerai^re  guerre  contre  le  due  de  JVLilan.  Malbeureusc  la 
epublique  qui  eat  sans  clief  i  Je  ne  vous  rappelle  pas  tous 
es  incoavenients  et  leurs  suites  deplorables,  pour  vous 
ffligQr,pour  vous  effrayer,mais  pour  vous  faire  souvenir 
ne  VOU3  Atea  les  maitres,  les  couservatcurs  de  oet  etat 
uide  par  vos  pdres,  et  de  la  liberie  que  nous  devona  k 
nurs  travaux,  k  leurs  iustitutious.  Id,  le  mal  indiquc  le 
em^e.  Nous  n'avons  point  de  chef,  il  nous  en  Daut  un. 
lotre  prince  est  notre  ouvrage,  nous  avOns  done  le  droit 
e  juger  son  merite  quand  il  s'agit  de  Telire,  et  son  in- 
aparlte  quand  ellc  se  manifeste.  J'sgouterai  que  le 
euple,  encore  bieu  qu'il  n'ait  pas  le  droit  de  prononcer 
ar  les  actions  de  ses  maitres ,  apprendra  ce  olumgement 
vec  transport  C'est  la  providence^ ^c  n'en  doute  pas, 
ui  Ini  inspire  cUe-m(^me  ces  dispositions,  pour  vous 
vertir  que  la  republique  reclame  cette  resolution,  et  que 
:5ort  de  Tetat  est  en  vos  mains." 

Ce  discours  n'eprouva  que  de  timides  contradictious; 
ependaut,  la  deliberation  dura  huit  jours.  L'assemblec, 
e  se  jugeant  pas  aussi  sure  de  Tapprobation  universelle 
uc  Toratcur  voulait  le  lui  faire  croire,  desirait  que  le 


doge  domUlt  lni-m6me  sa  demission.  U  Tavait  dej&  pro- 
posee  deux  fois,  et  on  n'avait  pas  voulu  Tacoepter.  Au- 
cune  loi  ne  portait  que  le  prince  fiit  revocable :  il  etait 
au  contraire  k  vie,  et  les  exemples  qu'on  pouvait  citer 
de  plusieurs  doges  deposes,  prouvaient  que  de  telles  re- 
volutions avaient  toigours  ete  le  resultat  d'un  mouve- 
ment  populaire.  Mais  d'ailleurs,  si  le  doge  pouvait  dtre 
depose,  ee  n'etait  pas  assurement  par  an  tribunal  com- 
pose d'un  petit  nombre  de  membres,  institute  pour  puuir 
les  crimes,  et  nuliement  investi  du  droit  de  revoquer  ce 
que  le  corps  souverain  de  Tetat  avait  fait. 

Cependant  le  tribunal  arrdta  que  les  six  oonseillers  de 
la  seigneurie  et  les  chefs  du  conseil  des  dix  se  transpor- 
teraient  aupr^  du  doge,  pour  lui  signifier  que  Texcellen- 
tissime  conseil  avait  juge  convenable  qu'il  abdiquAt  une 
d^nite  dont-son  Age  ne  lui  permettait  plus  de  remplir  les 
fonctions.  On  lui  donnait  IdOO  ducats  d'or  poiu:  son 
entretien,  et  vingt-quatre  heures  pour  se  decider. 

Foscari  repondit  sur-le-champ  avec  beauconp  de  gra» 
vite,  que  deux  fois  il  avait  voubi  se  demcttre  de  sa  charge ; 
qu'au  lieu  de  le  lui  permettre,  on  avait  exige  delui  le  ser- 
ment  de  ne  plus  reiterer  cette  demande;  que  la  provi- 
dence avait  prolonge  ses  jours  pour  Teprouver  et  pour 
Taffliger;  que  cependant  on  n'etait  pas  en  droit  de  re- 
prooher  sa  longue  vie  k  un  bomme  qui  avait  employe 
quatre- vingt-quatre  ans  au  service  de  la  republique; 
qu'il  etait  pret  encore  k  lui  sacrifier  sa  vie;  mais  que, 
pour  sa  dignite,  il  la  tenait  de  la  republique  entidre,  et 
qu'it  se  reservait  de  repondre  sur  ce  sujet,  quand  la 
volonte  generale  se  serait  legalement  manifestee. 

Le  Icndemain,  k  Theure  indiquee,  les  conseillers  et  les 
chefs  des  dixse  presenterent  U  ne  voulut  pas  leur  donner 
d'autre  reponse.  Le  conseil  s'assembla  sur-lc-champ,  lui 
envoya  demander  encore  une  fois  sa  resolution,  seance 
tenante,  et,  la  reponse  ayantete  la  mdme,  on  pronon^a  que 
le  doge  etait  releve  de  son  serment  ct  depose  de  sa  dignite ; 
on  lui  assignaitune  pension  de  1500  ducats  d'or ,  en  lui 
eiyoignant  de  sortir  du  palius  dans  huit  jours,  sous  peine 
de  voir  toua  aes  biens  coufisques. 

Le  lendemain,  ce  decrct  fut  porte  au  doge,  et  ce  fut 
Jacques  Loredair  qui  eutla  cruelle  joie  de  le  lui  presenter. 
II  repondit:  ''Si  j'avais  pu  pre  voir  que  mavieillesse  fut 
prejudiciable  k  Tetat,  le  chef  de  la  repubUque  nese  serait 
pas  montre  assez  in^rat,  pour  preferer  sa  dignite  k  la 
patrie ;  mais  oette  vie  lui  ayant  ete  utile  pendant  tant^ 
d'annees,  je  voulais  lui  en  consacrer  jusqu'au  dernier 
moment  Le  decret  est  rendu,  je  m'y  conformerai." 
Aprte  avoir  parie  ainsi,  il  se  depouilla  des  marques  de  sa 
dignite,  remit  Taimeau  ducal  qui  fut  briseen  sa  presence, 
et  d^s  le  jour  suivant  il  quitta  ce  palais,  qnll  avait  babite 
pendant  trente-oinq  ans,  accompagne  de  son  fr^re,  de  ses 
parents,  et  de  aes  amis.  Un  aecreS^urc,  qui  se  trouva  sur 
le  perron,  Tinvita  k  descendre  par  un  escalier  derobe, 
afin  d'evitcr  la  foule  dupeuple,  qui  s'etait  raasemble  dans 
lescours;  mais  il  s'y  refusa,disant  qu'il  voulait  descendre 
par  oik  il  etait  monle;  et  quand  il  fut  au  baa  de  rescaliec 
des  geaots,  il  se  retourna,  aptraye  sur  sa  bequillc,  vera  le 
palais ,  en  proferant  ces  paroles :  '*  Mes  services  m'y 
avaient  appele,  la  malioe  demes  ennemis  m'en  fait  sortir." 

La  foule  qui  s'ouvrait  sur  son  passage,  et  qui  avait 
peutetre  desire  sa  mort,  etait  emue  de  respect  et  d'atten- 
drissement  Hentre  dans  sa  maison^  il  recommanda  k  sa 
(amille  d'oublier  les  ij^ores  de  aes  ennemis.  Personne 
dans  les  divers  corps  de  I'etat  ne  sc  crut  en  droit  de 
a'etonner,  qu'un  prince  inamovible  cut  ete  depose  sans 
qu'on  lui  reprochAt  rien ;  que  I'etat  eut  perdu  son  chef,  k 
I'insu  du  senat  et  du  corps  souverain  lui  -  m^me.  Le 
pmiple  seul  laissa  echapper  quelques  regrets:  une  pro- 
clamation du  conseil  des  dix  prescrivit  le  silence  le  plus 
absolu  sur  cette  affaire,  sous  peine  de  mort 

Avant  de  donner  un  snocessenr  iFranvois  Foscari,  une 
nouvelle  loi  fut  rendue,  qui  defcndait  au  doge  d'ouvrir  et 
de  lire,  autrement  qu'en  presence  de  ses  conseillers,  lea 
dcpdches  des  ambassadeurs  de  la  republique,  et  leslettres 
des  princes  etrangers* 


768 


APPBNDIX  TO  THE  TWO  FOSCARL 


Les  electeors  entr^ent  aa  conclave,  et  noimnirent  aa 
dogat  Paschal  Malipierl,  leSO.octobre  1467.  La  cloche 
de  Saint- Marc »  qui  annon9ait  k  Yenise  son  noaveaa 
prince,  vint  frapper  i'orcille  de  Francois  Foscari;  cette 
fois  sa  fermet^  Tabandonna ,  i!  ^prouva  un  tel  saisis- 
sementy  qu'il  moarut  le  lendemain. 

La  r^publique  arr£ta  qu'on  lui  rendrait  les  mdmes  hon- 
neurs  fan^bres  que  s'il  fVit  mort  dans  J'exercise  de  sa  dig- 
nit^;  mais  lorsqu'on  se  presenta  poar  enlever  ses  restes, 
sa  veuve,  qui  de  son  nom  6tait  Marine  Nani,  d^clara 
qu'elle  ne  le  souffrirait  point;  qu'on  ne  devait  pas  traiter 
en  prince apr^s  sa  mort  oelui  quevivantonavaitdepouill^ 
de  la  couronne,  et  que,  puisqu'il  avait  consume  ses  biens 
au  service  de  retat,elle  sauraitconsacrer  sadot  k  lui  faire 
rendre  les  derniers  honneurs.  On  ne  tint  aucun  compte 
de  cette  r^istance,  ct  malgr^  les  protestations  del'an- 
denne  do^resse,le  corps  f At  enlev6,  revdtudesornements 
ducaux,  expose  en  public,  et  les  obs^quesiurento^lifebr^s 
mvec  la  pompe  aocontnm^e.  Le  nouveau  doge  assista  au 
convoi  en  robe  de  s^nateur. 

La  piti^  qu'avait  inspir^e  le  maiheur  de  oe  vieillard  ne 
fat  pas  tout-arfait  sterile.  Un  an  apr^s,  on  osa  dire  que 
le  oonseil  des  dix  avait  outrepass^  se8  pouvoirs,  et  il  lui 
fut  d^fendu  par  une  loi  du  grand  conseil  de  s'ing^rer  k 
Taveccr  de  juger  le  prince,  k  moins  que  oe  ne  fdt  pour 
cause  de  fdonie. 

Un  acte  d'autorit^  tel  que  la  deposition  d'un  doge  m- 
amoviblc  de  sa  nature,  aurait  pu  exciter  un  souldvement 
g^n^al,  ou  au  moins  occasioner  une  division  dans  une 
r^publique  autrement  constitu^  que  Yenise.  Mais  de- . 
puis  trois  ans,  il  existait  dans  celle-ci  une  magistrature, 
ou  plntdt  une  autorit^,  devant  laquelle  tout  devait  se 
taire. 

Extrait  de  VIEgtoire  des  RipubUqueg  Itahennei  du  moyen 
Affe,par  SUmondi, 

Le  doge  dc  Yenise,  qui  avait  pr^venu  par  ce  traits  une 
guerre  non  moins  dangereuse  que  celle  qui  avut  termini 
presque  en  mdme  temps  par  le  traits  de  Lodi,  ^tait  alors 
parvenu  k  une  extreme  vieillesse.  Fran90is  Foscari  oo- 
cupait  cette  pr^mi^e  dignity  de  T^tat  dhs  le  15.  avril 
1423.  Quoiqu'il  fut  4^jk  Ag^  de  plusde  cinquante-un  ans 
k  r^poque  de  son  Election,  il  ^taitcependant  leplus  jeune 
des  quaran(e-nn  ^lectenrs.  U  avait  eu  beaucoup  de  peine 
k  parvenir  au  rang  qu'il  oonvoitait,  et  son  election  avait 
it6  conduite  aveo  beaucoup  d'adresse.  Pendant  pluslenrs 
tours  de  scrntin  ses  amis  les  plus  x6Ub  s'^taient  abstenus 
de  lui  donner  leur  suffrage,  pour  que  les  autres  ne  le  eon- 
nd^rassent  pas  commeun  concurrent  redoutable.  Le  con- 
seil des  dix  cratgaait  son  credit  parmi  la  noblesse  pauvre, 
parcequ'il  avait  cheroh^  &  se  la  rendre  fkvorable,tandis 
qu'il  etait  procurateur  de  Saint^Maro,  en  faisant  employer 
plus  de  trente  mille  ducats  k  doter  des  Jeunes  filles  de 
bonne  maison,  ou  k  ^tablir  de  jeunes  gentilshommes.  On 
craignait  encore  sa  nombreuse  fkmille,  car  alors  il  ^tait 
p^re  de  quatre  enfims,  et  mari^  de  nouveau ;  enfin  on  re- 
doutait  son  ambition  et  son  godt  pour  la  guerre.  L'opi- 
nion  que  ses  adversairess'^taientform^deluifutvdrifi6e 
paries  ^v^nemens;  pendant  trente-quatre  ans  que  Fos> 
cari  fut  k  la  tdte  de  la  r6pnblique,  elle  ne  cessa  point  de 
combattre.  Si  les  hostilit^s  6taient  suspendues  durant 
quelques  mois ,  s'^tait  pour  reoommencer  bient^t  avec 
plus  de  vigueur.  Ce  Alt  F^poque  oh  Yenise  ^tendit  son 
empire  sur  Brescia,  Bergame,  Kavenne,  etCr^me:  oft  elle 
fondasa  domination  de  Lombardie,  et  parut  sans  cesse 
sur  le  point  d'asservirtoute  cette  province.  Profond,  cou- 
rageux,  inebranlable, Foscari  oommnniqua  aux  conseils 
son  propre  caraotdre,  et  ses  talens  lui  firent  obtenir  plus 
d^influence  sur  la  r^publique,  <|tte  n'avaient  exerc^  la 
plupart  de  ses  pr^d^cesseurs.  Mais  si  son  ambition  avait 
eu  pour  but  Tagrandissement  de  sa  fiunille,  elle  fut  cruel- 
lement  tromp6e:  trois  de  ses  fils  moururent  dans  les  huit 
ann^es  qui  suivirent  son  Election;  le  quatri^me,  Jacob, 
par  lequel  la  maison  Foscari  s'est  perp^tn^ ,  fut  victime 


de  la  jalousie  du  conseil  des  dix ,  et  empoisonna  par  ses 
malhcurs  lesjours  de  son  p6re. 

£n  effet ,  le  conseil  des  dix ,  redoublant  de  d^fimnoe  ear 
vers  le  chef  de  Tetat,  lorsqu'U  le  vojait  plus  fort  ^  aes 
talens  etsa  popularity,  veillait  sansoease  sar  Foaosn,  pour 
le  pnnir  de  son  cr^it  et  de  sa  gloire.  Au  mois  de  fisvricr 
1445,  Michel  Bevilaoqua,  Florentin ,  exil^  k  Vauae,  aD> 
cusa  en  secret  Jacques  Foscari  auprte  des  laqiiiaiteBia 
d'etat,  d'avoir  re^u  du  due  Phitippe  Yisoonti  des  prdates 
d'argent  et  de  joyanx,par  les  mains  desgens  de8aiBaiio& 
Telle  6tait  Todieuse  procedure  adopts  k  Yealse,  qaerar 
cette  accusation  secrete,  le  fils  du  doge,  du  lepr^amtaal 
de  la  majesty  de  la  r^publique,  fut  mis  k  la  tortmie.  On 
lui  arracha  par  Festrapade  I'aveu  des  charges  porties  gob* 
tre  lui;  il  fut  relegu^  pour  le  reste  de  ses  jours  k  Kapoi 
de  Romanic ,  avec  obligation  de  se  presenter  cliaqiie  wBr 
tin  au  commandant  de  la  place.  Cependant,  le  twibiww, 
qui  le  portait  ay  ant  touch^  k  Trieste,  Jacob ,  gri^vemeni 
malade  des  suites  de  la  torture,  et  plus  encore  de  rhnou- 
liation  qu'il  avait  ^prouv^,  demanda  en  grioe  an  ogosefl 
des  dix  de  n'Stre  pas  envoye  plus  loin.  II  obiint  cette  fiii- 
veur,  par  une  deliberation  du  28.  deoembre  1446;  HM 
rappeie  k  Tr^vise,  et  il  eut  la  liberty  d'habiter  toot  le  Tv6- 
visan  indifi'^remment 

II  vivait  en  paix  k  Trevise,et  la  fille  de  Leonard  Coal»- 
rini,  qu'il  avait  epous^e  le  10.  fevrier  1441,  ^tait  veoae  b 
joindre  dans  son  exil ,  lorsqne,  le  5.  novembre  1450,  Al- 
moro  Donato,  chef  du  cons^  des  dix,  fut  assasaine, 

Les  deux  autres  inauisiteurs  d'etat,  Triadano  Gcittiet 
Antonio  Yenieri,  porterentleurs  soup^ons  sur  Jacob  Fos- 
cari, parcequ'un  domestique  k  lui ,  nonune  Olivier,  avail 
ete  vu  ce  soir-l&  mdme  k  Yenise,  et  avait  des  premieM 
donne  la  nouvelle  de  cet  assassinat  Olivier  fut  mis  A  la 
torture,  mais  il  nia  jusqu'ila  fin,  avec  un  courage  iaefara»> 
lable,  le  crime  dont  on  I'accusait,  quoiqoe  ses  jt^gesea^ 
sent  la  barbaric  de  lui  faire  donner  jusqn'i^  ouatre-vingti 
tours  d'estrapade.  Cependant,oomme  Jaoobroscaiiavm 
de  puissans  motifs  d'inimitie  contre  le  conseil  des  dix4|ai 
I'avait  cottdamne,  et  qui  temoignaitde  la  baine  an  di%e 
son  p6re,  on  essaya  de  mettre  k  son  tour  Jacob  i  la  taih- 
ture,  et  Ton  prolongea  contre  lui  ces  affreux  tonnacBliW 
sans  reussir  k  en  tirer  aucune  confessioii.  Malgre  sa  dt- 
negation ,  le  conseil  des  dix  le  condamna  4  ^tre  traoa- 
porte.^  la  Canee ,  et  auoorda  une  recompense  k  sob  deh 
teur.  Mais  les  horribles  douleurs  que  Jacob  Foscari  avaH 
eprouvees,  avaient  trouble  sa  raison;  sespersecul 
touches  de  ce  dernier  maiheur,  permirent  qu'oa  le  i 
nkt  k  Yenise  le  26.mai  1451 .  il  embrassa  son  pdre;,Uii 
dans  ses  exhortations  qnelque  courage  et  qnelque  cs 
et  il  fut  reconduit  immediatement  k  la  Canee.  Sur  ess 
entrefaites,  Nicolas  Eriaao,  homme  d^k  note  poor im  p 
cedent  crime,  confessa,  en  mourant,  que  o'eiail  Ins  t 
avait  tue  Almoro  Donato. 

Le  malheureuxdoge,  Francois  Foscari,  avait  d^i  eh 
che,  k  plusieurs  reprises,  ^abdiquerunedigiute  sif 
k  lui-meme  et  4sa  famille.  II  lui  semblait  que,  rrrtrsfcnUi 
au  rang  de  simple  oitoyen,  oomme  il  n'inspirerait  plas  A 
crainte  ou  de  jalousie,  on  n'aecablerait  plus  son  fils  fm 
ces  elKoyables  persecutions.  Abattu  par  la  mort  de  aei 
premiers  enftuis,  il  avait  voulu,  d^s  Ie2&juin  1433^4^ 
poser  une  dignite ,  durant  rexerdce  de  laquelle  am  paMs 
avait  ete  tourmentee  par  la  gnen«,  par  la  peste,  et  par  tfa 
malheurs  de  tout  genre.  11  renouvela  cette  pffoposillai 
apr^s  les  jugements  rendus  contre  son  fils;  maia  la  t 
seil  des  dix  le  retenait  foroement  sur  le  troae^ 
retenait  son  fils  dans  les  fers. 

^En  vain  Jacob  Foscari,  oblige  de  se  presenter  i 
jour  au  gouvemcur  de  la  Canee,  redamait  contre  II 
tice  de  &  demiere  sentence  sar  laquelle  la  i 
d'Brizso  ne  laissait  plus  de  doutes.  Bn  vain  il « 
gr&oe  au  ferouche  conseil  de  dix;  il  ne  pouvait  < 
aucune  reponse.  Le  de$ir  de  revoir  son  p^re  et  sa  i 
arrives  tons  deux  au  dernier  terme  de  la  vieilleflBe,  led^ 
sir  de  revoir  unepatrie  dont  la  cmaute  ne  meiitait  pas  tM 
si  tendre  amour,  se  changerent  en  lui  en  une  vraie  farenr. 


APPBNDtlX  TO  THB  TWO  FOSCABL 


769 


(e  poQfaiit  retonraer  k  Yenise  poar  y  yivfe  libre,  il  voii* 
Bt  du  moias  y  aller  chercber  un  snpplice.  11  ^"rivit  aa 
tao  de  MUan  k  la  fin  de  mai  1466 ,  poor  implorer  sa  pro- 
Bction  aupris  du  s^nat:  et  aachant  qa'ane  telle  lettre  se- 
ait  consider^  oomme  un  crime,  11  Texposa  lui-mdme 
lans  un  lien  od  il  ^tait  sur  qu'elle  serait  saisie  par  les  es- 
Aota  qui  rentonraient  £n  effet,  la  lettre  ^tantd^fi6r^  an 
onaeil  des  dix,  on  Tenvoya  chercber  anssitfit ,  et  il  fut  re- 
ooduit  k  Venise  le  19.  juillet  1456. 

JaoobFoscari  ne  nia  point  sa  lettre,  il  raconta  en  m^me 
emps  dans  quel  but  il  Tavait  dcrite,  et  oonunent  il  Tavait 
lit  tomber  entre  les  mains  de  son  d^lateur.  Malgje  oes 
.▼eux,  Foscari  fut  remis  k  la  torture,  et  on  lui  donna  trente 
crars  d'estrapade,  pour  voir  s'il  confirmerait  ensuite  ses 
Impositions.  Quand  on  le  d^taoba  dela  oorde,  on  le  trouva 
)6tskur€  par  oes  horribles  seoousaes.  Les  juges  permirent 
lors  k  son  p^re,  k  sa  mdre,  k  sa  femme,  et  k  ses  fils,  deal- 
er le  Toir  dans  sa  prison.  Le  rieux  Foscari,  appuy^  sur 
in  bliton,  ne  se  traina  qu'aveo  peine  dans  la  chambre  od 
on  fils  unique  ^tait  pans^  deses  blessures.  Ce  fils  deman- 
Init  encore  la  grAce  de  mourir  dans  sa  maison — '*Retoume 
L  ton  eul,  mon  fils ,  puisque  ta  patrie  Tordonne,  lui  dit  le 
lege,  et  soumets-toi  k  sa  volont^/'  Mais  enrentrantdans 
on  palais^ce  malheureux  vieillard  s'^vanonit,  ^puis^  par 
a  violence  qu'il  s'^tait  faite.  Jacob  devait  encore  passer 
ine  ann^e  en  prison  k  la  Can^,  arant  cyi'on  lui  rendit  la 
ndme  liberty  limits  k  laquelle  il  ^tait  r^duit  avant  oet 
•v^oement;  mais  k  peine  fbt-il  d^barqu^  sur  oette  terre 
Texil,  qn'il  y  monrut  de  douleur. 

B^s-lors,  et  pendant  ^uinze  mois,  le  vieux  doge  ao* 
aitl^  d'annees  et  dechagnns,ne  recouvra  plus  la  force  de 
on  corps  ou  celle  de  son  Ame;  il  n'assistait  plus  k  aucun 
ksi  oonseils,  et  il  ne  pouvait  plus  remplir  aucune  des  fono- 
ioos  de  sa  dignity.  II  toit  entr^  dans  sa  quatre- vingt- 
fadtoie  ann6e,et  si  le  oonseildes  dix  ayait^t^  susceptible 
le  qnelque  piti^,  il  aurait  attendn  en  silence  la  fin,  sans 
kNite  prochaine,  d'une  carridre  marqu^  par  tan  t  de  gloire 
A  tant  de  malbenrs.  Mais  le  chef  da  oonseil  des  dix  ^tait 
lors  Jacques  Loredano,  fils  de  Maro,  et  neveu  de  Pierre, 
e  grand  amiral,  quitoute  leur  vie  avaient  ^t6  les  enne- 
uUacham^  duvieuxdoge.  Usavaienttransmisleurhaine 
,  tears  enfants,  et  cette  vieille  rancune  n'^tait  pas  eneore 
■lisfiiite.  A  rinstigation  de  Loredano ,  J^r6mfe  Barba* 
igo,  inquisitear  d'etat,  proposa  au  conseil  des  dix,  aa 
aols  d'octobre  1467,  de  soumettre  Foscari  kune  nouvelle 
mmiliation.  JMs  que  ce  magistrat  ne  pouvait  plus  renn 
ifir  ses  fonctions,  Barbarigo  demanda  qu'on  nommAt  un 
ntev  doge.  Le  oonseil,  qui  ayait  refuse  par  deux  fois  Tab- 
Aoation  de  Fosoari ,  paroeque  la  constitution  ne  pouvait 
a  permettre,  h^ta  avant  dese  mettre  en  contradiction 
,veo  ses  propret  duvets.  Les  disonssions  dans  le  conseil 
t  la  jonte  se  prolong^rent  pendant  bait  jours,  jusqae  fort 
srant  dans  lanuit  Cependant,  on  fit  entrer  dans  Tassem- 
%ie  Marco  Foscari,  procurateur  de  Saint-Marc,  et  fr^re 
In  doge,  pour  qn'il  fut  li^  parleredoutablesermentduse- 
rat,  etqu'il  ne  iratarr^ter  les  mentor  de  ses  ennemis.  Bnfin, 
seonseilse  rendit  aupr^  dndoge,etluidemandad'abdi- 
[oer  Toiontairement  un  emploi  qa'il  ne  pouvait  plus  ex«- 
roer.  <^J'ai  jur^,''  r^pondit  le  vieillard,  *<de  remplir  jus* 
vi^k  ma  mort,  selon  mon  honneur  et  ma  conscience,  les 
Mictions  anxquelies  ma  patrie  m'a  appel<^.  Je  ne  puis  me 
miier  moi-m^me  de  mon  serment;  qu'un  ordre  des  con- 
cils  dispose  de  moi,  je  m'y  soumettrai ,  mais  je  ne  le  de- 
ancerai  pas."  Alors  une  nouvelle  deliberation  duoonseil 
ieiia  Francois  Foscari  de  son  serment  ducal ,  lui  assure 
ne  pension  de  deux  mille  ducats  pour  le  reste  de  sa  vie, 
i  Ini  ordonna  d'^vacuer  en  trois  jours  le  palais,  et  de  d^- 
oser  les  omemens  de  sa  dignity.  Le  doge  ayant  remar- 
m6  parmi  lea  conseillers  qui  lui  port^cnt  cet  ordre,  un 
^de  la  qoarantie  qa'il  neoonnaissait  pas,  demanda  son 
om:  "Je  sols  le  fils  de  Marco  Memmo,''  lui  dit  le  con- 
nller. — ''Ah!  ton  p^re  6tait  mon  ami,"  lui  dit  le  vieux 
ioge,  en  soupirant  il  donna  aussit6t  des  ordres  pour 
n'on  transportAt  ses  effets  diiins  une  maison  k  lui;  et  le 
endemain,  33.oetobre,  on  le  vit,  se  loatenant  k  peine,  et 


appaye  sur  son  vieax  fir^re,  redcseendre  oes  m^mes  es* 
callers  sur  lesquels,  trente- quatre  ans  auparevant,  on 
Tavait  vu  install^  avectantdepompe,et  traverser  ces  md-. 
mes  salles  ok  la  r^publique  avait  re^u  ses  sermens.  Le 
peuple  entier  parut  indign^  de  tantdeduret^exercde  eon- 
tre  un  vieillard  qu'il  respectait  et  qu'il  aimait;  mais  le 
conseil  des  dix  fit  publier  une  defense  de  parler  de  oette 
revolution ,  sous  peine  d'etre  traduit  devant  les  inquisi- 
teurs  d'etat  Le  20.  octobre,  Pasqual  Malipieri,  procura- 
teur de  Saint -Marc,  fut  eiu  pour  suocessenr  de  Foscari; 
celui-d  n'eut  pas  neanmoins  I'humiliation  de  vivrc  sujet, 
lA  od  il  avait  rigoii,  Bn  entendant  le  son  des  cloches,  qui 
sonnaient  en  actions  de  grAces  pour  cette  election,  il  mou- 
rut  subitementd'unehemorragie  cansee  parunevetnequl 
s'edata  dans  sa  poitrine. 


**he  doge,bIesse  de  trouverconstamment  an  oontradic- 
tear ,  et  un  censeur  si  amer  dans  son  fr^re,  lui  dit  un  jour 
en  plein  conseil:  ''Messire  Augustin,  vous  fiiites  tout 
votre  possible  pour  hAter  ma  mort;  vous  vous  flattez  de 
mesucccder:  mais  silesantres  vous  conoaissent  aussi 
bien  que  je  vous  connais,  ils  n'auront  garde  de  vous  eiire." 
LA  dessus  11  se  leva,  emu  de  colore,  rentra  dans  soh  ap- 
partement,  et  mourutquelques  jours  apr^s.  Ce  (i-ere,  oon- 
tre  lequel  il  s'etait  emporte,  futprecisement  lesucoesseur 
qu'on  lui  donna.  Cetait  un  merite  dont  on  aimait  A  te- 
nir  compte,  surtout  k  un  parent,  de  s'dtre  mis  en  opposi- 
tion avec  Ic  ehef  de  la  rcpublique."*)  Daru,  Histoire  de 
Yenise,  vol.  ii.  liv.  xviii.  p,  533. 


In  Lady  Morgan's  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon 
''Italy,"  I  perceive  the  expression  of  "Rome  of  the  Ocean" 
applied  to  Venice.  The  same  phrase  occurs  in  the  "Two 
Foscari."  My  publisher  can  vouch  for  me  that  the  trage- 
dy was  written  and  sent  to  Bngland  some  time  before  I 
had  seen  Lady  Morgan's  work ,  which  I  only  received  on 
the  16th  of  August.  I  hasten,  however,  to  notice  the  coin- 
cidence, and  to  yield  the  originality  of  the  phrase  to  her 
who  first  placed  it  before  the  public.  I  am  the  more 
anxious  to  do  this,  as  I  am  informed  (for  I  have  seen  but 
few  of  the  specimens,  and  those  accidentally)  that  there 
have  been  lately  brought  against  me  charges  of  plagia- 
rbm.  I  have  also  had  an  anonymous  sort  of  threatening 
intimation  of  the  same  kind,  apparently  with  the  intent  of 
extorting  money.  To  such  charges  I  have  no  answer  to 
make.  One  of  them  is  ludicrous  enough.  I  am  reproached 
for  having  formed  the  description  of  a  shipwreck  in  verse 
from  the  narratives  of  many  octea/  shipwrecks  in  prose^ 
selecting  such  materials  as  were  most  striking.  Gibbon 
makes  if  a  merit  in  Tasso  "to  have  copied  the  minutest 
details  of  the  siege  of  Jerusalem  from  tiie  Chronicles."  In 
mc  it  may  beademerit,  I  presume;  letltremain  so.  Whilst 
I  have  been  occupied  in  dcfendiqg  Pope**  character,  tho 
lower  orders  of  Grub-street  appear  to  have  been  assailing 
mine:  this  is  as  it  should  be,  both  in  tiiem  and  in  me.  One 
of  the  accusations  in  the  nameless  episUe  alluded  to  is 
still  more  laughable:  it  states  seriously  that  I  "received 
five  hundred  pounds  for  writing  advertisements  for  Day 
and  Martin's  patent  blacking!"  This  is  the  highest  com- 
pliment to  my  literary  powers  which  I  ever  received.  It 
states  also"that  a  person  has  been  trying  to  make  aoqoaint- 
ance  with  Mr.  Townsend,  agentieman  of  the  law,  who 
was  with  me  on  business  in  Venice  three  years  ago,  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  any  defiunatory  particulars  of 


*)  The  Venetians  appear  to  have  had  a  particular 
tarn  for  breaking  the  hearts  of  their  Doges:  the  above 
Is  another  instance  of  the  kind  in  the  Doge  Marco 
Barbarigo ;  be  was  succeeded  by  bis  brother  Agostino 
Barbarigo,  whose  cliief  merit  is  the  above  mentioned. 

49 


770 


APPENDIX  TO  TRB  TWO  FOSCARL 


my  life  from  Ihif  oooMioiial  Tisitor/'  Mr.  Townsend  is 
welcome  to  say  what  he  knows.  I  mention  these  partica- 
lars  merely  to  show  the  world  ingencral  what  the  literary 
lower  world  contains,  and  their  way  of  setting  to  work. 
Another  charge  made,  1  am  told,  in  the  ^Literary  Gazette" 
is,  that  I  wrote  the  notes  to  **Queen  Mab;"  a  work  which 
I  never  saw  till  some  time  after  its  publication ;  and  which 
I  recollect  showing  to  Mr.  Sotheby  as  a  poem  of  great 
power  and  imagination.  I  never  wrote  a  line  of  the  notes, 
Dor  ever  saw  them  except  in  their  pablisbed  form^Noone 
knows  better  than  their  real  author, that  his  opinions  and 
mine  differ  materially  upon  the  metaphysical  portion  of 
that  work;  though  in  common  with  all  who  are  not  blind- 
ed by  baseness  and  bigotry,  I  highly  admire  the  poetry 
of  that  and  his  other  publications. 

Mr.  Southey,too,  in  his  pious  preface  to  a  poem,  whose 
blasphemy  is  as  harmless  as  the  sedition  of  Wat  Tyler, 
because  it  is  equally  absurd  with  that  sincere  production, 
calls  upon  the  ''legislature  to  look  to  it,"  as  Ihe  toleration 
of  such  writings  led  to  the  French  Revolution:  not  such 
writings  as  Wat  Tyler,  but  as  those  of  the  ^'Satanic 
Scliool."  This  is  not  true,  and  Mr.  Southey  knows  it  to 
be  not  true.  Every  French  writer  of  any  freedom  was  per- 
secuted; Voltaire  and  Rousseau  were  exiles,  Marmontel 
and  Diderot  were  sent  to  the  Bastille,  and  a  perpetual 
war  was  waged  with  the  whole  dass  by  the  existing  des- 
potism. In  the  next  place,  the  French  Revolution  was  not 
occasioned  by  any  writings  whatsoever,  but  must  have 
occurred  had  no  such  writers  ever  existed.  Itisthefleishion 
to  attribute  every  thing  to  the  French  revolution,  and  the 
French  revolution  to  every  thing  but  its  real  cause.  That 
cause  is  obvious—the  government  exacted  too  much,  and 
the  people  could  neither  pive  nor  bear  more.  Without 
this,  the  Encyclopedists  might  have  written  their  fingers 
off  without  the  occurrence  of  a  single  alteration.  And  the 
Englith  revolution — (the  first,  I  mean)^what  was  it  oc- 
casioned by?  Xhe/)tin7ims  were  surely  as  pious  and  mo- 
ral as  Wesley  or  his  biographer?  Acts— acts  on  the  part 
of  government,  and  not  writings  against  them,  have  caus- 
ed the  past  convulsions,  and  are  tending  to  the  future. 

I  look  upon  sach  as  inevitable,  though  no  revolutionist : 
I  wish  to  see  the  English  constitution  restored  and  not 
destroyed.  Born  an  aristocrat,  and  naturally  one  by  tem- 
per, with  the  greater  part  of  my  present  property  in  the 
funds ,  what  have  /  to  gain  by  a  revolution  ?  Perhaps  I 
have  more  to  lose  in  every  way  than  Mr.  Southey,  with  all 
his  places  and  presents  for  panegyrics  and  abuse  into  the  ^ 
bargain.  But  that  a  revolution  is  inevitable ,  I  repeat 
The  government  may  exult  over  the  repression  of  petty 
tumults ;  these  are  but  the  receding  waves  repulsed  and 
broken  for  a  moment  on  the  shore,  while  the  great  tide  is 
•till  rolling  on  and  guning  ground  with  every  breaker. 
Mr.  Southey  accuses  us  of  attacking  the  religion  of  the 
country ;  and  is  he  abetting  it  by  writing  lives  of  Wesley  f 
One  mode  of  worship  is  merely  destroyed  by  another. 
There  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a  country  without  a  re- 
ligion. WeshallbetoldofjFVtfyictf  again:  but  it  was  only 
ff^ris  and  a  frantio  party,  which  for  a  moment  upheld  their 
dogmatic  nonsense  of  theophilanthropy.  The  church  of 
England,  if  overthrown,  will  he  swept  away  by  the  sec  • 


tarians,  and  not  by  the  jeeptbu.  People  are  ftoo  wise,  t8o 
well-informed,  too  certain  of  their  own  immense  impor- 
tance in  the  realms  of  space,  ever  to  svbmit  to  Aie  impiety 
of  doubt.  There  may  be  a  few  such  diffident  speculators, 
like  water  in  the  pale  sunbeam  of  human  reason,  bvtthey 
are  very  few ;  and  their  opinions,  without  entbasiasm  or 
appeal  to  the  passions,  can  never  gain  proselytes— Dnlesa, 
indeed,  they  are  persecnted:  tkatf  to  be  sore,  will  increase 
any  thing. 

Mr.  S.,  with  a  cowardly  ferocity,  exalts  over  the  antici- 
pated ''death  -bed  repentance''  of  the  objects  of  his  dis- 
like; and  indulges  himself  in  a  pleasant  ''Vision  of  Judg- 
ment," in  prose  as  well  as  verse,  fUU  of  impioos  impu- 
dence. What  Mr.S.'s  sensations  or  ours  may  be  in  the 
awful  moment  of  leaving  this  state  of  existence  neither  he 
nor  we  can  pretend  to  decide.  In  common,  I  presome, 
with  most  men  of  any  reflection,  /have  not  vraited  for  a 
**death-bed"  to  repent  of  many  of  my  actions,  notwidi- 
standing  the  "diabolical  pride"  which  this  pitiful  renegade 
in  his  rancour  would  impute  to  those  who  scorn  km. 
Whether,  upon  the  whcde,  the  good  or  evil  of  my  dm&t 
may  preponderate  is  not  for  me  to  ascertain  ,*  but,  as  mf 
means  and  opportunities  have  been  greater,  I  shall  Rut 
my  present  defence  to  an  assertion  (easily  proved,  if  ne* 
cessary,)  that  I,  **in  my  degree,"  have  done  norenal 
good  in  any  onefiven  year,,  since  I  was  twenty,  diaa  Mr* 
Soutliey  in  the  whole  course  of  his  shifting  and  tnmeoal 
existence.  There  are  several  actions  to  which  I  can  look 
back  with  an  honest  pride^  not  to  be  damped  by  tte  ca- 
lumnies of  a  hireling.  There  are  others  to  whicA  Ifcair 
with  sorrow  and  repentanoe ;  but  the  only  act  of  mjt  life  of 
which  Mr.  Southey  can  have  any  real  knowledlge,  as  h 
was  one  which  brought  me  in  contact  with  a  near  coniBexioa 
of  his  own ,  did  no  dishonour  to  that  coonexien  nor  to  m& 

I  am  not  ignorant  of  Mr.  Soolhey's  oahusniies  anadi^ 
ferent  oooasioa,  knowing  them  Id  be  such,  whi«^  he  sea(h 
tered  abroad,  on  his  return  from  S  witKriand,  ngninit  mm 
and  others:  they  have  done  him  no  gaod  in  this  votMi 
and ,  if  his  creed  be  the  right  one ,  they  win  da  hisi  lew  in 
the  next  What  kie  "death-bed"  may  be,  it  is  not  asy  pro* 
vinoe  to  predicate:  let  him  settle  it  with  his  Maker » as i 
must  do  with  mine.  There  is  something  at  oaoe  hnfiuons 
and  blasphemous  in  this  arrogant  scribbler  of  all  woitib 
sitting  down  to  deal  damnation  and  destractfon  npon  hii 
fellow -creatures,  with  Wat  Tyler,  the  Apotheamaaf 
George  the  Third,  and  the El^gy  on  Martin  the  iigii Msb 
all  sbufBed  together  in  his  writing-desk.  Oneof  hisoatt* 
solations  appears  to  be  a  Latin  note  fioma  worik  of  a  Mr. 
Landor,  the  author  of  ''OelHr ,"  whose  friendship  for  Bo- 
bert  Southey  will,  it  sceas»  ''bean  honour  to  him  when 
the  ephemeral  disputes  and  ephemeral  repotations  of  te 
day  are  foigotten."  I  for  one  neither  envy  hisn'^lhefriend' 
ship,"  nor  the  glory  in  reversion  which  is  to  accnie  from 
it,  like  Mr.TheJosson's  fortune  in  the  third  andfbnrthga- 
neratiott.— This  friendship  will  probably  be  as  mcmotaUe 
as  his  own  epics,  which  fas  I  quoted  to  him  ten  or  tweha 
years  ago  in  "Bnglish  Bards"Y  Porson  said  «woald  be 
remembered  when  Homer  and  Yiigil  are  forgotten,  and 
not  till  then."  For  the  present,  I  leave  him. 


771 


NOTES   TO  SARJDANAPALUS. 


And  thou,  mjf  own  Icmmillfyrrhtu  [p.  434. 
"The  loiiiBH  name  bad  been  still  more  oompreheD'siye, 
haTiDg  included  the  Achaiana  and  the  Boeotians^  who,  to- 
gether with  those  to  whom  it  was  afterwards  oonfined, 
would  make  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Greek  nation,  and 
among  the  orientala  it  was  always  the  general  name  for 
the  Greeks.'^— Mitfobd's  Greece,  vol.  i.  p.  109. 

•<-«— SisnisnapaAif 
7%€  kma,  mnd  son  o/Anmcyndaraxes, 
In  ono  daw  built  Anehiniut  and  Tarsus, 
Eotf  drink,  and  love;  the  rest*s  not  worth  aJiHw, 

[p.  436. 
^or  this  expedition  he  took  only  a  small  chosen  body 
of  the  phidanx,  but  all  his  light  troops.  In  the  first  day's 
imrcb  he  reached  Anchialus,  a  town  said  to  have  been 
Ibonded  by  the  king  of  Assyria,  Sardanapalus«  The  forti- 
lieatlonsy  in  th^  magnitade  and  extent,  still  in  Arrtan's 
Ikne,  bore  the  character  of  greatness,  which  the  Assyrians 
appear  singularly  to  have  afiecled  in  works  of  thekind.  A 
■lonament  representing  Sardaaapalus  was  found  there, 
warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Assyrian  characters,  of 
ooaiae  in  the  old  Assyrian  langnage,  which  the  Greeks, 
whether  well  or  ill,  interpreted  thus :  *<Sardanapalus,  son 
of  Anacyndaraxes,  in  one  day  founded  Ancbialus  and  Tar* 
aas.  Bat,  drink,  play :  all  other  human  joys  are  not  worth 
a  fillip."  Supposing  this  varsioB  nearly  exact  (for  Arriaa 
«aj8  it  was  not  quite  so),  whether  the  purpose  has  not 


been  to  Invite  to  civil  order  a  people  disposed  to  turbu- 
lence, rather  than  to  recommend  immoderate  luxury,  may 
perhaps  reasonably  bie  questioned.  What,  indeed,  could 
be  the  object  of  a  king  of  Assyria  in  founding  such  towns 
in  a  country  so  distant  from  his  capital,  and  so  divided 
from  it  by  an  immense  extent  of  sandy  deserts  and  lofty 
mountauis,  and,  still  more ,  how  the  inhabitants  could  be 
at  once  inctrcumstanoes  toabaadon  themselvesto  the  in- 
temperate joys  which  their  prince  has  been  supposed  to 
have  recommended,  b  not  obvious;  but  it  may  deserve 
observation  that,  in  that  lineof  coast,  the  southern  of  Les- 
ser Asia,  ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  an  9fe  after  Alexan- 
der,, yet  barely  named  in  history,  at  this  day  astonish 
the  adventurous  traveller  by  their  magnificcnoe  and  ele- 
gance. Amid  the  desolation  which,  under  a  singularly 
barbarian  government,  has  for  so  many  eenturies  been 
daily  spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  the  globe,  whe* 
ther  more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  opportunities 
for  commerce ,  extraordinary  means  must  have  been 
found  for  oonununities  to  flourish  there^  whence  it  may 
seem  that  the  measures  of  Sardanapalus  were  directed  by 
juster  views  than  have  been  commonly  ascribed  to  him; 
but  that  monardi  having  been  the  last  of  a  dynasty,  ended 
by  a  revolution,  obloquy  on  his  memory  would  follow  of 
course  from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  their  parti- 
sans. The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning  SiBtrda- 
napalus  is  striking  in  Diodorus's  account  of  him."' 

MiTFORD. 


kOTBS  TO  THE  DEFORM BD  TRANS- 
FORMED. 

This  produedon  is  founded  partly  on  thestory  of  a  No- 
▼^  called  '<The  Three  Brothers^"  pubfished  many  years 
mgOf  from  which  Lewis's  "Wood-Demon"  was  also  taken 
— and  partly  on  the  "Faust"  of  the  great  Goethe.  The 
present  publication  contains  the  first  two  Parts  only,  and 
the  opening  chorus  of  the  third.  The  rest  mky  perhaps 
appear  hereafter. 

NOTES  TO  THE  LAMENT  OF  TAS80. 

At  Ferrara  (in  the  library)  are  preserved  the  original 
MSS.  of  Tasso*s  Gierusalenune  and  of  Guarini's  Pastor 
Fido,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to  Ariostof 
and  the  inkstand  and  chair ,  the  tomb  and  the  house ,  of 
the  latter.  But  as  misfortune  has  a  greater  interest  for 
posterity ,  and  little  or  none  for  the  eotemporary,  the  cell 
where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St  Anna  at- 


tracts a  more  fixed  attention  than  the  residence  or  the  mo- 
nument of  Ariosto—at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me.  There 
are  two  inscriptions,  one  on  the  outer  gate,  the  second 
over  the  ccJl  itself,  inviting,  unnecessarily,  the  wonder 
and  the  indignation  -  of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is  much  de- 
cayed and  depopulated;  the  eastle  still  exists  entire;  and 
I  saw  the  court  where  Parisian  and  Hugo  were  bdieaded, 
according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon. 


NOTES  TO  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

M^  Parodise  kad  still  been  incomplete,    [p.  A23. 
^     Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 

Che  fanno  in  Cielo  il  sole  e  I'altre  stelle 
Dentro  di  lui  «t  erode  il  Paradiso^ 
Cosi  se  gnardi  fiso 

Pensar  ben  d^  ch'  ogni  terren'  piaoere. 
Canaone,  in  which  Dante  describes  the  person  of  Beatrice. 


772 


NOTES  TO  THE  PROPHBCT  OP  DANTE. 


I  would  huve  had  my  Florence  preat  and  free, 

[p.  522. 
L'Esilio  che  m'^  dato  ooor  mi  tegno. 

Cader  tra'buoni  h  pur  di  lode  degno. 
Sonnet  of  Dante,  in  which  he  represents  Right,  Gene- 
rosity, and  Temperance ,  as  banished  from  among  men, 
and  seeking  refuge  from  Love,  who  inhabits  his  bosom. 

!%€  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,  [p.  523. 

'^Ut  si  quis  predictor  urn  ullo  tempore  in  fortiam  dicti 
communis  peryenerit,  -talis  perueniens  igni  comburatur, 
sic  quod  moriatur,** 

Second  sentence  of  Florence  against  Dante,  and  the 
fourteen  accused  with  him.— The  Latin  is  worthy  of  the 
sentence. 

Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she, 

[p.  523. 
This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprung  from  one 
of  the  most  powerful  Guelf  families,  named  DonatL  Corso 
Donati  was  the  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibelines.  She 
is  described  as  being  "Admodum  morosa,  ut  de  Xantippe 
Socratisphilosophi  confupescriptumesse  leyimus/'a.ecord" 
ing  toGiannozzoManetti.  But  Lionardo  Aretino  is  scan- 
dalized with  Boccace,  in  his  life  of  Dante,  for  saying  that 
literary  men  should  not  marry.  ''Qui  il  Boccaccio  nonha 
pazienza,  e  dice,  le  moglieessercontrarieagiistudj ;  e  non 
si  ricorda  che  Socrate  il  pi6  nobile  lilosofo  che  mai  fosse 
ebbe  moglie,  e  figliuoli,  e  uilScj  dellaRepubblica  nella  sua 
Citta;  e  Aristotele  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi,  ed  ebbe 
figliuoli,  e  riochezze  assai — E  Marco  Tullio— eCatone— 
e  Varone—e  Seneca— ebbero  moglie."  It  is  odd  that  ho- 
nest Lionardo's  examples,  with  the  exception  of  Seneca, 
and,for  any  thing  I  know,  of  Aristotle,  are  not  the  most  fe- 
licitous. Tully's  Terentia,  and  Socrates'  Xantippe,  by  no 
means  contributed  to  their  husbands,  happiness,  whatever 
they  might  do  to  their  philosophy  —  Cato  gave  away  his 
wife — of  Varro's  we  know  nothing— and  of  Seneca's, 
only  that  she  was  disposed  to  die  with  him,  but  recovered, 
and  lived  several  years  afterwards.  But,  says  Lionardo, 
**!/  uomo  h  animale  civile jSeoondo  piaceatutti  ifilosofi." 
And  thence  concludes  that  the  greatest  proof  of  the  ani- 
maCs  civism  is  *'la  prima  oongiunzione,  dalla  quale  multi- 
plicata  nasce  la  Citt^" 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  lihe  this  and  set, 

[p.  524. 
See  "Sacco  di  Roma,"  generally  attributed  to  Uuicd- 
ardini.  There  is  another  written  by  a  Jacopo  Buonaparte, 
Gentiluomo  Samminiatesc  che  vi  si  trov6  presente. 

Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave, 

[p.  525. 
Alexander  of  Parma ,  Spinola ,  Pescara ,  Eugene  of 
Savoy,  Montecucculi. 

Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their  name, 

[p.  525. 
Columbus,  Americus  Vespucius,  Sebastian  Cabot 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrants  hall,      [p.  526. 
A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians ,  with  which  Pom- 
pey  took  leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  boat  in  which 
he  was  slain. 

And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthral 

[p.  626. 
The  verse  and  sentiment  arc  taken  from  Homer. 


And  A«,  their  prmee,  sheM  rank  eamamy  my  peers. 

[p.  698. 
Petrarch. 

A  dome,  iis imaye.  [p^&37» 

The  cupola  of  St  Peter's. 

lEs  chisel  hid  the  Hebrew.  [p.  537. 

The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  monument  of  Jvltiia  IL 

SONNBTTO. 
Di  Giovanni  Battista  ZappL 

Chi  h  oostui,  che  in  dura  pietra  acolto, 
Siede  gigante;  e  le  pi&  illnstre,  e  conte 
Prove  deir  arte  av  vanza,  e  ha  vive,  e  pronte 
Le  labbia  si,  che  le  parole  ascolto? 

Quesf  h  Mos^;  ben  me  'I  diceva  il  folto 
Onor  del  mento,  e  '1  doppio  raggio  in  frontr. 
Quest'  h  Mos^,  quando  soendea  deli  monte, 
£  gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  votto. 

Tal  era  allor,  che  le  sonanti,  e  vaste 
Acque  ei  sospese  a  se  d'intorno,  e  tale 
Quando  il  mar  chiuse,  e  ne  ih  tomba  altmi. 

E  voi  sue  turbe  un  rio  vitello  alzale? 
Alzata  aveste  imago  a  questa  eguale ! 
Ch'  era  men  fallo  V  adorar  oostoL 


Otter  the  damn*d  before  thejudyment-4k\ 
The  last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  chapeL 


[p.  527. 


The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  atis. 

[p.  527. 

I  have  read  somewhere  (if  I  do  not  err,  for  I  caiioot 
recollect  where)  that  Dante  was  so  great  a  faTOonle  of 
Michel  Angelo's,  that  he  had  designed  the  whole  of  4e 
Divina  Commedia :  but  that  the  volume  containijqg  these 
studies  was  lost  by  sea. 

Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,  who  but  empiey, 

[p-ar. 

Sec  the  treatment  of  Michel  Angelo  by  Julius  IL  and 
his  neglect  by  Leo  X. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people  f     (p.  5i98L 

''E  serissepiii  volte  non  solamenteaparticolari  ctttntfii 

del  rcggimeuto,  ma  ancora  al  popok),  e  intra  I'altie  on 

Epistola  assai  lunga  checomincia:  —  ^Papule  mi,  qmid 

feeitUn?"  Vita  di  Dante  scritta  da  Lienarde  Aretmo. 


NOTES  TO  THE  ODE  TaNAPOLEON 
BUONAPARTE. 

7%e  rapture  of  the  strife  —  [p.  5aa 

Certaminis  gaudia,  the  expression  of  Attila  in  lua  lift- 
rangne  to  his  army,  previous  to  the  battle  of  Chalooa, 
given  in  Cassiodorus. 


Or  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven. 
Prometheus. 


[|i.5ia 


The  very  Fiends s  arch  mock,  [p.  540. 

'*Tbe  fiend's  arch  mock  — 
"To  lip  a  wanton,  and  suppose  her  chaste.** 

Sharspbarb. 


773 


NOTES  TO  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH 

REVIEWERS. 


SiUl  fmut  I  hear  ?  —  shtUl  hoane  FitzgerM  hcwl 
Hit  creaking  couplets  m  a  tavem-hali,  [p.  641 . 

Semper  ego  auditor  tantum?  nanquamne  reponam 
Yexatas  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri  ? 

Juvenal. 
Mi,  Fitzgrerald ,  fkcetiously  termed  by  Cobbett  the 
''Small-Beer-Poet,"  inflicts  his  aDiraal  tribute  of  verse 
OD  the  **LiteraryFuDd  :''aot  content  with  writing,he  spouts 
in  person^  after  the  company  have  imbibed  a  reasonable 
quantity  of  bad  port  to  enable  them  to  sustain  the 
operation. 

Our  task  complete,  hke  Hamefs  shall  be  free. 

[p.  642. 

CidHametBenengeli  promises  repose  to  his  pen  in  the 

test  chapter  of  Don  Quixote.  Oh !  that  our  voluminous 

gentry  would  follow  the  example  of  CidHametBenengeli! 

Bg  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lamb's  ScBOtian  head, 

[p.  642. 
Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lamb  are  the  Alpha  and  Omega, 
the  first  and  last,  of  the  Edinboigh  Review;  the  others 
are  mentioned  hereafter. 

While  such  are  critics,  why  should IJbrbear? 

[p.  642. 
Stulta  est  dementia  —  peritur»  paroere  chartas. 

JUVBNAf.. 

nen  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before? 

[p.  642. 
Cor  tamen  hoc  potius  iibeat  decurrere  campo, 
Per  quern  magnBs  equos  Auruncae  flexit  alumnus: 
Si  vacaty  et  placidi  rationem  adauttitis,  edam. 

JUVKNAL. 

From  soaring  Southey  down  to  grovelHng  Stott, 

[p.  643. 
Stott,  better  known  in  the  ''Morning  Post''  by  the 
name  of  Hafiz.  This  personage  is  at  present  t|ie  most 
profoand  explorer  of  the  batlios.  I  remember,  to  the  reign- 
iDg  family  of  Portugal,  a  special  ode  of  Master  Stotf  s, 
begimiing  thus :  (Stott  loquitur  quoad  Hibernia) 
Princely  offspring  of  Braganza 
Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza. 
Also  a  Sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a 
moat  thundering  ode  commencing  as  follows: 
Oh!  for  a  lay!  loud  as  the  surge 
That  laslies  Lapland's  sounding  shore. 
liOrd  have  mercy  on  us  1  the  "Lay  of  tlie  Last  Minstrel" 
was  nothing  to  this. 

mus  Lays  of  Minstrels  —  may  they  be  the  last!  — 

[p.  643. 

See  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  passim.  Never  was 

any  plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  ground- work 


of  tliis  production.  The  entrance  of  Thundei:  and  Light* 
ning,  prologuising  to  Bayes'  tragedy,  unfortunately  takes 
away  the  merit  of  originality  from  the  dialogue  between 
Messieurs  the  Spirits  of  Flood  and  Fell,  in  the  first  canto. 
Then  we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine,  "a  stark 
mosstrooper,"  videlicet,  a  happy  compound  of  poacher, 
sheepstealer ,  and  highwayman.  The  propriety  of  his 
magical  lady's  injunction,  not  to  read,  can  only  be  equal- 
led by  his  candid  acknowledgment  of  his  independence  of 
the  trammels  of  spelling,  although,  to  use  his  own  elegant 
phrase,  **'twas  his  neck-verse  atharribee,"  i.  e.  the  gallows. 

And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Homer's  brood. 

[p.  643. 
The  Biography  of  Gilpin  Homer,  and  the  marvellous 
pedestrian  page,  who  travelled  twice  as  fast  as  his  master's 
horse,  without  the  aid  of  seven-leagued  boots,  are  chefs- 
d'ceuvre  in  the  improvement  of  taste.  For  incident  we 
have  the  invisible,  but  by  no  means  sparing,  box  on  the 
ear  bestowed  on  the  page,  and  the  entrance  of  a  Knight 
andCharger  into  the  castle,under  the  very  natural  disguise 
of  a  wain  of  hay.  Marmion,  the  hero  of  the  latter  romance, 
is  exactly  what  William  of  Deloraine  would  have  been, 
had  he  been  able  to  read  or  write.  The  Poem  was  manu- 
factured for  Messrs.  Constable,  Murray,  and  Miller, 
worshipful  Booksellers,  in  consideration  of  the  receipt 
of  a  sum  of  money,  and,  truly,  considering  the  inspiration, 
it  is  a  very  creditable  production.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  write 
for  hire,  let  him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not 
dis^ace  his  genius,  which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a  re- 
petition of  black-letter-ballad  imitations. 

ne  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years,  [p.  643. 
As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  wiUi  the  story 
of  the  Iliad,  they  may  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand 
historical  poem.  In  alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  we 
consider  the  ''Paradise  Lost,"  and  "Gierusalemme  Libe- 
rata,"  as  their  standard  efforts,  since  neither  the  "Jeru- 
salem Conquered"  of  the  Italian,  nor  the  '*  Paradise  Re* 
gained"  of  the  English  Bard,  obtained  a  proportionate 
celebrity  to  their  former  poems.  Query:  Which  of  Mr. 
Southey 's  will  survive? 

Next  see  tremendous  Thalaha  come  on,  fp*  643. 
Thalaba,  Mr.  Southey 's  second  poem,  is  written  in 
open  defiance  of  precedent  and  poetry.  Mr.  S.  wished  to 
produce  something  novel,  and  succeeded  to  a  miracle. 
Joan  of  Arc  was  marvellous  enough,  but  Thalaba  was  one 
of  those  poems  "which  (in  the  words  of  Porson)  will  be 
read  when  Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  but  —  not 
till  then," 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,     [p.  643. 
See 'The  old  Woman  of  Berkley'' a  Ballad  by  Southey, 
wherein  an  aged  Gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beel- 
zebub, on  a  "high  trotting  horse." 


774 


NOTES  TO  BN6LISH  BAHDB  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIBWSII& 


And  ami  ki$  h90ki^/(»r/emr  0/w€wm0  dtmkU, 

[p.  Ma. 
Lyrical  Balfcuifl:  «friie  teblee  taroed'' 

Up,  up  my  friend,  and  clear  yoar  looks  — 

Why  aJl  this  toil  and  trouble? 
Up,  np  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double. 

*'AwakB  a  iauder  mid  a  lofHer  strmm/'    [p.  644. 

''Awake  a  louder,  and  a  loftier  strain,"  is  the  first  line 

in  Bowles's  "Spirit  of  Discovery;"  a  very  spirited  and 

pretty  Dwsurf  J^pic  Aflionf  other  exquisite  lines  we  hi^ve 

the  following:  — 

A  Kiss 

Stole  on  the  llsf  ning  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard;  they  trembled  — 
—That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss,  Tory 
mnob  astonished,  as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a  pheno- 
menon. (See ''Letter  on  Bowles's  Strictures  on  Pope.") 

Comuit  LordFumy,  and  confide  m  OtrL    fp*  646. 
Oarl  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dundad,  ana  was  a 
BooluNcller.  Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord 
Hervey,  author  of ''Lines  to  the  Imitator  of  Horace." 

ilmf  d»/r9m  hat$  wkat  MaUtt  did  for  kiro* 

[p.  646. 
Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after 
his  decease,  because  the  Poet  had  retained  some  copies 
of  a  work  hv  Lord  Bolingbroke  (the  Patriot  King), 
which  that  splendid  but  maUgnant  genivs  had  ordered  to 
be  destroyed. 

To  rwo  with  Dotmii,  amd  wUk  B^hk  to  rk^^me, 

[p.  646. 
Dennis  the  critic  and  Ralph  the  rhymester. 
Silence  ye  wolves !  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls, 
Making  night  hideous  —  answer  him  ye  owls! 

■    DUNCUD. 


And  link*d  tkoo  to  tko  Ihmewdfor  thypmuu. 


(PM6. 
rhi 


SeeBowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  works  for  which  he 
received  300  Lst:  thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced  how 
much  easier  it  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another, 
than  to  elevate  his  own. 

Had  Cottle  sHU  adorn' d  the  eounter'i  side,  [p.  646. 
Mr.  Cottle,  Amos  or  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but 
one  or  both,  once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not  write,  and 
now  writers  of  hooks  that  do  not  sell,  have  published  a 
pair  of  Epics.  "Alfred"  (poor  Alfredl  Pye  has  been  at 
him  too  1)  and  '^e  Fall  of  Cambria.'* 

Mavnorudokmndditt^^ikoiroarhisUopf 

rp.646. 
Poor  Montgomery,  thongli  praised  by  every  Engiisb 
Review,  has  been  bitterly  reviled  by  the  Bdinbui^. 
After  all,  the  Bard  of  Sheffield  is  a  man  of  considerable 
genius:  his  "Wanderer  ofSwitierland"  is  worth  a  thou* 
sand  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  at  least  fifty  '^Degraded 
Spies." 

Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  bach  to  Arthnr'i  Soaif 

[P.64& 
ArAur's  Seat,  the  hill  which  overhangs  Bdinbuigh. 

And  BoMhHroet  mj^rmidom  Hood  Umghinj^  hft 

[p.  646. 
la  IdOa^Mcssrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moor  .met  at  Chalk-Farau 
The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magis* 
tracy ;  and,  on  exanunation.  the  balls  of  the  pistols,  like 
the  courage  of  the  combatants,  were  found  to  have  eva* 
porated.  This  incident  gave  occasion  to  much  waggery 
In  the  daily  prints. 

The  other  hal/purtued  Us  ealm  eareer,     [p.  646. 
The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum:  it 


would  have  been  highly  repreheMifale  i 

of  the  river  to  have  shown  the  smallest  symptooi  of  a^ 

pfehensioa. 

IfJ^ffrtM  died,  eseept  within  her  anms*  [p.  64fib 
This  display  of  syoHMthy  on  the  part  of  the  Tolbooth 
(the  principal  prison  in  Bdinburgh),  which  truly  seeam 
to  have  been  most  selected  on  this  occasion ,  is  much  to 
lie  commended.  It  was  to  be  apprehended,  that  the  nmny 
unhappy  criminals  exeented  in  the  front,  migfat  have  ren- 
dered the  edifice  more  callous.  She  is  said  to  be  of  the 
softer  sex,  because  her  delicacy  of  feeliiig  on  this  di^y  was 
truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  femiidne  impulses,  per- 
haps a  littla  selfish. 


n§  travelFd  Thstnis!  Atkemmn  Aberdeen, 


[p. 


His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  of 
the  Athenian  Society,and  reviewer  of  **Gell's  Topography 
of  Troy." 

BerborioMi wield  Ivor's  hnamer  -^      [p^h¥L 
Mr.  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Icebndio  and  other 
Poetry.  One  of  the  prinoipa]  pieces  is  a  ''Song  on  the 
Rocov^  of  Thor's  Hammer : "  the  translation  is  a  plea- 
sant chaunt  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  ended  thus:  — 
Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot. 
The  haomier's  bruises  were  her  lot; 
Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got 

And  classic  HaUam,  mmbk  renowned  for  Greek, 

[p.64«. 

Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knighf  s  Taste,  and  was 
exceedingly  severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein:  it  was 
not  discovered  that  the  lines  were  Pindar's,  till  the  picn 
rendered  it  impossible  to  cancel  the  critique,  whidi  slill 
stands  an  everlasting  monument  of  HaAam's  ingennity. 

The  said  Hallam  is  incensed,  because  he  is  fidsdy  no- 
cused,  s^iog  that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland -House. 
If  this  be  true,  I  am  sorry  —  not  for  havii^  said  so,  but 
on  his  account,  as  I  understand  his  iordahip's  fieasts  are 
preferable  to  his  compositions.  If  he  did  not  re^w  Lord 
Holland's  performance,  I  am  glad,  because  it  must  have 
been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome  to  praise  it.  If  Mr. 
Hallam  will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the  real  name  sknH 
find  a  place  in  the  text,  provided,  nevertheless,  the  anad 
name  be  of  two  orthodox  musical  syllables  and  will  come 
into  the  verse:  till  thca,  Hallam  must  stand  for  want  of 
abetter. 

Jfkile gae  IkaUn'shukloss votarw, Zjmk. 

lp.MflL 
The  Hon.  O.  Lamb  reviewed  ''fieresford's  MlaerSes." 
and  Is  moreover  author  of  a  Farce  enacted  with  m«^ 
applause  at  the  Priory,  Stanmore,  and  damned  wllii 
great  expedition  at  the  late  Theatre  Covent- Garden.  It 
was  entitled  "Whistle  for  it," 

Beware  lest  blundering  Brougknm  desiroj^  tke  sale. 

Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.XX  V.  of  the  Edinbufgh-Review, 
throughout  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  deCevaOo^ 
has  displayed  more  politics  than  policy:  many  of  Hk 
worthy  burgesses  of  Edinboigh  being  so  incensed  at  f 
infiunous  principles  it  evinces,  as  to  have  withdrawn  1~ 
subscriptions. 

It  seems  that  Mr.  BroQgham  Is  not  a  Plot,  as  I  a«|ip»» 
sed,  but  a  Borderer,  and  his  nime  is  pronounced  Ififiaw, 
fromTrenttoT^.  Sobeit   - 


Bor  son,  andvanisk'dina  Seoitiskmist. 


rp. 


I  ought  to  apologise  to  the  worthy  Ddttes  for  i 
ducinga  new  Goddess  with  short  petticoats  to  their  ac^ 
tioe:  but,  alas !  what  was  to  be  done?  I  could  not  any 
Caledonia's  Genius,  it  being  well  known  there  is  no  G^- 
nius  to  be  found  from  Clackmannan  to  Caithness:  yc^ 


N0TB8  to  ffifGLBH  BAKB8  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIBWBie. 


775 


wiflioiit  sapertmtiiTBf  agency,  hdw  wad  Jdirey  to  l>e  aa- 
Ycd?  The  '^national  Kelpies"  are  too  nnpoetical,  and  the 
"Brownies"  and  **Gude  Neighbonrs"  (Spirits  of  a  good 
disposition),  reftised  to  extricate  him.  A  Goddess  there- 
fore has  been  called  for  the  purpose,  and  great  ought  to 
be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only  commn- 
nicatioQ  he  ever  held,  or  is  likely  to  hold,  with  any  thing 
heavenly. 

Declare  his  landlord  can  translate,  at  least! 

[p.  546. 
Lord  Holland  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope 
de  Vega,  inserted  in  his  life  of  the  Author:  both  are  be- 
prais^  by  his  disinterested  guests. 

Reforms  each  error  and  refines  the  whole. 

[p.  646. 
.  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  having  dis- 
played her  matchless  wit  in  theEdinburgh-Review :  how- 
ever that  may  be,  we  know  from  good  authority  that 
the  manuscripts  are  submitted  to  her  perusal  —  no  doubt 
for  correction. 

PvnSy  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent.   [p.  646. 
In  the  melo-drame  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  elapt 
into  a  barrel  on  the  stage  -—  a  new  lyiylum  for  distressed 
heroes. 

While  JReynolds  vents  his  **dammes,poohSf  and  zounds/* 

[p.  546. 
All  these  are  favourite  expressions  of  Mr.  R.  and  pro- 
minent in  his  Comedies,  living  and  defunct 

A  tragedjf  complete  in  all  but  words  1       [p.  646. 

Mr.  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  Manager  of  Drury-Lane 

Theatre,stripped  the  Tragedy  of  Bonducaof  theDialogue, 

and  exhibited  the  scenes  as  the  spectacles  of  Caractacus. 

Was  this  worthy  of  his  sire,  or  of  himself? 

Her  fight  to  garnish  Greenwood/ s  gag  designs. 

[p.  646. 
Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  Scene-Painter  to  l>rary- 
I^ane  Theatre:  as  such  Mr.  S.  is  much  indebted  to  him. 


In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on. 


[p.  646. 
"Sleepii 


Mr.  S.  is  the  illustrious  author  of  the  "Sleeping 
Beauty:"  and  scone  Comedies,  particularly  '*Maids  and 
Bachelors;"  Baccalaurei  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  digni. 

And  worship  Cataianfs  pantaloons,  [p.  647. 
Naldi  and  Catalan!  require  little  notioe,^  for  the  visage 
of  the  one,  and  the  sakiry  of  the  other,  will  enable  us  long 
to  recollect  these  amusing  vagabonds;  besides,  we  are 
still  black  and  blue  from  the  squeese  on  the  first  night  of 
the  lady's  appearance  In  trowsers. 

*     Of  vice  andfoUg,  GrevUle  and  Arggle!     [p.  647. 

To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for 
a  man,  I  beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  Is  the  Institution,  and 
act  the  Duke,  of  that  name,  which  is  here  alluded  to. 

A  gentleman  with  whom  I  am  slightly  acquainted,  lost 
in  the  Argyle  Rooms  several  thousand  pounds  at  Back- 
gammon. It  is  but  justice  to  the  manager  in  this  instance 
to  say ,  that  some  degree  of  disapprobation  was  mani> 
fested.  But  why  are  the  implem^its  of  gaming  allowed 
in  a  place  devoted  to  theaociety  of  both  sexes?  A  plea* 
aaot  thing  for  the  wives  and  daughters  of  those  who  are 
blest  or  cursed  with  such  connections,  to  hear  the  billiard- 
tables  rattling  in  one  room,  and  the  dice  in  another !  That 
this  is  the  case  I  myself  can  testify,  as  a  late  unworthy 
member  of  an  institution  which  materially  affects  the 
morals  of  the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower  may  not  even 
move  to  the  sound  of  a  tabor  and  fiddle,  without  a  chance 
of  indictment  for  riotous  behaviour. 

Behold  the  new  Petronius  of  the  dag,      \p,  647. 
Petronius,  •'arbiter  elegantiarum''  to  Nero,  **and  a 
very  pretty  fellow  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Congreve's  old 
Bachelor  saith. 


7b  Uve  Uha  aodnts^ «  mH  iilb  fUklandfklL 

[p.  547. 
*  Mutato  Aottine  de  te  fiibula  narratur. 
I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  night 
I  beheld  him  presiding  at  his  own  table,  in  all  the  honest 
pride  of  hospitality ;  on  Wednesday  morning  at  three 
o'clock,  I  saw,  stretclied  before  me,  all  that  remained  of 
courage,  feeling,  and  a  host  of  passions.  He  was  a  gallant 
and  successful  officer;  his  faults  were  the  faults  of  a  sai- 
lor —  as  such ,  Britons  will  forgive  them.  He  died  like 
a  brave  man  in  a  better  cause,  for  had  he  fallen  in  like 
manner  on  the  deck  of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just 
appointed,  his  last  moments  would  have  been  held  up  by 
his  countrymen  as  an  example  to  succeedihg  heroes. 

JFV*om  silfy  Hafiz  up  to  simple  Bowles, 

[p.  647. 
What  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Ana- 
creon,  Hafiz,  could  he  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre 
at  Sheeraz,  where  he  reposes  with  Ferdousi  and  Sadi, 
the  Oriental  Homer  and  Catullus,  and  behold  his  name 
assumed  by  one  StottofDromore,  the  most  impudent  and 
execrable  of  literary  poachers  for  the  daily  prints? 

Lord,  rhgmester,petit'maitref  pamphleteer  ! 

[p.  648. 
The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighteen- 
penny  pamphlet  oh  the  state  of  the  Stage,  and  ofl'ers  his 
plan  for  building  a  new  theatre:  it  is  to'be  hoped  his  lord- 
ship will  be  permitted  to  bring  forward  any  thing  for  the 
Stage,  excet»t  his  own  tragedies. 

And  hang  a  calf-shin  on  those  recreant  lines, 

[p.  648. 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide !  doif  it,  for  shame. 
And  hang  a  calf  s  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 
•Shakspkarb,  King  John. 
Lord  C's  works,  most  resplendently  bound,  form  a 
conspiunous  ornament  to  his  book-shelves: 

The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella. 

And  Melville*s  Mantle  prove  a  Blanket  too  / 

[p.  648. 
^Melville's  Mantle,  a  parody  on  <' Elijah's  Mantle," 
a  poem. 

l^ave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind, 

[p.648. 
This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted 
Jew  K  — ',  seems  to  be  a  foHower  of  the  Delia  Crusca 
School,  and  has  published  two  volumes  of  very  respect- 
able absurdities  in  rhyme, as  times  go;  besides  sundry 
novels  in  the  style  of  tlie  first  edition  of  the  Monk. 

Chain'd  to  the  signature  ofO,P,Q,        [p.  648. 
These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  who  figure 
in  the  poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 

And  Capel  Lofft  declares  'tis  quite  sublime, 

[p.  648. 

Capel  Lofii,  Esq.,  the  Maeoenas  of  shoemakers,  and 

Pre&oe- writer-general  to  distressed  verse-men;  a  kind  of 

gratis -accoucheur  to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of 

rhyme,  but  do  not  know  how  to  bring  it  forth. 

Lof  Sums  and  Bloomfield,  nag,  a  greater  far  — 

[p.648. 
See  Nathaniel  Bloomfield'S  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever  he 
or  any  one  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of 
**Honington  Green." 

Mag  Moorland-weaveri  boast  Pindaric  siHL 

[p.  648. 
\'ide  "Recollections  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  of 
Staffordshire." 

Come  forth,  oh  Campell!  give  thg  talents  scope, 

[p.648. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of  the  reader 

the  authors  of  ''The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  and  'The 


776 


NOTBS  TO  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RBVIEWERS. 


PleMares  of  H<H[>e,"  the  most  benatifol  didactic  poems  in 
pur  language,  if  we  except  Pope's  Essay  on  Man;  but 
so  many  poetasters  have  started  op,  that  even  the  names 
of  Campbell  and  Rogers  are  become  strange. 

Bear  witness  Giffwrd^  Sothehy,  Macneil, 

[p.  548. 
Gifford,  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Masviad,  the  first 
ftatires  of  the  day,  and  Translator  of  Juvenal. 

Sotheby,  translator  of  Wieland's  Oberon  and  Virgil's 
Georgics,  and  author  of  Saul,  an  epic  poem. 

Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular:  parti- 
cularly "Scotland's  Scaith,  or  the  Waes  of  War,"  of 
which  ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month. 

•*  Why  slumbers  GWordf*  once  was  ask'd  m  vain, 

[p.  648. 
Mr.  Gifford  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and 
Meviad  should  not  be  his  last  ori^nal  works :  let  him 
remember^  "mox  in  reiuctantes  dracones." 

Unhappy  White!  while  life  was  in  its  spring. 

[p.  548. 
Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge ,  in  October 
1806,  in  consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit 
of  studies,  that  would  ha?e  matured  a  mind  which  disease 
and  poverty  could  not  impair,  and  which  Death  itself 
destroyed  rather  than  subdu^.  His  poems  abound  in 
such  beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader  with  tlie  liveliest 
regret  that  so  short  a  period  was  allotted  to  talents,  which 
would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was 
destined  to  assume. 

Wright!  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  onee  to  view, 

[p.  549. 
Mr.  Wright,  late  Consul-General  for  the  Seven  Islands, 
is  author  of  a  very  beautiful  poem  just  published :  it  is  en- 
titled, ''Horse  lonice,"  and  is  descriptive  of  the  Isles  and 
the  aoUacent  coast  of  Greece. 

And  you,  associate  Bards!  who  snatch* d  to  Uyht, 

[p.  549. 
The  translators  of  the  Anthology  have  since  published 
separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires 
opportunity  to  attain  eminence. 

False  glare  attracts,  hu  more  offends  the  eye. 

[p.  549. 
The  neglect  of  the  '*Botanic  Garden'*  is  some  proof  of 
returning  taste :  the  scenery  is  its  sole  recommendation. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott!  resign  to  minstrels  rude, 

[p.  549. 

By  the  bye,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scotf  s  next  poem  his 

hero  or  heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  "gramarye,"  and 

more  to  grammar,  than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay^  and  her  bravo, 

W  illiam  of  Deloraine. 

Let  Stott,  Carlisle,  Matilda,  and  the  rest, 

[p.  549. 
It  may  be  asked  why  I  have  censured  the  Earl  of  Carl- 
isle, my  guardian  and  relative,  to  whom  I  dedicated  a  vo- 
lume of  puerile  poems  a  fei^  years  ago.  The  guardianship 
was  nominal,  at  least  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  disco- 
ver ;  the  relationship  I  cannot  help,  and  am  very  sorry  for 
it;  but  as  his  lordship  seemed  to  foive^  it  op  a  very  essen- 
tial occasion  to  me ,  I  shall  not  burthen  my  memory  with 
the  recollection.  I  do  not  think  that  persop^  diJOferenoes 
sanction  the  unjust  condemnation  of  a  brother  scribbler ; 
but  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  dct  as  a  preventive, 
when  the  author,  noble  or  ignoble,  has  for  a  series  of  years 
beguiled  a  ''discerning  public'  (as  theadyertiseqients  have 
it)  with  divers  reams  of  most  orthodox,  imperial  nonsense. 
Besides,  I  do  not  step  aside  to  vituperate  the  Earl;  no — 
his  works  come  fairly  in  review  with  those  of  other  patri- 
cian literati.  If,  before  I  escaped  from  my  teens,  I  said  any 
thiqg  in  favour  of  his  lordship's  paper-books,  it  was  in  the 
way  of  dutiful  dedication,  and  more  from  the  advice  of 
others  than  my  own  judgment,  and  I  seize  the  first  oppor* 


tanity  of  proiKHUioiag  my  sineere  reoantatioii.  I  have 
heard  that  some  persons  conceive  me  to  be  under  obliga- 
tions to  Lord  Carlisle:  if  so,  I  shall  be  most  particularly 
happy  to  learn  what  they  are,  and  when  conferred,  that 
they  may  be  duly  appreciated  and  pobliciy  ackaowledgdl 
What  I  have  humbly  advanced  as  an  opinion  on  hisprnit- 
ed  things,  I  am  prepared  to  support,  if  necessary,  by  qoo- 
tations  from  elegies,  eulogies,  odes,  episodes,  and  certain 
facetious  and  damty  tragc^es,  bearing  his  name  and  mark: 

What  can  ennoble  knaves  or /ools,  or  cowards? 

Alas !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards! 
So  says  Pope.  Amen. 

And  other  victors  fiU  the  appUuidmff  akies, 

[p.  549. 
"Tollerc  humo,  victorqne  virum  volitare  per  ora.'* 

VlBGII. 

Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  M  us  UtL  [p.  5601 
The  ^ames  of  Hoyle,"  well  known  to  tbe  ▼otaries  of 
whist  and  chess,  are  not  to  be  superseded  by  the  vagaries 
of  his  poetical  namesake,  whose  poem  comprised,  as  ex- 
pressly stated  in  the  advertisement,  all  ttie  ^Pbgnesof 
Egypt" 

HSmselfa  living  libel  on  mankind,  [p.  550. 
This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most  rapid 
symptoms  of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer  of  a  poem 
denominated  tbe  ''Art  of  Pleasing,"  as  ''lucns  a  non  fan 
cendo,"  containing  little  pleasantry  and  less  poetiy.  He 
also  acts  as  monthly  stipendiary  and  collector  of  caian- 
nies  for  the  Satirist  If  this  unfortunate  yoang  man  woold 
exchange  the  magazines  for  the  mathematics,  and  endea- 
vour to  take  a  decent  degree  in  his  university,  it  anght 
eventually  prove  more  serviceable  than  his  present  salaiy. 

Oh,  dark  astflum  of  a  Vandal  race  !       [p.  fiflOi 
''Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probas  transport- 
ed a  considerable  body  of  Vandals."  —  Gibbon.  There  is 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  assertion — ^ttefamd 
is  still  in  high  perfection. 

That ....  Hodgson  scarce  redeems  thy  fame! 

[p.SfiO. 
This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise:  tbe  man 
who  in  translation  displays  unquestionable  genius, 
may  well  be  expected  to  excel  in  orlginfd  composition, 
of  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall  soon  see  asplencBd 
specimen. 


And  modem  BriUms  justly  praiee  their  i 

[p.5ao. 

The  '<AboriginalBritons,"an  excellent  poembyRichMnis. 
And  old  dame  Portland  Jills  the  place  ofPitL 

A  friend  of  mine  being  asked  why  his  Grace  otM  was 
likened  to  ap  old  woman?  replied,  "he soppoaed  it  was ' 
becaqse  he  was  past  bearing." 

Let  vain  Vaientia  rival  htchlou  Carr,  [p.  56a 
Lord  Vaientia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forth- 
coming, with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical, 
and  typographical)  deposed,  on  Sir  John  Carr's  aniiicky 
suit,  that  Dubois'  satire  prevented  his  purchase  of  As 
''Stranger  in  Ireland."— Oh  fie,  my  Lord!  has  your  lotd- 
ship  no  more  feeling  for  a  fellow -toarist?  bat  ^Hwoof  a 
trade,"  they  say. 

Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin  stili  pursue,      [p.  5Sa 
Lord  El^n  would  fain  persuade  us  that  all  tbe  fiigoics, 
with  and  without  noses,in  his  stone-shop,  are  the  work  of 
Phidias!  ^'Credat  Judaeus." 

/  leave  topography  to  eUusie  GeiL  [p.  5661 
Mr.  Cell's  Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  cannot  ftii 
toensnre  the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  das- 
sical  taste,  as  well  for  the  information  Mr.  G.  conveys  to 
the  miod  of  the  reader,  as  for  the  ability  and  research  *e 
respective  works  display. 


NOTBS  TO  THB  CUR8B  OF  MINEUVA. 


777 


POSTSCRIPT. 

I  have  been  informed ,  since  the  present  edition  went  to 
(be press,  that  my  tmsty  and  well  beloved  cousins ,  the 
Edinbnrgfh  Reviewers,  are  preparing  a  most  vehement 
critique  on  my  poor,  gentle,  imrenstmg  muse,  whom  they 
have  already  so  bedeviled  with  their  ungodly  ribaldry : 
'^Tantaone  animis  ooelestibiis  ine!*' 


pity  it  is  that  I  shall  be  beyond  the  Bosphoras  before  the 
next  number  has  passed  the  Tweed.  But  yet  I  hope  to 
fight  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 

My  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of 
personality  towards  their  great  literary  Anthropophagus, 
Jeffirey:  but  what  else  was  to  be  done  with  him  and  his 
dhrty  pack,  who  feed  <*by  lying  and  slandering/'  and  slake 
their  thirst  by  "evil-speaking?"  1  have  adduced  focts  al- 
ready well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey's  mind  I  have  stated  my 
free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any  injury :  what 
navenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with  mud?  It 
may  be  aud  that  I  quit  England  because  I  have  censured 
these  '^persons  of  honour  and  wit  about  town;"  but  I  am 
coming  back  again ,  and  their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till 
my  return.  Those  who  know  me  can  testify  that  my  mo- 
tives for  leaving  England  are  very  different  from  fears,  li- 
terary or  personal;  those  who  do  not,  may  one  day  be 
convinced.  Since  the  publication  of  this  thing,  my  name 
hu  not  been  concealed;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London, 
ready  to  answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  ex- 
pectation of  sundry  cartels ;  but,  alas !  "The  age  of  chivalry 
is  over,"  or ,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no  spirit  now- 
a-days. 

There  is  a  youth  ye  lept  He wson  Clarke,  (subandi,  Esq.) 
•  sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and  I  believe  a  denizen  of 
Berwick  upon  Tweed,  whom  I  have  introduced  in  these 
pages  to  much  better  company  than  he  has  been  accustom- 
ed to  meet:  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a  very  sad  dog,  and, 
for  no  reason  that  I  can  discover,  except  a  personal  quar- 
rel with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge  to  sit  for  a  fel- 
lowship 9  and  whom  the  jealousy  of  his  Trinity-cotempo- 


raries  prevented  from  success,  has  been  abusing  me,  and, 
what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent  above  mentioned, 
in  the  Satirist  for  one  year  and  some  months.  I  am  utter- 
ly unconscious  of  having  given  him  any  provocation;  in- 
deed I  am  guiltless  of  having  heard  his  name,  till  it  was 
coupled  with  the  Satirist  He  has  therefore  no  reason  to  , 
complain,  and  1  dare  say  that,  like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary, 
he  is  niher pleated  than  otherwise.  I  have  now  mention- 
ed all  who  nave  done  me  the  honour  to  notice  me  and 
mine,  that  is,  my  Bear  and  my  Book,  except  the  Edi- 
tor of  the  Satirist,  who,  it  seems,  is  a  gentleman,— God 
wot!  I  wish  he  could  impart  a  little  of  his  gentility  to  his 
subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Jerningbam  is 
about  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  his  Maecenas, Lord  Carl- 
isle: I  hope  not;  he  was  one  of  the  few  who,  in  the  very 
short  intercourse  I  had  with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness 
when  a  boy,  and  whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  "pour  on,  I 
will  endure."  I  have  nothing  further  to  add ,  save  a  gene- 
ral note  of  thanksgiving  to  readers,  purchasers,  and  pub- 
lisher; and,  in  the  words  of  Scott,  I  wish 

To  all  and  each  a  fair  good  night. 
And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light 


ThefolUnoing  Lines  were  written  hy  Mr.  Fitzgerald  in  a 
Copy  of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers :  — 
I  find  Lord  Byron  scorns  my  muse  — 
Our  fiites  are  ill  agreed ! 
His  verse  is  safe  ^  I  can't  abuse 
Those  lines  I  never  read. 


Lard  Byron  accidentally  met  with  the  Copy,  and  subjdtked 
the  following  pungent  Reply:  — 
Whafs  writ  on  me,  cried  Fits,  1  never  read;  — 
What's  wrote  by  thee,  dear  Fits,  none  will  indeed. 
The  case  stands  simply  thus,  then,  honest  Fitz:  — 
Thou  and  thine  enemies  are  fairly  quits. 
Or  rather  wotdd  be,  if,  for  time  to  come. 
They  luckily  were  deaf  or  thou  wert  dumb — 
But,  to  iheirpens  while  scribblers  add  their  tongues. 
The  waiter  only  can  escape  their  lungs. 


NOTES  TO  THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

7%e  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign, 
.     .  (p.  661. 

The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  m  our 

country ;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  sunmier  of 

less  duration. 

These  Cecrops  placed — this  Pericles  adorn' d — 

[p.  652. 
This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not  of  the  Acro- 
polis in  particular.  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  by 
some  supposed  the  Pantheon,  was  finished  by  Hadrian: 
sixteen  columns  arestanding,  of  the  most  beautiful  marble 
and  style  of  architecture. 

Th*  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name* 

[p.  662. 
It  is  related  by  a  late  oriental  traveller,  that  when  the 
wholesale  spoliator  visited  Athens,  he  caused  his  own 
name,  with  that  of  his  wife,  to  be  inscribed  on  a  pillar  of 
one  of  the  principal  temples.  This  inscription  was  exe- 
cuted in  a  very  conspicuous  manner,  and  deeply  engraved 
in  the  marble,  at  a  very  considerable  elevation.  Notwith- 
standing which  precautions,  some  person  (doubtless  in- 
tpired  by  the  patron -goddess)  has  been  at  the  pains  to 
get  himself  raised  up  to  the  requisite  height,  and  has  ob- 


literated the  name  of  the  laird,  but  left  that  of  the  lady 
untouched.  The  traveller  in  question  accompanied  this 
story  by  a  remark,  that  it  must  have  cost  some  labour  and 
contrivance  to  get  at  the  place,  and  could  only  have  been 
effected  by  much  seal  and  determination. 

**When  Venus  half  avenged  JIBnerva*s  shame." 

[p.  652. 

His  lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer 
bears  it,  are  carved  conspicuously  on  the  Parthenon 
above;  in  a  part  not  far  distant  are  the  torn  remnants  of 
the  basso-relievos,  destroyed  in  a  vain  attempt  to  remove 
them. 

Athene,  no  !  the  plunderer  was  a  Scot!    [p.  662. 
The  plaster  wall  on  the  west  side  of  the  temple  of  Mi- 
nerva Polias  bears  the  following  inscription,  cut  in  very 
deep  characters: 

Quod  non  fecerunt  Goti, 
Hoc  fecerunt  Scoti. 

And  own  himself  an  htfant  offourscore, 

[p.  662. 
Mr.  West, on  seeing  <Hhe  Elgb  collection"  (I  suppose 
we  shall  hear  of  the  Abershaws'and  Jack  Shepherd's  col 
lection  next),  declared  himself  a  mere  tyro  in  art 

49* 


778 


NOTES  TO  THB  HISCBLLAKEOUS  POfii[& 


And  mmrvtl  mt  ku  krtbkip'i  itone-^kop  there. 

[p.  652. 

Poor  Crib  was  sadly  pDZzted  wbcn  the  marbles  were 
first  exhibited  at  Erginhouse.  He  asked  if  it  was  not  **a 
stone-shop:"  he  was  right  —  it  is  a  shop. 

Sknne  cmlm  ipecUUor,  at  he  takes  his  view. 

[p.  652. 

^Alas!  all  the  monumeDts  of  Roman  magnificence ,  all 
the  remains  of  Grecian  taste,  so  dear  to  the  artist,  the  his- 
torian, the  antiquary,  all  depend  on  the  will  of  an  arbi- 
trary sovereign ;  and  that  will  is  influenced  too  often  by 
interest  or  vanity,  by  a  nephew  or  a  sycophant  Is  a  new 
palace  to  be  erected  (at  Rome)  for  an  upstart  family  ?  the 
Coliseum  is  stripped  to  furnish  materials.  Does  a  foreign 
minister  wish  to  adorn  the  bleak  walls  of  a  northern  castle 
with  antiques  ?  the  temples  of  Theseus  or  Minerva  must 
be  dismantled,  and  the  works  of  Phidias  or  Praxiteles  be 
torn  from  the  shattered  frieze.  That  a  decrepid  uncle, 
wrapped  up  in  the  religious  duties  of  his  age  and  station, 
should  listen  to  the  suggestions  of  an  interested  nephew, 
is  natural:  and  that  an  oriental  despot  should  undervalue 
the  masterpieces  of  Grecian  art,  is  to  be  expected;  though 
in  both  cases  theconseqnenoesof  such  weakness  are  much 
to  be  lamented.  But  that  tiie  minister  of  a  nation,  &med 
for  its  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  its  veneration  for 
the  monuments  of  ancient  Greece,  should  have  been  the 
prompter  and  the  instrument  of  these  destructions,  is  al- 
most incredible.  Such  rapacity  is  a  crime  against  all  ages 
and  all  generations :  it  deprives  the  past  of  the  trophies  of 
their  genius  and  the  title-deeds  of  their  fame;  the  present, 
of  the  strongest  inducements  to  exertion ,  the  noblest  ex- 
hibitions that  curiosity  can  contemplate;  the  future^  of  the 
masterpieces  of  art,  the  models  of  imitation.  To  guard 
against  the  repetition  of  such  depredations  is  the  wish 
of  every  man  of  genius,' the  duty  of  every  man  in  power, 
and  the  common  interest  of  every  civilized  nation." 
Eustace's  Classical  Tour  through  Italy. 

**This  attempt  to  transplant  the  Temple  of  Vesta  from 
Italy  to  England,  may  periiaps  do  honour  to  the  late  Lord 
Bristors  patriotism  or  to  his  magnificence;  but  it  cannot 
be  considered  as  an  indication  of  either  taste  or  judg- 
ment" Ibid. 

**Ble$t paper-credit^'  who  thall  dare  to  singf 

[p.6dd. 
Blest  paper-credit,  last  and  best  supply, 
That  lends  cormption  lighter  wings  to  fly. 

Pope, 


MOTES  TO  THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 

Toformy  Uke  GveecUn's  dm$t,  her  taUtmmtu. 

[p.  655. 
Gnescfin  died  dtiringtbe  siege  of  a  city;  it  surrendered, 
and  the  keys  were  brought  and  laid  upon  his  bier,  so  that 
the  place  might  appear  rendered  to  his  ashes. 

Hear!  hear!  Prometkeue /ram  hie  rock  appeoL 

fp.55e. 

I  refer  the  reader  to  the  first  address  of  Promethevs  in 
.Asohylus,  when  he  is  left  alone  by  his  attendants ,  and 
before  the  arrival  of  the  Chorus  of  Sea-nymphs. 

Revive  the  cry  ^  ^ logo  I  and  close  SpamP' 

[p.  557. 
^St  lago  1  and  close  Spain  V  the  old  Spanish  war-cry. 

The  knife  ofArragon,  Toledo's  steeL     [p.  657. 
The  Arragonians  arc  peculiarly  dextrous  in  the  use  of 
this  weapon^  and  diaj^layed  it  particnlarly  in  former 
Fiench  wars, 

TIjf  good  eid  num,  whose  world  was  all  within. 
The  fiuiMHu  old  man  of  .Verona.  SeeCtAVDiAN. 


Many  an  old  woman,  hu  no  Catherine,     [p.  566l 
The  dexterity  of  Catherine  exlrk^ted  Peter  (called  Hie 
Great  by  courtesy)  when  surrounded  by  the  Mnsaulmanfl 
on  the  banks  of  the  river  Pruth. 

7%at  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  worUL 

[p.65t. 
"Naso  mspendit  adnnoo.^'  —  Horace. 

The  Roman  applies  it  to  one  who  merely  was  impcnoBi 
to  his  acquaintance. 

There  ChaUauhriandfomu  new  hooks  ofmar^tn^ 

[p.5O0i 
Vioomte  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  foigotten  the 
author  in  the  minister,  reodved  a  handsome  oomplimeal 
at  Verona  from  a  literary  sovereign:  "Ahl  Monsieiir 
C— ,  are  you  related  to  that  Chateaubriand  who — who— 
who  has  written  sovuthnu/V*  (6Grit  mlgw  cAom.)  Hit 
said  that  the  author  of  Atala  repented  him  for  a  moiMal 
of  his  Intimacy. 


NOTES  TO  THB  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

Reviewing  **the  unyentie  en^,"  and  then. 

[p. 6611.  St9& 
See  "Uk  of  Henry  Kirke  White.'' 

UheSSng  Alfonso!        [p.  660.  StIOI. 
King  Alfonso,  speaking  of  the  Ptoloraean  systeni,aa>d» 
that  «*had  he  been  consulted  at  the  creation  of  the  work^ 
he  would  have  spared  the  Maker  some  absmrdities.'' 


jAke  Kgktmng,  off  from  his  ^^melodioHS  i 

[p.6e9.1StlOS. 
See  Aubrey's  account  of  the  apparition  whidi  disap- 
peared "with  a  curious  perfume  and  amelodiovatwaog;" 
or  see  the  Antiquary,  vol.  l 


NOTES  TO  THE  MISCELLANEODS  POEHSL 

Written  efter  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Ahgdot. 

On  the  3d  of  May,  1810,  while  the  Salsette  (CaptiiB 
Bathurst)  was  lying  in  the  Dardanelles,  lienteaul 
Ekenhead  of  that  frigate  and  the  writer  of  theae  rhyaies 
swam  from  the  European  shore  to  the  Asiatic— by-^Oie-hyc^ 
from  Abydos  to  Sestos  would  have  been  more  comet 
The  whole  distance  from  the  place  whence  we  alaHed  to 
our  landing  on  the  otiier  side,  including  the  length  wt 
were  carried  by  the  current,  was  computed  by  those  on 
board  the  frigate  at  upwards  of  fourBngfish  miles ;  though 
the  actual  breadth  is  barely  one.  The  rapidity  of  die  enr- 
rent  is  such  that  no  boat  can  row  directly  acroas,  and  it 
may  in  some  measure  be  estimated  from  the  dmuBStaaee 
of  Uie  whole  distance  being  accomplished  by  OBe<tf  die 
parties  in  an  hour  and  five,  and  by  the  other  ia  aa  hoB 
and  tea  minutes.  The  water  was  extremely  cold  from  Ike 
melting  of  the  mountain^nows.  About  three  wedcsh^ 
fore,  in  April,  we  had  made  an  attempt,  bat  haHag  ri^ 
den  all  the  way  from  the  Troad  the  same  morning,  wd 
the  water  being  of  an  icy  chilhiess,  we  found  it  neoeaHT 
to  postpone  the  completion  till  the  frigate  aadMNci 
below  the  castles,  when  we  swam  the  straita ,  aa  jHl 
stated ;  entering  a  considerable  way  above  tbeBmopfii^ 
and  landing  below  the  Asiatic  fort  Chevafier  aaya  iktin 
young  Jew  swam  the  same  distance  for  his  mistreaa;  wd 
Oliver  mentions  it  having  been  done  by  a  Neapofitw; 
but  our  consul,  Tarragona,  remembered  Bother  of  these 
circumstances,  and  tried  to  (fissuade  us  from  theaMmfl 
A  number  of  the  Salsette's  crew  were  known  to  have  ae^ 
oomplished  a  greater  distance;  and  the  only  thing  ^i^ 


NOTES  TO. THE  WALTZ. 


779 


larpiisMlme  was,  that,  as  doubts  had  been  entertained 
of  tbe  truth  of  Leander's  story,  no  traveller  had  ever 
endeavoured  to  ascert^u  its  practicability. 

Ztifi  fiov,  aitq  uyajim.  [p.  576. 

Z6e  uuMySOi  ttgapo,  or  Zwi  ftov,  auq  a/ani,  a  Romaic 
ei^ression  of  tenderness:  if  I  translate  it  I  shall  aliront 
(he  gentlemen,  as  it  may  seem  that  I  supposed  they  could 
not;  and  if  I  do  not,  I  may  affront  the  ladies.  For  fear  of 
any  misoonstmction  on  the  part  of  the  latter  1  shall  do  so, 
begging  pardon  of  the  learned.  It  means,  ^My  life,  I  love 
youl"  which  sounds  very  prettily  in  all  languages,  and 
IS  as  much  in  fashion  inGreece  at  this  day  as,Jnvenal  tells 
OS,  the  two  first  words  were  amongst  the  Roman  ladies, 
whose  erotic  expressions  were  all  heilenised. 

BytUlthttoken-JhweritkutuU'^  [p.  576. 
b  the  Bast  (where  ladies  are  not  taught  to  write,  lest 
(hey  should  serib'ble  assignations)  flowers,  e&nders,  peb- 
'  bles,oonvey  the  sentiments  of  the  parties  by  thatuniTersal 
dq;»uty  of  Mereury  —  an  old  woman.  A  dnder  says, 
<1  bom  for  thee;''  a  bnnoh  of  flowers  tied  with  hair, 
*^9ke  me  and  fly ;"  but  a  pebble  deolares— what  nothing 
else  can. 


BUisin0  Jkim  ik$jf  served  so  weiL         [p.  587. 

''At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen  whose  left  arm  was 
shattered  by  a  cannon-ball,  to  wrench  it  off  with  the 
other,  and  throwing  it  up  in  the  air,  exclaimed  to  his 
comrades/'  Vive  TEmpereur  jusqu'^  la  mort"  There 
were  many  other  instances  of  the  like:  this  you  may,ho  w- 
ever ,  depend  on  as  true. "  A  private  Letter  from 
Bruiielt. 

J\tminff  riven  into  blood,  [p.  587. 

See  Rev.  chap,  viii,  verse  7—11.  "The  first  angel 
sounded,  and  there  followed  hail  and  fire  mingled  with 
blood.  And  the  second  angel  sounded,  and  as  it  were  a 
great  mountain  burning  mth  fire  was  cast  into  the  sea; 
and  the  third  part  of  the  sea  became  blood.  And  the  third 
angel  sounded,  and  there  fell  a  great  star  from  heaven, 
burning  as  it  were  a  lamp;  and  it  fell  upon  a  third  part 
of  the  rivers,  and  upon  the  fountains  of  waters.  And  the 
name  of  the  star  is  called  Wormwood;  and  the  third  part 
of  the  waters  became  wormwood;  and  many  men  died  of 
the  waters,  because  they  were  made  bitter." 

"Wkoee  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomib.       [p.  588. 

Murafs  remains  are  said  (o  have  been  torn  from  the 
grave  aad  burnt 


NOTES  TO  THE  WALTZ. 


As  flMny  voUs  4U  General  7.  [p.  617. 

State  of  (he  poll  (last  day)  5. 

Qmm/awtfisntor.  [p«618. 

My  Lathi  is  all  forgott^  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have 
forgotten  what  he  never  .remembered;  but  I  bought  my 
tttle-page-motto  of  a  Catholic  priest  fbr  a  three  shilling 
Bank-token,  after  much  haggling  for  the  even  sixpence. 
I  grudged  the  money  to  a  Papist,  being  all  for  the  me- 
mory of  Perceval  and  ''NoPopery  i**  and  quite  regretting 
the  downfhU  of  the  Pope,  because  we  can't  burn  him 
anymore. 

Masoiff  the  mm^-iwiMiHff  feet  f        [p.6ia 
*«OIaiioethdrmany-twinkttngfeet''—  Gray. 

On  HounsUn^i  heath  to  rival  WellesU^sfame, 

[p.6ia 

To  rival  Lord  Wellesley's,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the 
reader  pleases:  —  the  one  gained  a  pretty  woman,  whom 
he  deserved  by  fighting  for;  and  the  other  has  been  fight- 
ing in  the  Peninsula  many  a  long  day,  "by  Shrewsbury 
dock,''  without  gauiing  any  thing  hi  Ctoooanhry  but  the 
titte  of  «'the  Great  Lord,''  and  <Hhe  Lord,"  which  savours 
of  profimatioi^  having  been  hitherto  applied  only  to  that 
Bemg,  to  whom  ^'Te  Demu^*  for  carnage  ane  the  rankest 
blasphemy.  —  It  is  to  be  presumed  the  General  will  one 
day  return  to  his  Sabine  mrm,  there 

To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain. 
Almost  as  qviehfy  as  he  oonquer'd  Spain! 

The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  oonflnents  in  a 
summer;  we  do  more— we  contrive  both  to  conquer  and 
lose  them  in  a  shorter  season.  If  the  **  Great  Lord's" 
Cindnnatian  progress  In  agriculture  be  no  speedier  ihaa 


tiie  proportional  average  of  time  inPope's  oouplet,lt  will, 
acoor<fing  to  the  fiurmer's  proverb,  be  ploughing  with 
do«." 

By  the  bye-  one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new  titles 
is  forgotten — it  is,  however,  worth  remembering — ** Sal- 
vador delBSwudo!**  —  eredite  posteri!  If  this  be  the  ap- 
pellation annexed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula  to 
the  name  of  a  man  who  has  not  yet  saved  them— query— 
are  they  worth  saving  even  in  this  world?  for,  according 
to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any  Christian  creed,  those 
three  words  make  tbe  odds  much  against  them  in  the 
next  —  "Saviour  of  the  World,"  quotha !  —  it  were  to 
be  wished  that  he,  or  any  one  else,  rx>uld  save  a  comer  of 
it  —  his  country.  Yet  this  stupid  mbnomer,  although  it 
shows  the  near  connexion  between  Superstition  and  Im- 
piety, so  for  has  its  use,  that  it  proves  there  can  be  little 
to  dread  f^om  those  Catholics  (inquisitorial  Catholics  too) 
who  can  confer  such  an  appellation  on  a  Protestant.  I 
suppose  next  year  he  will  be  entitled  the  '^Virgin  Mary :" 
if  so.  Lord  George  Gordon  himself  would  have  nothing 
to  object  to  such  liberal  bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

WkiUwJmnUMoseowjfH  had  mews  to  send,  [p.  618. 
The  patriotic  arson  of  oar  amiable  allies  cannot  be 
sufilolently  oommended —  nor  subscribed  for.  Amongst 
other  details  omitted  in  the  varloas  despatches  of  our 
eloquent  Ami>assador,  he  did  not  state  (being  too  much 
occupied  with  theexploitsofColoaelC—^,  in  swimming 
rivers  frozen,  and  gallopping  over  roads  impassable), 
that  one  entire  province  perished  by  flunine  in  the  most 
melancholy  manner,  as  follows  ^-InGeneralRostopohin's 
consummate  conflagration,  the  consumption  of  tallow 
and  train-oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market  was  inade- 
quate to  the  demand:  and  thus  one  hundred  and  thirty- 


780 


NOTES  TO  THE  HOURS  OF  mLBNESS. 


three  thoasand  persons  were  starved  to  deatli,  by  heiog 
reduced  to  wholesome  diet!  The  lampli£;^htcrs  of  London 
have  since  subscribed  a  pint  (of  oil)  a  piece,'  and  the 
tallow-chandlers  have  unanimously  voted  a  quantity  of 
best  mould(four  to  the  pound),to  the  relief  of  the  surviv- 
infi^  Scythians  —  the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  such  exertions, 
and  a  proper  attention  to  the  qualitjf  rather  than  the  quan- 
tity of  provision,  be  totally  alleviated.  It  is  said,  in  return, 
that  the  untouched  Ukraine  has  subscribed  60,000  beeves 
for  a  day's  meal  to  our  suffering^  manufacturers. 

Can  Egypt* s  Almas  ~  tantalizing  group,    [p.  619. 
Dancing  g;irls  -  who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth  gratis. 

Goats  in  their  visage,  women  in  their  shape,    [p.  619. 

It  cannot  be  complained  now ,  as  in  the  Lady  Baussie- 
re's  time,  of  the  **Sieur  de  la  Croix,"  that  there  be  "no 
whiskers;"  but  how  far  these  are  indications  of  valour 
in  the  field,  or  elsewhere,  may  still  be  questionable.  Much 
may  be  and  hath  been  avouched  on  both  sides.  In  the 
olden  time  philosophers  had  whiskers,  and  soldiers 
none  —  Scipio  himself  was  shaven  —  Hannibal  thought 
his  one  eye  handsome  enough  without  a  beard;  but 
Adrian,  the  Emperor,  wore  a  beard  (having  warts  on  his 
chin,  which  neither  the  Empress  Sabina ,  nor  even  the 
courtiers  could  abide)  —  Turenne  had  whiskers,  Marl- 
borough none — Buonaparte  is  unwhiskered,  the  Regent 
whiskered;  ^argaC*  greatness  of  mind  and  whiskers  may 
or  may  not  go  together;  but  certainly  the  different  occur- 
rences, since  the  growth  of  the  last-mentioned,  go  further 
in  behalf  of  whiskers  than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did 
against  long  hair  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I. 

Formerly  red  was  a  lavourite  colour.  See  Lodowick 
Barrey's  Comedy  of  Ram  Alley,  1611.  Act  I.  Scene  1. 

Taffeta.  Now,  for  a  wager  —  What  coloured  beard 
oomes  next  by  the  window? 

Adriana.  A  black  man's,  I  tiiink. 

Taffeta.  I  think  not  so:  I  think  a  red,  for  that  is  most 
in  fashion. 

There  is  '^nothing  new  under  the  sun;"  but  red,  then  a 
fnouriie,  has  now  subsided  into  tL/avovrite's  colour. 

T%e  Court,  the  Regent^  Uhe  hersetfwere  new, 

[p.  610. 
An  Anachronism—  Walts,  and  the  batUe  of  Ansterlits, 
are  bdfore  said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together:  the  bard 
means  (if  he  means  any  thing),  Waltz  was  not  so  much  in 
vogue  till  the  Regent  attained  the  acm^of  his  popularity. 
Waltz,  the  Comet,  Whiskers,  and  the  new  Government, 
illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  in  all  their  glory,  much 
about  the  same  time :  of  these  the  Comet  only  has  disap- 
peared ;  the  other  three  continue  to  astonish  us  stilL 
Printer's  Devil. 

New  coins  (most  new)  to  follow  those  thatjled, 

[p.  619. 
Amongst  others  a  new  ninepenoe  —  a  creditable  coin 
now  forUicoming,  worth  a  pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest 
calculation. 

Each  new,  quite  new  —  {except  some  ancient  tricks)  ; 

rp.619. 

«0h  that  right  should  thus  overcome  mightr  Who 
does  not  remember  tiie  << delicate  investigation"  in  the 
"Merry  Wives  of  Windsor?" 

*'Ford,  Pray  you  come  near:  if  I  suspect  without 
cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me;  then  let  me  be  your 
Jest;  I  deserve  it  How  now?  whither  bear  you  this?" 

**Mrs,  Ford,  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear 
it? ._  yoQ  were  best  meddle  with  buck-washing." 

So sMth the  Muse  —  m^—,whatsaif  you? 

[p.  619. 
The  gentle,or  ferocioufl  reader^ay  fill  up  the  blank  as 
he  pleases  —  there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  Am 
service  (being  already  in  the  Regent's):  it  would  not  be 
fiur  to  back  any  peculiar  initial  against  the  alphabet,  as 
every  month  will  add  to  the  list  now  entered  for  the 


sweepstakes  -«  a  distinguished  Consonant  is  said  to  be 
the  fovourite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  hnomring « 


That  spot  where  hearts  were  once  supposed  to  be, 

[p.  619. 
« We  have  changed  all  that,"  says  the  Mock  i>octor, 
'''tis  all  gone  —  Asmodeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it  is 
of  no  great  importance  how  women's  hearts  are  di^KMed 
of;  they  have  Nature's  privilege  to  distribute  tbem  as 
absurdly  as  possible.  But  there  are  also  some  men  with 
hearts  so  thoroughly  bad,  as  to  remind  us  of  those  phe- 
nomena often  mentioned  in  natural  history;  viz.  a  masi 
of  solid  stone  —  only  to  be  opened  by  force  —  and  who 
divided,  you  discover  a  toad  in  the  centre,  fivdy,  and 
witii  the  reputation  of  being  venomous." 

j{jr  ^'nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work," 

[p.(aa 

In  Turkey  a  pertinent  —  here  an  impertiiieat  and 
superfluous  question  —  literally  put,  as  in  the  test,  by  a 
Persian  to  Morier,  on  seeiQg  a  Walts  in  Pera.  — Tide 
Morier's  Travels. 


NOTES  TO  THE  HOURS  OF  IDLBNES& 

Oscar  of  Alva,  fp«634 

The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by  the  story 

of  "Jeronymo  and  Lorenxo,"  in  the  first  volume  of  The 

Armenian,  or  Ghost -Seer:"  it  also  bears  some  reaem- 

bbuM»  to  a  scene  in  the  third  act  of  Macbeth. 


The  pride  of  Princes,  and  the  boast  ofsong^ 


[P.< 


Charles  SackviUe,  Barl  of  Dorset,  esteemed  the  i 
accomplished  man  of  his  day,  was  alike  distu^uisbed  in 
the  voluptuous  court  of  Charles  11.  and  the  gloomy  one 
of  William  III.  He  behaved  with  great  gaiiantry  in  the 
seafight  with  the  Dutch,  in  1665>  on  the  day  previoos  to 
which  he  composed  his  celebrated  song.  His  character 
has  been  drawn  in  the  highest  colours  by  Drjden,  Pope^ 
Prior,  and  Congreve. 

Bg  Death* s  unequal  hand  alike  tontrolfd, 

0x639. 
The  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust,  or  unequal, 
as  Virgil  was  considerably  older  than  Tiballns»  at  Us 
decease. 

To  lead  the  band  where  god-like  Falkland felL 

Lucius  Cary,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  ae- 
complished  man  of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  cf 
Newbury,  charging  in  the  ranks  of  Lord  Byron's  regi- 
ment of  cavalry. 

To  fee  awag  and  be  at  rest,  [p.  651. 

Psalm 56,  Verse 6.  —  "And  I  said.  Oh!  ttat  I  had 

wings  like  a  dove,  then  would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest" 

This  verse  also  constitutes  a  part  of  the  o&ost  beaatilal 

anthem  in  our  language. 


EXTEACT  FROM  THE  EDINBURGH- 
REVIEW, 

No.  23,  FOR  JANUARY  1808. 

Hours  of  Idleness;  a  Series  of  Poems,  oriyinml  and  traas' 
Uted,  Bg.  George  Gordon,  Lord  Bgron,  a  JUinar,  8fO> 
pp.  200.  -  Newark,  1807. 

The  poesy  of  this  young  Lord  belongs  to  the  cIm 
which  neither  gods  nor  men  are  said  to  permit  Indeed 
we  do  not  recollect  to  have  seen  a  quantity  of  verae  wiik 
•o  few  deviations  in  either  direction  from  that  exactstaai- 


EXTRACT  FROM  THB  BDINBURGH-RBVIBW. 


781 


vd.  HIb  eflflisions  ure  spread  over  a  dead  flat,  and  can 
oomoregetaiMTeor  below  the  level,  than  if  they  were 
80  much  stagnant  water.    As  an  extenuation  of  this 
offence,the  noble  author  is  peculiarly  forward  in  pleading 
minority.  We  have  it  in  the  title-page,  and  on  the  very 
back  of  the  volume;  it  follows  his  name  like  a  favourite 
part  of  his  style.  Much  stress  is  laid  upon  it  in  the  pre- 
face, and  the  poems  are  connected  with  this  general  state- 
ment of  his  case,  by  particular  dates,  substantiating  the 
age  at  which  each  was  written.   Now  the  law  upon  the 
point  of  minority  we  hold  to  be  perfectly  clear.  It  is  a 
plea  available  only  to  the  defendant;  no  plaintiff  can  offer 
it  as  a  supplementary  ground  of  action.  Thus,  if  any  suit 
could  be  brought  against  Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of 
compelling  him  to  put  into  court  a  certain  quantity  of 
poetry,  and  if  judgment  were  given  against  him,  it  is 
highly  probable  that  an  exception  would  be  taken  were 
he  to  deliver  for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume.  To 
this  be  might  plead  minority;  but,  as  he  now  makes  vo- 
luntary tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue,  on 
that  ground,  for  the  price  in  good  current  praise,  should 
the  roods  be  unmarketable.  This  is  our  view  of  the  law 
on  the  point,  and,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  so  will  it  be  ruled. 
Perhaps,  however,  in  reality,  all  that  he  tells  us  about  his 
youth  is  rather  with  a  view  to  increase  our  wonder,  than 
to  soften  our  censures.  He  possibly  means  to  say,  '*See 
how  a  minor  can  write!   This  poem  was  actually  com- 
posed by  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  and  this  by  one  of 
only  sixteen!"  —  But,  alas!   we  all  remember  the  poe- 
try of  Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve;  and  so  for  from 
bearing,  with  any  degree  of  surprise,  that  very  poor 
vers<^8  were  written  by  a  youth  from  his  leaving  school 
to  his  leaving  college;  inclusive,  we  really  believe  this  to ' 
be  the  most  common  of  all  occurrences;  that  it  happens  in 
the  life  of  nine  men  in  ten  who  are  educated  in  England ; 
and  that  the  tenth  man  writes  better  verse  than  Lord 
Byron. 

His  other  plea  of  privilege,  our  author  rather  brings 
forward  in  order  to  wave  it  He  certainly,  however^  does 
alladc  frequently  to  his  &mily  and  ancestors  —  some- 
times in  notes;  and  while  giving  up  his  claim  on  the 
soore  of  rank,  he  takes  care  to  remember  us  of  Dr.  John- 
son's saying,  that  when  a  nobleman  appears  as  an  author, 
his  merit  should  be  handsomely  acknowledged.  In' truth, 
it  is  this  consideration  only,  that  induces  us  to  give  Lord 
Byron's  poems  a  place  in  our  Review,  beside  our  desire 
to  counsel  him,  tiiat  he  do  forthwith  abandon  poetry,  and 
torn  his  talents,  which  are  considerable,  and  his  oppor- 
tnnities,  which  are  great,  to  better  account 

'With  this  view ,  we  must  beg  leave  seriously  to  assure 
hlniy  that  the  mere  rhyming  of  the  final  syllable,  even 
when  accompanied  by  the  presence  of  a  certain  number  of 
feet ;  nay,although  (which  does  not  always  happen)  those 
feet  should  scan  regularly,  and  have  been  all  counted  ac- 
curately, upon  the  fingers,— it  is  not  the  whole  art  of  poe- 
try. We  would  entreat  him  to  believe,  that  a  certain  por- 
tion of  liveliness,  somewhat  of  fancy,  is  necessary  to  con- 
stitute a  poem ,  and  that  a  poem  in  the  present  day,  to  be 
read,  must  contain  at  least  one  thouglit,  either  in  a  little 
€leg;r€c  different  from  the  ideas  of  former  writers,or  differ- 
ently expressed.  We  put  it  to  his  candour,  whether  there 
is  any  thing  sodeserving  the  name  of  poetry  in  verses  like 
the  following,  written  in  1806;  and  whether,  if  a  youth  of 
eighteen  could  say  any  thing  so  uninteresting  to  his  an- 
eeators,  a  youth  of  nineteen  should  publish  it 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell!  your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu  I 

Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting. 
New  courage,  he'll  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Thongti  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret: 

Par  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation ; 
The  fhme  of  his  fiithers  he  ne'er  can  forget 


That  fame,  and  diat  memory,  still  will  he  dierish. 
He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown ; 

Like  yon  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish : 
When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own. 

Now  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothing  better 
than  these  stansas  in  the  whole  oompass  of  the  noble  mi- 
nor's volume. 

Lord  Byron  should  also  have  a  care  of  attempting  what 
the  greatest  poets  have  done  before  him,  for  comparisons 
(as  he  must  have  had  occasion  to  see  at  his  writing-mas- 
ter's) are  odious. — Gray's  Ode  on  Eaton  College  should 
really  have  kept  out  the  ten  hobbling  stanzas  "On  a  dis- 
tant view  of  the  village  and  school  of  Harrow." 

Where  fiincy  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades ,  in  friendsliip  and  mischief  allied ; 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er  fading  remembrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied. 

In  like  manner ,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr.  Rogers  "  Oi\ 
«  Tear*'  might  have  warned  the  noble  author  off  those 
premises,  and  spared  us  a  whole  dozen  such  stanzas  as 
the  following: 

Mild  Charity's  glow. 
To  us  mortals  below. 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ;       ^ 
Compassion  will  melt 
Where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 
The  man  doom'd  to  sail. 
With  the  blast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 
As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave, 
Which  may  soon  be  his  grave. 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

Thus,  we  do  not  think  Lord  Byion  was  made  for  trans- 
lating, during  his  non-age,  Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul, 
when  Pope  succeeded  so  indifferently  in  the  attempt  If 
our  readers,  however,  are  of  another  opiniop,  they  may 
look  at  it 

Ah !  gentle,  fieeting,  wavering  sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne. 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more  with  wonted  humour  gay. 
But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  fear  his  translations  and 
imitations  are  great  favourites  with  Lord  Byron.  We 
have  them  of  all  kinds,  from  Anacreon  to  Ossian;  and 
viewing  them  as  school -exercises,  they  may  pass.  Only, 
why  print  them  after  they  have  had  their  day  and  served 
their  turn?  As  to  his  Ossianic  poesy  we  are  not  very  good 
judges,  being,  in  truth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  spe- 
cies of  composition,  that  we  should,  in  all  probability,  be 
criticising  some  'bit  of  the  genuine  Macpherson  itself,  were 
we  to  express  our  opinion  of  Lord  Byron's  riiapsodies. 
If,  then,  the  following  beginning  of  a  "Song  of  Bards,"  is 
by  his  Lordship ,  we  venture  to  object  to  it,  as  far  as  we 
can  comprehend  it  ^What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of 
clouds?  whosedarfc  ghost  gleamson  the  red  stream  of  tem- 
pests? His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder;  'tis  Orla,the  brown 
ehief  of  Oithona."  After  detaining  this  "brown  chief'  some 
time,  tlie  bards  conclude  by  giving  him  their  advice  to 
"raise  his  fair  locks:"  then  to  "spread  them  on  the  arch 
of  the  rainbow ;"  and  "to  smile  through  the  tears  of  the 
storm."  Of  this  luod  of  thing  there  are  no  less  tlum  niM 
pages;  and  we  can  so  fhr  venture  an  opinion  in  their  fa- 
vour that  they  look  very  like  Macpherson;  and  we  arc 
positive  they  are  pretty  nearly  as  stupid  and  tiresome. 

It  is  a  sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  egotists ;  but  they 
should  "use  it  as  not  abusing  it;"  and  particularly  one 
who  piques  himself  (though  indeed  at  the  ripe  age  of 
nineteen)  of  being  "an  infant-bard,"-  ("The  artlcssHeli- 
con  I  boast  is  youth ;")  —  should  either  not  know,  or 


782 


NOTB  TO  THB  LBTTES  ON  BOWLBS'  8TRICTDRB8  ON  POPE. 


should  seem  not  to  know,  to  omdi  about  hit  ownanoettry* 
Besides  a  poem  above  cited,  on  the  family-seat  of  theBy- 
rons,  we  have  another  of  eleven  pages,  on  the  self-same 
subject,  introdaced  with  an  apology,  ''be  certainly  had  no 
intention  of  inserting  it,''  but  really  ''the  particular  re- 
quest of  some  friends,"  etc.  It  concludes  with  fire  stanzas 
on  himself,  "the  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line."  There 
is  a  good  deal  also  about  his  maternal  ancestors,  in  a  poem 
on  Lachin  y  Gair,  a  mountain  where  he  spent  part  of  his 
youth,  and  might  have  learnt  that  pibroch  is  not  bagpipe, 
any  more  than  duet  means  a  fiddle. 

As  the  author  has  dedicated  so  large  a  part  of  his  vo- 
lume to  immortalize  his  employments  at  school  and  col- 
lege, we  cannot  possibly  dismiss  it  without  presenting  fhe 
reader  with  a  specimen  of  theseingeniotttefiusions.  In  an 
ode  with  a  Greek  motto,  called  Granta,  we  have  the  fol- 
lowing magnificent  stanzas : 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  ooUege-prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight-lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  ritet. 

Who  reads  fidte  quantities  in  Sele, 

Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle, 
peprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal. 

In  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle. 

Renouncing  every  pleating  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use, 
Preferring  to  the  letter'.d  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypotbenute. 

Still  harmlett  are  thete  ooeopatloat. 
That  hurt  none  but  the  haplett  ttoden^ 

Ck>mpared  with  other  reoreationt, 
W  hich  bring  together  the  inpradeftt 

We  are  torry  to  hear  to  bad  an  account  of  the  eoUege- 
psalmody  at  is  contained  in  the  following  Attio  ttaniat. 

Our  choir  would  tcarcd|y  be  excuted. 

Even  at  a  band  of  raw  beginnert ; 
All  mercy  now  mutt  be  refuted 

To  such  a  tet  of  croaking  sinners. 

If  David,  when  hit  toilt  were  ended. 
Had  heard  thete  blockheadt  tiuff  before  him, 

To  us  bis  psalms  had  ne'er  descended: 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em! 

But  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the  poems 
of  this  noble  minor,  it  seems  we  must  take  them  as  we  find 
them,  and  be  content;  for  they  are  the  last  we  shall  ever 
have  from  him.  He  is,  at  best,  he  says,  but  an  intruder 
into  the  groves  of  Parnassus;  he  never  lived  In  a  garret, 
like  thorough-bred  poets;  and  "though  he  once  roved  a 
careless  mountaineer  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,"  he 
has  not  of  late  enjoyed  this  advantage.  Moreover,  he  ex- 
pects no  profit  from  his  publication;  anc^  whether  it  tuc- 
ceedt  or  not,  "it  is  highly  improbable,  from  his  situation 
and  pursuits  hereafter,"  that  he  should  again  condescend 
to  become  an  author.  Therefore,  let  us  take  what  we  get 
and  be  thankful  What  right  have  we  poor  devils  to  be 
nice?  We  are  well  otf  to  have  got  so  much  from  a  man 
of  this  Lord's  station  who  does  not  live  in  a  garret,  but 


'tet  the  sway*"  of  Newttead  Abbey.  Again,  we  taj,  let  M 
be  tfaankfiil;  and,  with  honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bleat  tbe 
giver,  nor  look  the  gift  horse  in  the  mouth. 


NOTE  TO  THE  LETTER  ON  BOWLES' 
STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 

Onoper^B  Dutch  delmeatimi  of  «  wood  drowtk  itp  Ukt  m 
seediauaCs  cttUiogue.  f p.  673L 

I  will  submit  to  Mr.  Bowles'  own  judgment  a  pataage 
from  another  poem  of  Cowper't,  to  be  compared  with  the 
same  writer's  Sylvan  Sampler.  In  the  lines  to  Mary, 
Thy  needUi,  once  a  shining  stor^ 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore. 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more. 

My  Mary, 
contain  a  simple,  household  *'mdoor/'  artificial,  and  ordi- 
nary image.  I  refer  Mr.  Bowles  to  the  stanza,  and  ask 
if  thete  three  lines  about  ^HuedU^'  are  not  worth  aH  the 
boasted  twaddlingabout  trees^to  triumphantly  re^nofed? 
and  yet  in/tc<  what  do  tb^  convey  ?  A  homdy  coUection 
of  Imaget  and  ideat  attodated  with  the  darning  of 
ttookings,  and  the  henmiing  of  thirtt,  and  the  mending 
of  breechet:  but  will  any  one  deny  that  they  are  emi- 
nently poetical  and  pathetic  at  addrested  by  Cowper  to 
liit  nurte?  The  trash  of  treet  remindt  me  of  a  sajiqgof 
Shetidan't.  Soon  after  the  ^'Rgected  Addrctir  soenc^ia 
1812, 1  met  Sheridan.  In  the  course  of  dinner,  he  aaaid, 
^liord  Byron,  did  you  know  that  amougtt  the  writers  of 
addrettet  wat  Whitbread  himteiff'  I  antwered  by  an 
inquiry  of  what  sort  of  an  address  be  had  made.  ^Qi 
that,"  replied  Sheridan,  ''I  remember  little,  except  that 
there  wat  a  phtsmx  in  it"  <'A  phoenix!!  Well,  bow  did 
he  detcribe  itf'  ^LUkM  a  pouUorerf'unawertd  Sheridia; 
*Ht  wat  green,  and  yellow,  and  red,  and  blue;  he  did  not 
let  ut  on  for  a  tingle  feather."  And  jutt  such  at  tins  poal- 
terer't  account  oca  phoenix,  it  Cowper't  a  sfick-pidKr't 
detailofawo 
and  the  other. 

One  more  poetical  Instance  of  the  power  of  art,  and 
even  Itt  tuperioritf  over  nature,  in  poetry,  and  I  have 
done ;  ~  nie  butt  of  Antimovu!  Is  there  any  thing  in 
naturelike  this  marble,  exceptingthe  Venus?  Canthcrebe 
more/ioe<ry  gathered  into  existence  than  in  that  wonder^ 
lul  creation  of  perfect  beauty?  But  the  poetry  of  this  bust 
is  in  no  respect  derived  from  nature,  nor  fit)m  any  i 
elation  of  moral  exaltedncss;  for  what  b  there  in  < 
mon  with  moral  nature  and  the  male  miniott  of  Adnan? 
The  very  execution  is  n»t  natum/,  but  Mpcr-nalural,  or 
rather  mpor-mrttiieial,  for  nature  has  never  done  to  miMh. 

Away,  then,  with  this  cant  aboutnature  and  ^HnvariaMe 
prindplet  of  poetry!"  A  great  artitt  will  make  a  bloek 
of  stone  at  tnblime  at  a  mountain,  and  a  good  poet  can 
imbuea  pack  of  cardt  with  more  poetry  than  inliabitsthe 
forests  of  America.  It  is  the  botineta  and  the  proof  of  a 
poet  to  give  the  Ue  to  the  proverb,  and  sometimes  to 
"SfitiU  m  tUkenpHno  out  qf^  sot^t  omrf*  and  to  oonoMe 
with  another  homely  proverb,  <<a  good  workman  win  not 
find  fouh  with  his  tools." 


detail  of  a  wood,  with  all  itt  pet^  nunntim  of 


k-pid 


783 


BYRON. 

Von 
W  i  1  h  e  1  m     M  H  1  1  e  r. 


My  task  i«  doa«,  aiy  aoag  hu  ceued,  my  tt»me 
Haf  died  Into  an  aclio. 

Cbildk  Ha  bold. 


y^Siebenanddreissig  TraaerschflMe?  Und  wen  haben  sie  gemeint?. 
Sind  es  iiiebenaiiddreiasig  Siege,  die  er  abgelLiunpft  dem  Feiad? 
Sind  ea  aiebemmddreiasig  Wooden,  die  dcr  Held  tragt  aof  der  Brost  ? 
Sa|^  wer  ist  der  edle  Todte,  der  des  Lebens  bonte  Lust 
Auf  den  Markten  und  den  GaMen  ttberbailt  mit  schwarzem  Flor? 
Sagt,  wer  ist  der  edle  Todte,  den  mein  Yaterland  yerlor  ?  ^ 

Keine  Siege,  keine  Wooden  meint  des  Donners  dumpfer  Hall, 

Ber  von  Missolungbi's  Mauern  brOllend  wogt  durch  Berg  and  Tbal, 

Und  als  grause  Weckerstimme  rflttelt  auf  das  starrc  Herz, 

Das  der  Scblafp  der  Trauerkonde  hat  betaubt  mit  Schreck  and  Schmers; 

Siebenonddreissig  Jahre  sind  es,  so  die  ZabI  der  Doaner  meint, 

Byron,  Byron,  Deine  Jahre,  welobe Hellas  beat beweint ! 

Sind's  die  Jahre,  die  Dq  lebtest?  Nein,  nm  diese  wein'  icb  nieht: 

Bwig  leben  dicse  Jahre  in  des  Rahmes  Sonnenlicbt, 

Aof  des  Liedes  Adlerschwingen,  die  mit  nimmer  mikdem  Scblag 

Durch  die  Bahn  der  Zeiten  raoschen,  raosobend  grosae  Seelen  waeh. 

Nein,  ich  wein'  um  andre  Jahre,  Jahre,  die  Do  nicht  gelebt, 

Urn  die  Jahre,  die  fftr  Hellas  Da  so  leben  hast  gestrebt 

Solche  Jahre,  Monde,  Tage  kflndet  mir  des  Donners  Hall, 

Welcbe  Lieder,  welche  Kampfe,  welche  Wonden,  welchen  Fall ! 

Einen  FallimSiegestaomel  auf  den  Mauem  von  Byzans, 

Bine  Krone  Dir  zo  FAssen,  aof  dem  Haopt  der  Freiheit  Kranz! 

Bdler  Kampfer,  hast  gekampfet,  eines  jeden  Kranzes  werth, 
Hast  gekiimpfet  mit  des  Gdstea  doppelsehneidig  scharfem  Schwert, 
Mit  des  Liedes  ehrner  Zonge,  dass  von  Pol  zu  Pol  es  klang, 
Mit  der  Sonne  von  dem  AoQ^ang  lureisend  bis  zom  Niedeigang. 
Hast  gdciimpfet  mit  dem  grimmen  Tiger,  der  Tyrannenwoth, 
Hast  gdcampft  in  Lerua's  Sampfe  mit  der  ganzen  Schlangenbrat, 
Die  In  schwarzem  Moder  nistet  and  dem  Licht  ist  also  feind, 
Dass  sie  Gift  and  Galle  spradelt,  wenn  ein  Strahl  sie  je  bescbdnt 
Hast  gekampfet  f&r  die  Freiheit,  fftr  die  Freiheit  einer  Welt, 
Und  ftkr  Hellas  junge  Freiheit,  wie  ein  todesfrober  Held. 
Sahst  in  ahnenden  Gesichten  sie  aof  unsem  Bergen  stehn, 
Als  im  Tbal  nodi  ihre  Kinder  mossten  an  dem  Joche  gcho, 
Hortest  schon  den  Lorbeer  raoschen  von  der  nahen  Siegeshist, 
FAhltest  schon  in  Kampfeswoone  sobwellen  Deine  grosse  Brost ! 


784  APPENDIX. 

Uiid  als  nua  die  Zcit  erschieneiif  die  prophctiach  Du  geachaut, 
Bist  Du  nicht  vor  ibr  erschrocken;  wie  der  Brautigam  zur  Braut, 
Flogest  Du  in  Hellas  Arme,  und  sie  dflnete  sie  weit: 
,ylsi  Tyrtiios  auferstaudeu  ?  1st  verwundea  nun  mein  Leid? 
Ob  die  Kooige  der  Erdc  groilend  auf  mich  niedersehn, 
Ihre  Dieaer  meioer  spottcn,  ibre  Priester  mich  verscbmahny 
Eines  Saogers  Kriegesflagge  seh'  ich  fliegen  durch  das  Alcer; 
Taazende  Delphine  krcisen  um  des  Schifl'es  Seiten  her^ 
Stolz  erbebeii  aich  der  Wogeo  wcisse  Hiiapter  vor  dem  Kiel, 
Und,  ao  seinen  Mast  geichnet,  greift  er  In  sein  Saitcnspiel. 
Freibeit!  siagt  er  mir  entgegen,  Freibeit!  tout  es  ibm  zuriick, 
Freiheit  brennt  in  seinen  Wangen,  Freibeit  blitzt  aus  seinem  Bllck. 
Sei  wilikommen,  Held  der  Leier !  Set  willkommen,  Lanzenheld ! 
Aufy  Tyrtiios,  auf,  nnd  fllhre  meine  Sohne  mir  in's  Feld !  ^ 

Also  stieg  er  aus  dem  Scbiffe,  warf  sich  nieder  auf  das  Land, 
Und  die  Lippen  drflckt'  er  schweigend  in  des  Ufer$  weicben  Sand; 
Scbwcigend  g^ng  er  durch  die  Schaaren,  gleich  als  ging  er  ganz  aJlein, 
Welche  janchzend  ibm  entgegen  wogten  bis  in's  Meer  hinein. 
Achy-es  hatt'  ibn  wol  umschauert,  als  er  kOsste  diescn  Strand, 
Eines  Todesengels  Fldgel,  der  auf  nnsem  Wiillen  stand ! 
Und  der  Held  hat  nicht  gezittert,  als  er  diescn  Boten  sab ; 
Schiirfer  fessf  er  ibn  in's  Auge :  ^Meinst  du  micb,  so  bin  ich  da! 
Eine  Schlacht  nur  lass  mich  kampfen,  eine  siegesfrohc  Sdilncht, 
FQr  die  Freibeit  der  Hellenen,  and  in  deine  lange  Nacht 
Folg*  ich  deinem  ersten  Winke  obne  Strauben,  bleicher  Freund ! 
Habe  liingst  der  Erde  Schauspiel  durchgelacht  und  durchgewdnf 

Arger  Tod,  da  feiger  WArger,  hast  die  Bitf  ibm  nicht  gewiihrt ! 
Hast  ihn  hinterrflcks  beschlichen,  als  er  wetzt'  an  seinem  Schwert, 
Hast  mit  seachenschwangcrm  Odem  um  das  Hanpt  ihn  angehaacht, 
Und  des  Busens  Lebensflammen  aus  dem  Nacken  ihm  gesaogt 
Und  so  ist  er  hingesunken  obne  Sturz  and  obne  Schlag, 
Hingewelkt  wie  eine  Eiche,  die  des  Winters  StQrme  brach, 
Und  die  eine  schwille  Stunde  mit  Gewdrmen  iiberstreut, 
Und  des  Waldes  stolze  Heidi n  einem  Blnmentode  wciht. 
Also  ist  er  hingesunken  in  des  Lebens  vollem  Flor, 
AufgescbOrzt  zn  neaem  Laufe  harrend  an  der  Schranken  Thor, 
Mit  dem  Blick  die  Bahn  durchmessend,  mit  dem  Blick  am  Ziele  schon. 
Das  ihm  heiss  entgegen  winkte  mit  dem  grftnen  Siegeslohn. 

Acb,  er  hat  ihn  nicht  emingen !  Lcgt  ihn  auf  sdn  blclches  Hauptl 
Tod,  was  ist  dir  nun  gelungen?  Hast  den  Kranz  ibm  nicht  geraubt ! 
Hast  ihn  frtlher  ihm  gpgeben,  als  er  selbst  Ihn  hatf  erfiisst! 
Und  der  Lorbeer  gliinzet  grdner,  well  sein  Antlitz  ist  erblasst 

„Siebennnddreissig  TraaerscbAsse!  Donnert,  donnert  durch  die  Welt! 

Und  ibr  boben  Meereswogen,  tragt  durch  euer  odes  Feld 

Unsrer  Donner  Wiederballe  fort  naoh  seinem  Vat«rlandy 

Dass  den  Todtcn  die  beweioen,  die  den  JLebenden  verbannt 

Was  Britannia  verschuldet  bat  an  uns  mit  Rath  und  That, 

Dieaer  ist's,  der  ans  die  Scbulden  seines  Volks  bezahlet  hat! 

Ueber  seiner  Babre  reichen  wir  dem  Britten  unsre  Hand : 

Freies  Volk,  scblag  ein  and  werde  Freund  ond  Hort  Yon  uns  genannt !  ** 


'^ 


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